Comes to mind.

I saw someone outside kissing your mother
in the snow;
He's been gone for such a time, and she's still young,
you know.
Her colour was blush and I asked if she was cold.

She said no.
/

Bad Poetry

This is a bad poem I wrote a while ago when I thought there was not a chance I would outlive ms.

Hereafter

Hush, old woman;

You gave me your body,

Your lashes when curly;

Your cheek when smooth,

Hush, old woman,

It is no longer early.

Hush, Hush, old woman;

You gave me your troth,

When I lied, when I lay

In the depth of my sin;

Hush, old woman,

On wake’s wedding day.

Hush now, woman;

You gave me my babies,

Tendered in pain;

Bawling, squalling, noisome brats;

Hush, but woman,

All anon gone again.

Hush old woman;

You gave me your youth,

Wasted wakefulness,

Breath, time; My wickedness;

Hush, old woman,

It is done, long-tooth.

Hush, old woman;

You gave me your tear,

Fear, and pure ivor’ prayer;

I lay in a ghost of your pain;

Hush! Hush woman,

Not now long, He deign.

Hush, Hush! Hush, old woman;

You give me a black dress,

White face to the sky;

Fain whisper your incense

To Purgatory;

It is over; And may be for ill,

But accomplished: lowly test;

Now hush, old woman,

And go to your rest.

Double dactyl

Grommity Grammity

How anonymity

Gives me the license to

Spout like a fool

Maybe quite typic’lly

Brooking no cavil, I

Rest on the dictum of

My blog, my rule.

Bid for a spot in the new Hymnal.

WHEREAS I have it from a reliable source that in parish churches all across the fruited plain, men and women are gathering together and resurrecting the stirring old hymn "Faith of Our Fathers," except now, after the first verse in the interest of familial harmony adding a second heretofore unwarbled stanza beginning "Faith of Our Mothers...", and a third a bird told me beginning "Faith of our Sisters and Brothers too...":

It is with soaring hopes and great confidence of getting a footnote in the next USCCB or CCCB approved hymnal I submit hereby for the approval of the sensus fidei my proposal for the new fourth verse:

Faith of my uncle, hangin' still,
In spite of drunken pranks that linger,
O how my heart beat high with joy,
Whene'er I pulled that glorious finger!

.

Today, I am Bick Pentameter. (a little more "poetry" inspired by this)

Lines written on the Feast of Guardian Angels

It seems so long ago that cannon blast,
did win the waterline of th’Eve Marie;
She's scuttl’d now in icy depth of past,
seen but by Wisdom's eye if wisdom be.
But soon, in minutes, hours perhaps, or years,
when, bubbling to the face, her gift, her son,
the solitary splinter’d plank careers,
one half unconscious ragged soul hangs on.
Its tar will fill his throat and eyes, its nails
five times will pierce his passive flesh, its mass
will break his back; his strength his weakness hails
till salty wounds flow freely to this pass:

His low'ring head into the gulf to see
the mermaids rolling, arching, joyful, free.

St Joseph's Day "poetry" inspired by, among other things, this Rich Leonardi post

Lines written on March 19

The Orbs are silent, yet if one star,
alone may guess of who you are,
no man who bides in Adam's wake may know.
In darkness you arise and toil,
for Master who in darkness coil;
In darkness, home - you to darkness go.

You furnish board for those who starve,
and for the lame the step you carve,
the altar built is but for never wed
In living wood intricacies,
are wrought for but the blind to see;
In sturdy pine the ark but for the dead.

And in the night, the prayer you raise
is, like the suff'ring prophet's days,
delivered deaf and empty, dry and cold.
The lamb is lost, its love in vain,
and bitterness will now remain,
long, long as the vain limb and mind grow old.

Gnarlèd feet tread dusty sand,
with tool borne by gnarlèd hand;
now bravely face this day your blackest hour
But turn, the angel speaks: how could
your gnarlèd stick of long dead wood
burst into flower?