Funny... But Not

it's funny how hello is always accompanied with goodbye it's funny how good memories can start to make you cry it's funny how forever never seems to last it's funny how much you'd lose if you forgot about your past it's funny how “friends” can just leave when you are down it's funny how when you need someone they never are around it's funny how people change and think they're so much better it's funny how many lies are packed into one “love letter” it's funny how one night can contain so much regret

Fame Is A Fickle Food (1659)

Fame is a fickle food Upon a shifting plate Whose table once a Guest but not The second time is set. Whose crumbs the crows inspect And with ironic caw Flap past it to the Farmer's Corn-- Men eat of it and die.

Its Funny How

Its funny how hello is always accompanied with good-bye Its funny how remembering good memories can make you cry Its funny how forever never seems to really last Its funny how much you'd lose if you forgot your past Its funny how friends can just leave you when you're down Its funny how when you need someone there never around Its funny how people can change and think there so much betta Its funny how many lies can be packed into one love letta Its funny how people can forgive even tho they cant forget

Long Long Ago

Long long ago I went through the castle of leaves Yellowing slowly in the moss And far away barnacles clung desperately to rocks in the sea Your memory better still your tender presence was there too Transparent and mine Nothing had changed but everything had aged at the same rate as my temples and my eyes Don't you just love that platitude? Let me go it's so rare for me this ironic satisfaction Everything had aged except your presence

Midnight

Speak to me, aching heart: what Ridiculous errand are you inventing for yourself Weeping in the dark garage With your sack of garbage: it is not your job To take out the garbage, it is your job To empty the dishwasher. You are showing off Again, Exactly as you did in childhood--where Is your sporting side, your famous Ironic detachment? A little moonlight hits

Peter Quince At The Clavier

I Just as my fingers on these keys Make music, so the self-same sounds On my spirit make a music, too. Music is feeling, then, not sound; And thus it is that what I feel, Here in this room, desiring you, Thinking of your blue-shadowed silk,

Nature Is An Unmatched Art Gallery (Verse)

Our nature is an unmatched art gallery Items are in the best form held in vast territory Arranged level by level, stage by stage in whole periphery, The sky is full of galaxies of stars, planets, satellites, objects Known unknown, large small myriads of sources Floating, flying, walking, swimming phases, The solar system is small in proportion

Ant Hill

Black ants have made a musty mound My purple pine tree under, And I am often to be found, Regarding it with wonder. Yet as I watch, somehow it;s odd, Above their busy striving I feel like an ironic god Surveying human striving. Then one day came my serving maid, And just in time I caught her,

On The Disastrous Spread Of Aestheticism In All Classes

Impetuously I sprang from bed, Long before lunch was up, That I might drain the dizzy dew From the day's first golden cup. In swift devouring ecstasy Each toil in turn was done; I had done lying on the lawn Three minutes after one.

Pain

The Man that hath great griefs I pity not; ’Tis something to be great In any wise, and hint the larger state, Though but in shadow of a shade, God wot! Moreover, while we wait the possible, This man has touched the fact, And probed till he has felt the core, where, packed In pulpy folds, resides the ironic ill.

Week-Night Service

The five old bells Are hurrying and eagerly calling, Imploring, protesting They know, but clamorously falling Into gabbling incoherence, never resting, Like spattering showers from a bursten sky-rocket dropping In splashes of sound, endlessly, never stopping. The silver moon That somebody has spun so high

' ' ' ' ' ' ' Tu...Qui...Tu! (For Mike Thorne)

'TU...QUI...TU! (for the onlie begetter of this ensuing verse - Mr. M.T.) Life, isn't always pretty. Life, isn't always nice.

Sisyphus

Midway his upward unavailing course Sate Sisyphus, his back against his load, Halting a moment from that task of doom. Adown his swollen cheeks ran streams of sweat Dripping from thick-drenched locks; and watery beads Gathered and stood on his stupendous limbs. The sinews of his arm, like gnarled knots On hollow bark of legendary oak, Credentials of incalculable years, Bulged up, and in his horny hands outspread

Funny, But Then Not...

Its funny how hello is alway accompanied with goodbye, Its funny how good memories can start to make you cry. Its funny how forever never really seems to last, Its funny how much you'd lose if you forgot about your past. Its funny how 'friends' can just leave you when your down, Its funny how when you need someone their never around. Its funny how people change and think they're so much better, Its funny how many lies can be packed into one 'love letter'. Its funny how people forgive even though they cant forget,

The Seven Old Men

À Victor Hugo Ant-like city, city full of dreams, where the passer-by, at dawn, meets the spectre! Mysteries everywhere are the sap that streams through the narrow veins of this great ogre. One morning, when, on the dreary street, the buildings all seemed heightened, cold a swollen river’s banks carved out to greet, (their stage-set mirroring an actor’s soul), the dirty yellow fog that flooded space,

To She Who Is Too Light-Hearted

Your head, your gesture, your air, are lovely, like a lovely landscape: laughter’s alive, in your face, a fresh breeze in a clear atmosphere. The dour passer-by you brush past there, is dazzled by health in flight, flashing like a brilliant light from your arms and shoulders. The resounding colours with which you sprinkle your dress,

L'Irrémédiable (The Irremediable)

I Une Idée, une Forme, un Etre Parti de l'azur et tombé Dans un Styx bourbeux et plombé Où nul oeil du Ciel ne pénètre; Un Ange, imprudent voyageur Qu'a tenté l'amour du difforme, Au fond d'un cauchemar énorme

(growing Pains) 2. Family Likeness

New born and strawberry blond! Your tiny head thatched like your father's (used to be, before the grey) and I said, 'She takes after her father' (proudly) But later,

Le Cygne (The Swan)

À Victor Hugo I Andromaque, je pense à vous! Ce petit fleuve, Pauvre et triste miroir où jadis resplendit L'immense majesté de vos douleurs de veuve, Ce Simoïs menteur qui par vos pleurs grandit, A fécondé soudain ma mémoire fertile,

Hard Times

Your wrapped but perfidious smiles, haunting me, like strikes of ironic fate, while i am walking through, a crowd with my absent mind. Murmuring the bitter song of, your loud laughs. And i see my desire pinned on street walls, While the worn out doors, and windows opened,