|Fantasy Poetry posted March 17, 2010||Chapters:||...49 50 -51- 52...|
Hopper's back ;)
A chapter in the book Volume 2
So long as I've been loaned the night
and day, and time to kill,
and I am able to see the light
that bends and shapes my quill
the last poem I shall ever write
shall find me writing still...
Life's cemetery of stanzas,
where abandoned quatrains go,
is filled with all the broken oars
that lacked the thrill to row
and all the lines that didn't rhyme
are lying there in the snow
in underwear, just wriggling there,
desperately hoping to flow.
The poems that ran a little long
and lost their zest in time;
ballads that surrendered their songs -
the limericks that didn't rhyme -
a smorgasbord of failed attempts
to move, inspire, to right some wrongs
were there in stark, mad disbelief
and lay there in their boxer briefs!
A rank, tormented, brutish sea
of anguished thoughts that almost took
thrashing back and forth at me
begging to 'make my book'
were writhingly in agony
as backward glances shook
the very soul inside of me
whenever they happened to look.
(I wasn't fully aware just yet
the Hopper'd returned to my cognitive nook!)
Fairy poems scouring the bottomless pit
for something to cling to just to exist.
Spencerian sonnets I couldn't pull off.
Half-written epics I spurned with a cough
screaming and dreaming together en masse
with G-strings to cover but part of their(...um ... pass?)
were nothing like that which ever I'd seen
and that's when I knew that s/he'd intervened!
Hopper re-showed me ancient thoughts
and reintroduced my mind
to poems the child in me once wrought -
to somewhat charming, innocent plots
that now another may stumble to find
(perhaps to mix with thoughts they grind).
But Hopper only let me look
s/he did not let me know
if they were doomed forevermore
of if they'll ever flow -
(thus I suspect my masterpiece
is ALL that mass below!)
I have a feeling it works like that
and call me a 'nut', whatev, but I
believe that when a quill goes flat
the love inside it's breadth can't die
and dreams time sweeps beneath her mat
lie dormant ONLY until they fly.
During some day's bright battle
en route to admire some flick
something inside's gonna' rattle
and all of it's just gonna' click
and that's when my pen will unsaddle;
that's when the violets will stick.
My little underwear-modeling thoughts
are riddles I'm bottling, powerful plots,
and I believe all hail to such
when poets are finally mused to touch.
Poem of the Month contest entry
Hopper stopped by again! See chapter 124 in Volume One for Dream-Hopper for clarity.Pays one point and 2 member cents.
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