Petrachan

In the woods there is a clear cool stream
Translucent, pure, and so intoxicating
That those who drink from it begin to dream
Of subjects and desires so titillating
That when they wake they beg to dream again,
Cursing themselves for fools for ever waking,
Cursing the world as one enormous pen
In which they live forever caged, forsaking
Lives, family, and all to dip once more
Into the stream and live forever dreaming.
One day I chanced to find this stream, and pour
Myself a glass of it, crystalline, palely gleaming;
But as I drank I saw your face and knew
I must have dreamt already, to have you.

Spenserian

Two happy hearts with but a single mind
Two minds beknit in perfect harmony
Harmony in choric chords combined
Chords made of notes covalent musically;
A clef denuded, making up a key
Devoid of sharpness, or of flat discord;
Discord avoided so delightfully
It touches all the stops joy can afford,
And gives them breath across this even chord
That every ear may drink the joy therein,
Taking the measure in so it is stored
In memory, free of all hint of din.
So may our love play over every note
In one great harmony to make me dote.

Wyattite

The chase is not the purpose of my hunt;
It is possession, and the present joy
Of having what I sought. I do not front;
No, I am frank: the chase begins to cloy
When that which is pursued flies far ahead
And even the loud braying of the hounds
Falters from hearing. I prefer instead
That which comes after all, and still abounds
When memories of hunting all have faded.
I love to have, not seek, although pursuit
Was not unpleasant. Do not think me jaded
With the chase; I rather seek its root:
The hope to have, rather than pursue
For having got, there is much more to do.

Sidneian

Cupid, finding Europe bare of breasts
Open to his arrows, none of mind
Poetical enough for him, now tests
The other pondside, where he hopes to find
Someone of heart sufficiently aligned
With his, to make his duty soft and light.
Ay me! And I am caught beside his blind,
Allowing him to draw and shoot aright
Despite his often-argued lack of sight
And pierce my heartstrings with a single shot.
Yes, there it is, lodged in me firm and tight,
Before his bowstring could relax from taut.
But I, poor fool, consider this no woe,
But rather joy that he has struck me so.

Timelessnesses

I wonder why I wonder about time
It's always been there, always will be there
No matter how I fall or where I climb
I can't escape or change it anywhere.
So why obsess? Why not accept it so,
Ignore it, or be comfortable therein?
I can but answer that I do not know,
But time is something I have always been
Interested in, and cannot now dismiss
As simply omnipresent and ignored.
I do not know what I will do with this,
Except look at more time and still be bored,
But it's the truth, and truths are timeless, I
Have heard. I'll find that truth out by and by.

Wells

I figure there must be a way
To travel up and down through time
To see again a yesterday
Or reproduce a future clime
To make the end of days come down
And shake hands with the first big bang
To rush a smile to a frown
And back again; to rehearse slang
From ages past, or realize
Over a length of ages hence
The ways that ours will normalize
And laugh, then, at our own expense.
I think there is a way: the mind
Can conjure pasts and futures find.

Recipe

Cheap thrills thrill
Low fun's fun
To stay still
Should be done
Rarely. I
Like this world
And this sky
Both are twirled
'Round a line
Through the pole
This is fine
We can roll
With that. How?
Have fun now!

Ba Bum

Even good times must pass away and die
Into the future; forward lies who knows?
A wasteland into which our purpose grows
Untamed, untended as the fields that lie
Fallow, despite our efforts. We will, by and by,
See what will sprout, but in the random throes
Of germination, that which purpose sows
Is often lost, no matter how we try.
But what we reap need not be bad for good;
There can be benefit in random findings,
As when, despite uncertain trackless windings
We find ourselves arriving where we would
As if by magic. The subconscious brings
Good in the end, even from worser things.

Nothing Can Come Of Nothing

Words don't often fail me; if they did
I'd be in trouble. But sometimes they do.
Sometimes all things go wonky, and get rid
Of what is normal. From my point of view,
And most, I think, this annoying. But
If everything went always by the plan
Never making us go " wait, wait. What?"
Life would be boring. As it is, it can
Be normal, usual, routine, and yet
Just when we think it's all too simple, we
Can see the world seem to at once forget
The ordinary, and grasp fantasy.
The world in which I have no words is one
In which there's something new, and that is fun.

Alternator

Some days seem dark and grey and dreary
Full of things repetitive to see,
Worthless and constantly so weary
That they can sap vitality.
These days have happened frequently
For me in recent months, and so
It is with joy I finally
Observe that feeling turn and go.
I know the day will see some snow,
A full-on cover from the clouds
A bunch of people who will grow
By tedious manners into crowds,
And yet I do not care: the day
Is not depressed, but wild and gay.