Vexing Reader,
From this pale pulpit of eternal muddling that the unengaged gearstick may mistake for a blog, allow me to riddle out some equilateral nonsense to be forgot among these kind posts.
In other words, puzzled reader, I’ve been being poetic again.
I’ve at last written my usual once-every-two-years non rhyming poem, the last of which – an ode to a favourite pen – was so awful it didn’t even get a chance to extend the Internet upon these wistful pages.
I pray, therefore, that you enjoy, kindest reader.
Higher than the Sunset
Higher than the sunset
Walls crept like
Unwelcome intruders on
The death-bed of the day
Shutting it out early
And replacing its golden swansong
With concrete
Windows at least
Like the royal childrem
Of that celestial king
Were gold and distant,
Bejeweling the thousand-faced
Towers of anonymity
That carved heaven
Into the property of men
Here and there
Ambission pressed
Wove all the people of this world
A grey crawling mass
Of all the happy and unhappy
And every hope inbetween
In pleasant weary harmony
At the end of the day
And, of course, how could I end this post without a dear sum of nonsense, written briefly by a tree.
My Own Tale of a Tub
or
Swiftly Written Nonsense
I was walking in the meadow,
Where the cowheard graze the scrub,
When I met three merry fellows
All out racing in a tub.
A tub it was, and three – not four –
And one of them did cry
“Yes, if we get just ten feet more
“We’ll race this in the sky!”
“A race needs more competitors,”
I told that team of three
And after sev’ral merry roars
They said they’re racing me.
I asked em where we’re racing to
It’s England or France?
They looked at me and said “Who knew!”
So I just took a chance.
Three days on in grand Lyon
By a bath tub in the sun,
Flew by a plane with me sat on –
It turned out they had won.