A raw electric sizzle
that riffles through my brain
makes me feel the rhythmic sway
of a lumbering train.
And I can hear the click-clack
of rolling down the line,
and all of it transpires deep
inside my weary mind.
All day long, clouds hung low
(pretending rains would come)
but never did winds blow --
and no rain came, therefrom.
"Oh, duplicitous sky,
why have you lied to me?"
It offered its reply,
"What grand audacity!
"You left your umbrella home.
So, what else could I do?
But close the azure dome,
and some respect accrue!"
I never saw a Purple Cow,
I never hope to see one,
But I can tell you, anyhow,
I'd rather see than be one.
When you're dancing through the graveyard
you'll get some angry stares.
They'll call you "disrespectful cad"
for failing to show care.
To be carefree won't offend ghosts;
they'll wish they'd done the same.
But mourners act as if, for Death,
you are the one to blame.
Why should one hold the dance within,
when it longs to be out?
Why should expressing such pure glee
be cause to point and shout?
Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone;
For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,
But has trouble enough of its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air;
The echoes bound to a joyful sound
But shrink from voicing care.
Rejoice, and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go;
They want full measure of all your pleasure,
But they do not need your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all, --
There are none to decline your nectared wine,
But alone you must drink life's gall.
Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a large and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain.
Two hikers on a mountain trail
pass a solitary Poppy.
One remembers a lost loved one;
one, feeling high and floppy.
I was born upon thy bank, river,
My blood flows in thy stream,
And thou meanderest forever
At the bottom of my dream.
The river runs through the birdlands. Each isle is alive with their nests. The course is skimmed by pelicans, snatching fish to later digest. The croc is hunting those waters, just eyes and stony tail peeks out. It'd love a fish, snake, or otter, but food 's any meat near its snout. The bird that flies into its gullet, the tourist dangling limb from the boat. If it could find freshwater mullet, it wouldn't eat that armless farmer's goat.
Gather ye rose-buds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying; And this same flower that smiles today Tomorrow will be dying. The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, The higher he's a-getting, The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he's to setting. That age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse, and worst Times still succeed the former. Then be not coy, but use your time, And while ye may, go marry; For having lost but once your prime, You may forever tarry.
The pounding sound of rhythmic drums shatters stillness this eve. I know not whether snares are banged to celebrate or grieve. The pace isn't slow enough to guide a somber procession, nor does it race at the pace of jocular expression. It's a well-kept beat, approaching, that makes the windows shake, but seems suitable only for keeping me awake.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 