wombat1138: (Default)
The plum tree's branches
sway with round red buds. Pale streaks
show the first petals.

Camellia season
is ending; the flowers splash
down into spring rain.

iRhyme?

Mar. 28th, 2012 10:26 am
wombat1138: (Default)
From an ML prompt: I always wanted to write a poem where all the words are spelled like they rhyme but don't.

I think that I shall never hear
A poem as lovely as a pear.
A pear, not plum, upon a bough:
Ripe, sweet, and tender, not too tough;
A fruit more beautiful than fugues
Or melismatic riffs or segues.
No, poems and plays-- old rot like "Hamlet"--
Are useless to a hungry gourmet
Who'd far prefer a tangerine
Or even crisp roast porcupine
With apple juice to wash it down.
But too late now, that pig has flown,
And nothing's left but empty prose.
Say, which road leads toward San Jose?

pirouette

Nov. 29th, 2007 11:48 pm
wombat1138: (Default)
(Not really a little jig of despair; more like a slow waltz of apathy. How do you set goals when your only goals are to *have* goals?)

They have so many things I do not want,
And yet it's not as if I have my own
Things that would take their place. The telephone
Rings to itself; the unsaid elephant
Fills up the room as unread papers count
The days to weeks, the trees to empty bone.

I have nothing to say to them, nor words
That I could say it with: pluperfect hope
Without a present tense, an isotope
On Xeno's path of lives half-lived. Absurd
To linger there, better to move forward--
But I've no address on my envelope.
wombat1138: (Default)
Riffed elsewhere, based on an initial line by [livejournal.com profile] vian_l: "Your tragic [SW fan] also gets wistful and occasionally choked up at the mention of double-sunsets, thinks elaborate hairstyles are the perfect fashion accessory, if one has time and hair enough, and who will keep up an interest in what George Lucas is doing, even if he seems intent on pulling all the life out of the movies and replacing it with noisy pixels."

Had we but hair enough and time,
Those cinnamon buns would be fine:
We would sit down with hairpins, comb,
And styling products (mousse and foam).
The setting suns would cast their hue
Of auburn warmth across this 'do,
And we would dress in sumptuous frocks
That would do justice to these locks.

But sad to say, we're left with just
Jar-Jar and poop jokes, and we must
Cling to old hopes, though long forlorn.
Please pass the bucket of popcorn.
wombat1138: (Default)
The autumn's first rain
purrs tonight, slipping through my
car's open window.Read more... )

*boggle*

Jul. 19th, 2007 09:01 pm
wombat1138: (Default)
Noted today while volunteering at the library: a young children's picture book with typical sorta children's illustrations around the verbatim text of Edgar Allen Poe's "Annabel Lee".

(Addendum: Amazon listing of this book.)

teh LOLiad

Jun. 2nd, 2007 11:14 pm
wombat1138: (Default)
by Heresiarch, in the comments at Making Light.

(Hom3R: IM IN UR CLASSICZ, RES IN UR MEDIA
H0M3R: I can has a Mus3?
Mus3: k
H0M3R: I can has song?
Mus3: k
Mus3: im in ur prolog singin ur rage
Hom3R: kthxbai)

buekx 1-6 (comment #174)
7-16 (#250)
17-20(#261)
21-24(#285)
PWND
wombat1138: (spot)
I will be so going to hell because of the chorus from Hounburnd's "Catalanta in Colliedon". (I'll send postcards.)

I iz tyg4r burn1nz br1t3
In yr f0r3stz 0f t3h n1t3
WHUT da m4x l33t h4ndz 0r 3y3z
Fr4m3z0rd mah f33rfl 5mmtryz?Read more... )
wombat1138: (spot)
In spring, a young(ish) marsupial's thoughts turn to Tolkien pastiche. Or something. I have no other rational explanation.

Fit the first: Balrog/Shalott.Read more... )


Fit the second: Nimrodel Lee.Read more... )


And now for something completely different:Read more... )


Addendum:Read more... )

*sniffle*

Oct. 7th, 2006 04:08 pm
wombat1138: (spot)
Blech. My sinuses have been deliquescing for about two weeks now, despite most of the OTC stuff that's come to mind. It's probably time to think about finding a different antihistamine or decongestant or something if I'm ending up with stuff like this flotsaming out of my brain cell:

The woods are lovely, dark and deep
The woods are full of mice.
"But I have promises to keep,"
Quoth she, and whistled thrice.
wombat1138: (Default)
The last leaf lies still,
Half-curled like a dead sparrow.
No one notices.

Plum blossoms: white silk
Splashed with thin red streaks, outward
From the bee's soft kiss.

They found robins' eggs.
A half-cabochon of sky
Spills a broken sun.

Warm as bare skin, mud
Breathes out its own fragrance: loam,
Buds, sleepy earthworms.

The last one is the aftermath of an extremely frivolous discussion I had with the wombat-consort a few weekends ago about what the heck is supposed to make for good haiku. "If it's mainly about seasonal markers and the impermanence of earthly delights," one of us said, "why do cherry blossoms and snowdrifts get all the glory? What about the thaw-out of the first spring mud?" And then we went into weird interactive fugues for the rest of the hike about having reverent mud-viewing gatherings, or alternately, boisterous street parties in which the loincloth-clad multitudes jostle around with ceremonial mud floats (or perhaps ceremonial mud splats).

I still have to jot down the name of that festival-music CD I borrowed from the library at some point-- wonderfully thwappy, percussive chants that're nothing like the usual "plink plink twang" (with or without thin pentatonic wailing) of most of the formal Asian music I've heard, and I say that as someone who was occasionally lugged to performances of the Peking Opera as an urchin. I think they were at the Kennedy Center, where the Nutcracker usually was. Sadly, the bulk of my relevant childhood memories involve deliberately scuffing across as long a stretch of plush red foyer I could manage before the plush red lint stopped fluffing onto my patent-leather shoes, at which point I'd explode it all off by discharging my accumulation of static electricity onto the nearest shiny brass railing. Or my brother. (I only got him once. It was glorious.)
wombat1138: (Default)
The scent of woodsmoke
Lingers, clinging in droplets
Of mist on dead leaves.

A jay's sudden weight
Scatters prodigal riches:
Gold clouds of pine pollen.

Like fog, soft greyness
Settles into the hollows;
Shedding, the cats purr.
wombat1138: (Default)
In the midst of trying to tessellate together small scraps of poetry, I think I've finally figured out why I've never liked "The Waste Land" On the other hand, I may be any combination of misguided, trite, or incoherent :b Read more... )

*envy*

Aug. 14th, 2005 09:59 am
wombat1138: (Default)
JK Rowling meets TS Eliot; parody ensues.

Patior

Aug. 11th, 2005 04:01 pm
wombat1138: (Default)
O patio door,
O door upon my patio,
Mine offenses are myriad against thee.Read more... )
wombat1138: (Default)
I am now unaccountably awake. Figures.

I just left some feedback at snopes.com about their article on hammertime and figured that the factoids I'd dug up so far were interesting enough to cut'n'paste here:

The lore of the papal forehead mallet seems to considerably predate the Guardian article mentioned. There are some secondary web citations drawn from 1939, when Pius XI died (Google previews from time.com contemporary archive; also, http://extremecatholic.blogspot.com/2003_10_05_extremecatholic_archive.html#106549331672249012 ). But even in 1869, Robert Browning mentioned the legend(?) in his epic poem "The Ring and the Book", Chapter 10, "The Pope", lines 2058-2062:

[...] How one hears
The howl begin, scarce the three little taps
O' the silver mallet ended on thy brow,--
'His last act was to sacrifice a Count
And thereby screen a scandal of the Church!'"

Unfortunately, the only good e-text I've found so far has a really annoying navigational system, forcing you to click through all 18 pages of the chapter to get to the end ( http://www.bibliomania.com/0/2/179/1098/frameset.html )

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