poetry

The poem, written at the Poetry Improvisation Game at the Spire of Meetings, received word to use was "Lady".

***

I sit in tavern, noisy one.

Which goblet am I drinking?

The sun goes down, day is done...

About her I'm thinking.

The Lady enters, full of grace,

And walks among the drunkards.

Can't get my eyes off faultless face...

Alas, I am below her standards.

***

A year. It had been a year since the poem Eiragerd had written for her own self. Somehow, again, this date managed to surprise her. Yes, she'd had further growth and goodness in the year between.
But somehow, on the very day she thought would pain her again, she was given unexpected blessing.

He writes, and re-writes. Letters formal and like a heavy-handed forgery of Nunen's. Eventually, he lets the lines stand in the corner of his water-damaged note book. The thing kept with several short scrawls of writing, practiced letters and many black inked pages with not a shred of room left upon them. The small poems he'd attempted for Cwennie here remain like tiny shots of light, symmetry and order.


"In duty she treads

loss ravaged, her fate to find

Blue as the rich Sea"

There’s a lovely patch by the brook
full of flowers and grass so green
where I love to sit down with a good book
dreaming of places I have never seen

There was

a poem

here.

It's gone now.

[This post has been removed by the author. If you wish to read it, please contact me directly.]

There was

a poem

here.

It's gone now.

[This post has been removed by the author. If you wish to read it, please contact me directly.]

There was

a poem

here.

It's gone now.

[This post has been removed by the author. If you wish to read it, please contact me directly.]