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- 07/22/2016
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Poetry posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Occasional Poetry - 35. Invited Guests and New Developments
em>Deep bows and hat tips to Gary, Tim and AC for their inspiration on these two. However, as usual, the errors contained herein are mine, all mine.
Invited Guests
If in my dreams I could receive
some visitors of wider scope,
perhaps I'd choose to spend an eve
with Dante or a Borgia pope,
or dine with wise daVinci, though
I'd rather Michaelangelo.
In Morpheus' salon I'd choose
a guest list of the rarest sort;
try chatting with Lautrec, Toulouse
(I never guessed he was that short),
and laugh aloud at wit Francaise,
or argue music with Varese.
My slumbered houseguests overflow,
spill out into the lawn to play;
see Dali dally with Van Gogh,
and pass hours d'oeuvres to Claude Monet,
while Maugham and Auden now complain
that Newton dropped his fruit again.
Tchaikovsky stayed an hour or more
with Wagner, whose Teutonic bray
was such a monumental bore
he drove the other guests away;
I didn't mind, in truth to tell,
I'll spend my dreams with you, as well.
New Developments
I lately read that Xanadu,
that place of stately pleasure domes,
had put a six-lane highway through,
so someone could build starter homes;
not far from work or shops, indeed,
two hours' commute is guaranteed.
The gardens green and rare are gone,
and every incense bearing tree
was dozed and made suburban lawn
so parched, there is no greenery,
nor ancient forests, glooming dark,
not even in the pocket park.
And as I read, so I bethought:
what then of Alph, the sacred stream;
what change had tools of man now wrought
where once a poet stopped to dream,
and emperors reflected long
on chariots and visioned song?
Now Xanadu, once paradise,
is flattened for its parking slots,
where once stood palaces of ice
are quarter acre building plots;
the keen developer went on,
I'm thinking that his name was Khan.
em>Comments welcome, pick or pan; you can do it, yes you can.
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Poetry posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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