I long to meet a Guinevere
So many poems I'd pen
Like Guinevere by the Azure Mere
Or simply, My Sweet Gwen

I taste the sound of Guinevere
Tis salt upon my lips
Perhaps she'd be my Gwenhwyfar
Sweet wine of Arthur's sips

Smooth and fair my Guinevere
Of her so many songs be sung
I'd love you o'er and o'er, my dear
Tomorrow I'd have ye hung.

r ~ 4/22/14

dimble dumble,
caught a, thimble thumble
of precious morning dew.

dimble dumble, took his thumble thimble,
full up to rimful.
on his nimble rambull
wooly stu,
careful not to lose,
a drippity drop
of the delicious dew.

they flimble, flambled,
up and overed,
down and undered,
till dimble dumble,
with his thimble thumble, filled to rimful,
on the wooly rambull... came to stumble.

his face a crumble,
as the rimful,
roamed and overflew,
the thimble thumble walls.
a dribble drabble did scribble scrabble,
down the rambulls hide.

dimble dumble
chewed his bottom lip
and cried.
"do not fret my little pet, look there is still enough inside"
wooly stu decried.
"i'll be more staid,as we ride our fortunes, soon will be made."

so,dimble dumble
and his rambull crew,
with thimble thumble recovered,
from the tumble.

on they skedoodledaddled. being careful to protect the remaining morning petal's dew.
after a while, time,
flew with dove like grace and dimble dumble,
with his dudes came
to the the very place, of the rimble romble rumble
and royal rapture rap parade

dimble dumble
and rambull stu on bended knee
and really humble
presented their
thimble thumble
not quiet full to rim still
but delicious and felitious morning dew
to the king awaiting
his purchase and perview.

before its spoiling,
it was boiling,
his kettle singing,
songs a ringing,
to the beauteous,
but not so bountious, morning dew.

dimble dumble
watched the
thimble thumble steam
and bubble blip away.
hands flipping flapping
nose jinkling wrinkling
as the fog blew,
his way boiling dew,
tea leaves darjeeling
with daphne blossoms
was the flavour of the day.

dimble dumble
with thimble thumble
empty now
and too, wooly stu
caught a peek of teacups platinum
holding royal blossom brew before the butler,
with a silly stutter,
sent them on their way,
with dimble dumble
all a fumble,
with a thimble thumble
of goldenboldens,
as his hard work's
reward that day.

we talk of
      not so faraway lands

and feet that won't keep still.

                          
                        apparently i'm
more like you than you'd like.

              always wondering and
                       always wandering.


but my heart will always be

                here.

If you’re looking for a King,
you’ve come to the wrong place.
A warrior on a white horse or a
ruler robed in silk isn’t the face
He took when He
came down, if
you’re looking for a King, you’ll find an
empty throne and an
empty crown, because the King
stepped down, He
didn’t announce His coming with
a thousand trumpets blasting or
multitudes of angels to
show off His splendor, no, He
came in peace, He
came clothed in humility and became
a baby.

If you’re looking for a baby,
you won’t find him here,
The King came as a child
showing His people that He is
flesh and blood, too
He’s had the same hurts as you
but now the manger is empty
because the baby
grew up to become
the Messiah

came
and the Messiah went on to
fulfill the will He was sent here for
to bind up the brokenhearted
to take up our burdens
to be an instrument of mercy and
the love of the Father
unlike any other, to tell us that
the time had come for a fresh faith
in the One who holds the stars.
And so the donkey stands with no rider,
for Messiah took the cup
and became our Savior

crawled with death scraping His shoulders,
hissing triumphantly into His ear while
the very people He gave life to spat at Him
denied Him
tore the flesh off His back
hung Him naked on a cross, his hands red with
every sin He never committed, and He cried out
as His Father turned His face
away
from Him.
But the veil was torn and our sins
thrown to the farthest ends, and now
that cross stands empty.

They sealed his body in stone, seething,
“Where
is your Savior now?”
and the land was wrapped in darkness
and hope was burnt out, but
three sunrises later, the earth trembled
and heaven wasn’t the only place that opened
that day.
The body went missing and the
empty tomb
changed
everything.

Jesus rose over
every sickness
every hurt, every pain
He took our shame and
wiped our slate clean, there is
salvation in His name, there is
redemption in His name, there is
freedom in His name, Death had
no victory and no sting that day because
there is nothing
that can separate us from the love
that is the Father’s, who watched His son suffer
paying our debt, so that one day we may
receive what is His and be with Him
again, we are now
sons and we are now
daughters, no need for
sacrifices and meaningless prayers
come
as
you are, sinner, and let His blood
wash your past away, He
is alive.
So when doubt comes creeping closer
saying, “Where is your Savior?”
Look it in the eye and proclaim,
“He is risen!”
“He
is risen!”

the cool air of the morning awakens me,
bird's bustle and gossip in the first rays,
of a new turn around,
the sun.

tears pool and nestle,
at the bridge of my nose, thick with emotion
left from a dream.
devoid of details,
but rich in sorrow,

a hungering feral sorrow.
that still lingers,
licking at the corners
of my mind.

i feel a discordance
with myself, sighing to expell this thing prowling, my breathe,
catches on a sob.

the kookaburra's laugh, jarringly close
and then further away.

i wipe at these tears, unbidden, unshed
and turn?
to find my grounding,
my steadfastness,
my hearts ease watching,
he draws me to him,
his lips,smoothing
my furrowed brow,
his hands creating an intensity, that is ours alone.

we make,
sweetness and beauty,
joy and oblivion, before falling asleep once more.

There is one thing that ought to be taught in all the colleges,
Which is that people ought to be taught not to go around always making apologies.
I don't mean the kind of apologies people make when they run over you or borrow five dollars or step on your feet,
Because I think that is sort of sweet;
No, I object to one kind of apology alone,
Which is when people spend their time and yours apologizing for everything they own.
You go to their house for a meal,
And they apologize because the anchovies aren't caviar or the partridge is veal;
They apologize privately for the crudeness of the other guests,
And they apologize publicly for their wife's housekeeping or their husband's jests;
If they give you a book by Dickens they apologize because it isn't by Scott,
And if they take you to the theater, they apologize for the acting and the dialogue and the plot;
They contain more milk of human kindness than the most capacious diary can,
But if you are from out of town they apologize for everything local and if you are a foreigner they apologize for everything American.
I dread these apologizers even as I am depicting them,
I shudder as I think of the hours that must be spend in contradicting them,
Because you are very rude if you let them emerge from an argument victorious,
And when they say something of theirs is awful, it is your duty to convince them politely that it is magnificent and glorious,
And what particularly bores me with them,
Is that half the time you have to politely contradict them when you rudely agree with them,
So I think there is one rule every host and hostess ought to keep with the comb and nail file and bicarbonate and aromatic spirits on a handy shelf,
Which is don't spoil the denouement by telling the guests everything is terrible, but let them have the thrill of finding it out for themselves.

A child need not be very clever
To learn that "Later, dear" means "Never."

How wise I am to have instructed the butler
to instruct the first footman to instruct the second
footman to instruct the doorman to order my carriage;
I am about to volunteer a definition of marriage.
Just as I know that there are two Hagens, Walter and Copen,
I know that marriage is a legal and religious alliance entered
into by a man who can't sleep with the window shut and a
woman who can't sleep with the window open.
Moreover, just as I am unsure of the difference between
flora and fauna and flotsam and jetsam,
I am quite sure that marriage is the alliance of two people
one of whom never remembers birthdays and the other
never forgetsam,
And he refuses to believe there is a leak in the water pipe or
the gas pipe and she is convinced she is about to asphyxiate
or drown,
And she says Quick get up and get my hairbrushes off the
windowsill, it's raining in, and he replies Oh they're all right,

it's only raining straight down.
That is why marriage is so much more interesting than divorce,
Because it's the only known example of the happy meeting of
the immovable object and the irresistible force.
So I hope husbands and wives will continue to debate and
combat over everything debatable and combatable,
Because I believe a little incompatibility is the spice of life,
particularly if he has income and she is pattable.