Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon,
With the old Moon in her arms ;
And I fear, I fear, My Master dear !
We shall have a deadly storm.
Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence
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I
......
HONEY, child, honey, child, whither are you going?
Would you cast your jewels all to the breezes blowing?
Would you leave the mother who on golden grain has fed you?
Would you grieve the lover who is riding forth to wed you?
Mother mine, to the wild forest I am going,
Where upon the champa boughs the champa buds are blowing;
To the köil-haunted river-isles where lotus lilies glisten,
The voices of the fairy folk are calling me: O listen!
Honey, child, honey, child, the world is full of pleasure,
Of bridal-songs and cradle-songs and sandal-scented leisure.
......
When I was a windy boy and a bit
And the black spit of the chapel fold,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of women),
I tiptoed shy in the gooseberry wood,
The rude owl cried like a tell-tale tit,
I skipped in a blush as the big girls rolled
Nine-pin down on donkey's common,
And on seesaw sunday nights I wooed
Whoever I would with my wicked eyes,
The whole of the moon I could love and leave
......
She
I'm waiting for the man I hope to wed.
I've never seen him - that's the funny part.
I promised I would wear a rose of red,
Pinned on my coat above my fluttered heart,
So that he'd know me - a precaution wise,
Because I wrote him I was twenty-three,
And Oh such heaps and heaps of silly lies. . .
So when we meet what will he think of me?
......
The Child is father of the Man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.
I
There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight,
To me did seem
Apparelled in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
......
The fire burning within,
of a once romanticized night.
The machete now lies in my palm.
The glistening of oozing red,
slick as the night’s rain,
Only to wash away,
the sin.
The hour resides, the cold shower,
to cleanse the heart,
and it sits on my shelf.
......
Tommy Tucker was a youth of slight build, seeming younger than twenty,
Which was Tommy's true age; like a lone, silver star, apart from the plenty.
Tommy was well known for his great singing voice, so silky and stunning,
That people paid to hear him croon; like honey throated bees, humming.
But, as it wasn't enough to pay his bills, Tommy retained his daytime job;
As lilies hold their place in lemony sun, in fields where beauty is mobbed.
Fortuitous fate frequently fetched friends, some blooming, fuchsia Fridays;
......
This Sunday,
Before noon,
In my community church,
Wedding bells ringꓽ
Rosemary,
Daughter of our land,
Weds!
Grand invitations
......
I was a famous, American actress, who adored performing for live audiences,
In stage plays, both modern and classic, like velvet time, which often rushes.
Rose acclaim filled long, chaotic days, of colorful masquerades and fulfillment,
Like Sleeping Beauty crimson butterflies, on a first flight to sweet enrichment.
I admired the other actors of my troupe, since we worked quite well together,
As the humming, red-tailed bumblebee, is ecstatic, in fields of purple heather.
Fancy flowers flowed to fragrant breeze, as friends filled finest summer hours,
......
Saturday is native to weddings and ceremonies
Of anxieties – patterned in coarse sputum of rain.
My friend Bonsy and his wife filled the calendar
With the uselessness of time, levelled against waste
As indicated by the clocks of dew-coated pavements
Of our yawning city.
Next to this was the arrangement of formalities which
Came with the attainment of stress. They haggled
Between themselves, the celebrants. Oh well, they haggled
For the benefits of the church from which the organ must
......