My thanks to Jayne King for sending me a link to this interesting article on rhyming traditions, (http://blog.oxforddictionaries.com/2012/07/the-rain-in-spain-rhyming-traditions-from-early-china-to-modern-day-rap/).
Kevin
I have received the below, from my author friend, Victoria (Tori) Zigler, who’s books are enrolled in “Read An Ebook Week”. Please do check out Tori’s books.
Kevin
“Some of my books are on sale this week as part of Smashwords Read An eBook Week.
I am pleased to publish the below poem, “Lazy? No Miss-Judged”, by Jayne King. For Jayne’s poem, “Dreadfully Drained” please visit http://newauthoronline.com/2016/03/03/dreadfully-drained-by-jayne-king/.
—
People think I’m lazy,
Sleeping until noon,
They don’t see my misery,
Making judgments, too soon.
They don’t know that I have been
Laying awake for hours.
Tossing as well as turning,
Underneath the covers.
Finally, as the world around starts waking,
My eyelids feel like lead,
Now, what I’ve been waiting for all night,
I have to fight, instead.
How easy to judgement pass
As we sit in our house of glass
Watching the foolish trip by
On heels high.
How simple it is to sneer
At those who in joy and fear
Lose
Themselves in shoes
Passing near.
With our clear view
We watch the stupid stew
And smile
In denial
For ‘Tis not me and you …
He speaks in metaphors
Of doors
That with reluctance open
And flowers, their stems broken
By the passionate gale
That leaves pale
Ghosts behind.
In his mind
He sees
The bees
Sup from the flower’s heart.
The rain start
To fall
And summer joys, turn to gall.
I am pleased to publish the below poem, “Dreadfully Drained” by Jayne King. For Jayne’s poem, “Sleepless 1 and 2” please visit http://newauthoronline.com/2016/01/30/sleepless-1-and-2-by-jayne-king/.
—
On the sofa I’m falling asleep,
But in bed I lay awake.
Why this bizarre occurance?
Life’s no piece of cake.
Work is so draining,
Everyone wants a piece of me.
I’m merely human, you know?
Why can’t they just let me be?
This can’t be all to life,
Please, someone tell me there’s more.
People are quick to ask for favours,
But when I ask, I’m shown the door.
With all these things floating around,
My fatigue growing the wrong way,
Unsure when or if answers will come,
It’s no wonder sleep stays away.
As with the bee to the summer flower
Man dallies many an hour
Savouring the blossom’s power.
Petals delicate he feels
And reels
At the scent of the inviting rose.
In delirium he goes
and takes it to his nose.
His thirst to slake
And desire satiate.
The bee tires.
Desires
Cool, as summer draws to it’s close.
The red rose
Withers
And quivers
In the growing chill.
The rill
Dries up
And summer’s door is shut.
The brook
Has dried up
And the barren shore
Calls to the desolate moor.
Once the water ran pure
While children frolicked on the shore.
But the sun has gone
And time moved on.
A golden age of delight?
The night
Is always there
For those who care
To stare
At the distant horizon.
The dark
Is forever rising
A poem by the 19th century American poet, Emily Dickinson.
—
There is no frigate like a book
To take us lands away,
Nor any coursers like a page
Of prancing poetry.
This traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of toll;
How frugal is the chariot
That bears a human soul!
“Nymph, I wonder where you are going
Your hair
In the midnight air
Blowing.
Your face is a mask
Dare I ask
What be your task?
The gate’s hinges squeak
And the owl speaks,
“She may do as she will
For good or ill.
The light is on in yonder place.
Oh her face
Such passing grace”.
—
“Man why so pale of face?
Why pace
You so
To and fro?
Your eyes fixed on the clock
Straining to hear the gentle knock.
Your sweat
Carries the scent of regret.
The owl winks,
“Methinks
Some things are better left unsaid
As mere conjectures in the head.
Do they ill or well.
Be it heaven or hell
I will not tell”.
K Morris - Poet 