Thursday, November 20, 2014

4 more poems by 4 poets

illustrations by palomine studios

by myself: a fragment

by regina osgood stapledon

under a tree, all by myself
i wrote a poem about an elf
a wizard, and a unicorn
and a princess who wished she had never been born

ergath the elf was very short
he was a cruel and violent sort
filled with grievance against his fellows
and disinclined to be kind and mellow

wando the wizard was short and round
and dispensed his magic by the pound
set himself up by the side of the road
and offered to lighten travelers' loads

roger was a unicorn
of all his illusions he had been shorn
he had been a philosopher for a while
and had forgotten how to smile

the princess was a prisoner
of all who had betrayed her
she was the meekest of the meek
and tears rolled down her shadowed cheek

the lost road

by jack dale moody

long ago and far away
we had songs to sing and things to say
we had worn out soles and crooked dentures
but every day was a new adventure

long ago and far away
we met girls named trixie every day
we didn't vacation in the south of france
but life was one long song and dance

now the roads are long and the days are short
there are no more girls in any port
and though we wander many a mile
those who pass us never smile

where are the windowsills with apple pies?
where are the laughing clouds in azure skies?
where are the scarecrows with their floppy hats?
the friendly barking dogs and sleepy cats?

the empty fields now watch us as we pass
who knows what hides within the tangled grass?


by wiggly jones, "the little hippie boy"

see the trees
see the sky
i was born
but i don't know why

waiting waiting
for a ride
night is falling
nowhere to hide

folks are nasty
folks are nice
folks are quick
to give advice

best advice
i ever had
don't get too happy
or too sad

got a blister
on my feet
sure could use
a bite to eat

waiting waiting
for a ride
night is falling
nowhere to hide


by samantha monday sternwall

a tender yeared cynic
can give a clinic
to the worldly wise and old
on being cold

the rosy cheeks of youth
blush with truth
and the false smiles of elders
are reduced to embers

with unclouded eyes
beneath blue and empty skies
they describe what they see
without hypocrisy

as it was in the day
it is just nature's way
what is colder than morning air?
falling night can not compare

No comments:

Post a Comment