Monroe, Monroe, Monroe—
Frisky horses in the glade—
Variegated flowers there grow
In pulchritude never to vade.

Monroe, Monroe, Monroe—
Beauteous soaring olden trees
Whose leaves wherever you go
Whisper Monroe in the breeze.

Monroe, Monroe, Monroe—
Chirping birds in the vales
That sing merry notes not sorrow
Whilst reeling off olden tales.

Monroe, Monroe, Monroe—
Opalescent clouds there waltz
In splendiferous coats all aglow
In hues of mulberry and topaz.

Monroe, Monroe, Monroe—
Whisperin’ enchanted glassy rills
Without care like the hunter’s arrow
Peregrinate beneath rolling hills.

Monroe, Monroe, Monroe—
Many a sequestered strange bush
Whose hinds in fresh numbers as roe
Gallivant to churring of many a Thrush.


©Kikodinho Edward Alexandros.
May/14th/2021. Evergreen State.

Eons ago in many a vanished day,
There once stood a Hut by The Grey Hill
Twixt trees by no wind stirred didst sway.
Her floor of silvery shine like a sun-kissed rill—

Of all bird's feathers was her roof,
Her door of burnished gold hewn,
Of chalcedony her walls. Beneath her roof
A vase of all hues of a mulberry moon.

And In that Hut dwelt an aged aged man
Whose strange and novelty curly beard
Kissed the ground, and as white as a swan.
No string of hair beheld upon his head.

His fiery eyes were as steady as forever,
His voice akin to a roaring thunder's tapestry,
He who was the last of dwarves of Nineva,
That now wherever they dwell is but a mystery.

One perfectly glorious noontide, so they say;
He took to hidden paths of an enchanted moor,
And as a wind surreptitiously vanished away
To be beheld by mortals nevermore—nevermore.

So vanished that novelty Hut of The Grey Hill,
And now, peregrinators who peregrinate in that land
Hear mellifluous music like whispers of a rill,
And at eventide behold a vase in a colorful band

With no strings attached—but pendulous in air
Like as a motionless cloud hanging upon the sky
Whilst gazing about mountains in robes so fair,
So it hangs in opalescent hues unto any naked eye.

Alas! Though extramundane the vase—none canst remove,
For when thou dare gravitate, sweet music no more,
But discordant melodies like as a hateful wave
Beating against a galleon, & thou art spirited evermore.


©Kikodinho Edward Alexandros.
Tacoma, Evergreen State, 03/02/21.

One red rose stays blushing in my garden
I caught a glimpse of it in the early dawn
On the carpet of green, as a lovely dame it does sway
Flashing hues of contrast on a dull monsoon day

A flower with petals of such delicate contours
Yet sheltered by sharp stinging thorns that pierce
Rain drops dripping off its soft ruddy face
As blood rushing from a wound’s open surface

Fairer far than anything, one can envision
Its petals, woven and spun by angels of heaven
Oh symbol of grace, you rock me in delight,
And in me a thousand poetic fancies ignite!

Even the brightest day
Vades into the ebony veil—night.
Even the straightest way,
At length, a bend doth await.

Though mighty is the sun,
At dusk, into the sky doth sink.
Though pure be the fun,
Canst vade in a single wink.

Look how the sea wave
Races unto the shore with delight,
As though she'll rove, and rove,
But unto the sea returnest with fright.

Even the fastest stream,
At length, vades into the sea.
Though how sweet be the dream
At length, thou dost awake.

Look how drops of rain
Plummet from yonder sky,
But the earth's crust, her drain,
No matter how heavens dost cry.  

Though pleasant be the life
As sweet as heaven's nectar,
Though a life be marred with strife,
At length, all could be vice versa.

By eternal law of nature
In books of life, whether good or bad,
Naught lasts forever, even the future
Come morrow—it’s just remembered.


©Kikodinho Edward Alexandros.
Evergreen State, 29th/Dec/2020.

How Morrow weaves her evensong
For buds, unwary, sweet and young,
Full-blossomed low on boughs of trees,
Still blissful in their infancies,
Beguiled by wind and rain and sun
To crawl to stand to walk to run!

And Oh! How Morrow ever-long
Shall pluck with purpose from the throng
Aged thorny vines on withered knees,
Wild saplings cursed with Time's disease,
And all betwixt whose yarns have spun
Out from the void whence they begun.

And so, sweet Morrow, shadows long
Flit fairy-like o'er milkmoon seas,
Thy cold enticing webs are strung
On oceans calm and careless leas;
A twilight rests on mountains flung
Unto the heaven that oversees
A midnight roll-call aired with sorrow
For young sweet buds who’ll miss thee, Morrow.