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The Rain It Raineth
The rain it raineth here today,
And children in mud puddles play.
Down the path the potting mix
Has left its trail of leaves and sticks
Bestowed upon the bitumen,
And soggy contents of the bin
Are flowing down to block the drain
As rubbish swells up with the rain.
A bum, sans jacket, hat, or hood,
Has to make do with slat of wood.
Eaves and down-pipes become fountains.
The roundabouts are island mountains.
In country places, streams are high,
Across the fields no birds do fly.
The hapless cattle huddle down
'Neath any shelter can be found.
Likewise, the people in the street
Don't stop and talk with whom they meet,
They scurry by, with frowns so wide
You know they'd rather be inside.
Joggers prefer their exercise
With slightly drier calves and thighs.
The fancy-suited businessman
Avoids the water as he can,
And short people, those nasty fellas,
Poke tall men's faces with umbrellas.
Clothes are sodden, shoes are soaked,
Upon the hearth the fire is stoked.
And then a brilliant blinding fl
Today is a day of the poems of Ogden Nash,
Who, though he always insisted on rhyming couplets, with the rest of the structure and metre tended to make rather a hash.
As I have been reading it for several day's time,
I find myself almost automatically trying to rhyme.
Since I also gave these books to my father, Peter,
We will for the next few weeks be attempting to write pairs of rhyming couplets with the complete absence of any structure or meter.
A bright fog
Blocking the sight,
The city has gone without trace,
Destination now unknown
A blank face of sky
Blends in place with the ground
Fog curls in blankness,
Flanks around the last trees
Over the colourless sea
Mends the rift 'twixt up and down
So there is no horizon
The sound of silence surrounds
No noise is heard,
The world ends in mist
A welter of white
On the water
A single bird flapping off
Is reflected beneath itself
As it fades
Greying into the light
Now whence the Avenger, born truly at last,
And the lives of the souls his land kept in the past?
Now where will he form first, and how will he live,
And will this once-Guardian learn to forgive?
And what of two dragons, one silver, one black,
Will they guard a city in ruin and wrack?
One snatched from his line forever I heard,
Was this a mistake or was it his Wyrd?
Afar in the Islands, soon coming to land,
A madman with power in the palm of his hand
Unheeded that grown has disjointed his mind;
With family and troupe go to join his own kind.
Will a soul that has waited long be soon reborn
Kept centuries in a tangle with many lives worn?
Will those lives and mistakes be still graven in stone
Or will no-one's business be tied with his own?
An old man with an apple beside a bright stream,
Is his work in the West done now, just a dream?
Has he made restitution and led people through
Or is there much more of his Wyrd left to do?
And of the new princess what news can we tell,
Last sieged in
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