And what poem might suit thou, love?
When at once I thought of a nonet,
A voice whispered from clouds above,
"Nay, better would be a sonnet."

In a while before thinking twice,
Another sharply pierced mine ear;
"Better would it be in free verse,
Lend no ear unto Shakespeare."

When I thought of one of a kind,
Another said, "better would be a ballad,
And if thou art not mentally blind,
It goes down well while takin' a salad."

Shortly after I'd employed this clue,
Another said, "better would be a limerick
Whilst taking some gin and rotten stew,
To win so fair a maiden that's the trick."

Nay, quoth another, obsolete are all rules,
To neither lend no ear nor Lear,
For he's the chief of the realm of fools,
A crown he holds for many a year.

"Screech no more like a wingless bird,"
Quoth another. "Thy queen's beauty
Is but peerless and thee, blind bard,
Thy quill canst not tell of her beauty?"

At this , I bethought of her raven hair,
Her ivory skin gaily than a silvern moon,
Her eyes that no luster of star doth near,
And I- I fully drowned in a sea of shame.


©Kikodinho Edward Alexandros,
Los Angels, California, USA.
          10/31/2018

The minstrels played their Christmas tune
To-night beneath my cottage-eaves;
While, smitten by a lofty moon,
The encircling laurels, thick with leaves,
Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen,
That overpowered their natural green.

Through hill and valley every breeze
Had sunk to rest with folded wings:
Keen was the air, but could not freeze,
Nor check, the music of the strings;
So stout and hardy were the band
That scraped the chords with strenuous hand.

And who but listened?—till was paid
Respect to every inmate’s claim,
The greeting given, the music played
In honour of each household name,
Duly pronounced with ***** call,
And “Merry Christmas” wished to all.

Grab my hand
i'll take you to my wonderland
where tears are left unshed
and dreams do not play dead

Maybe we'll go on
a spring leaf fawn
warm nights drunken dreary
waiting for dreams nice and clearly

Or maybe we'll argue all night
splurged by my own fright
thunder clouds of disaster
claiming their rightful master...

Though autumn runs swift, I recall summer bygones
When thin hours were thrift; when the golden horizons
Of sunrise and sunset rose quick to their meeting,
And the night wore regret of a day ever fleeting.

O! To drink one last draught of the schemes youth had made!
The toil of our graft now lays hidden in shade;
The sunrise comes calling, and the sunset declines,
But the autumn is waning, and the winter confines

The march of a heartbeat, the pace of its drummer,
As boot-weary feet bear the blisters of summer;
The aching-back bends ‘neath the weight of horizons
That bookmark the ends of our gold summer bygones.