Something I dabble with every now and then, just to try and keep my creative mind sharp like a quill
For those who Lie with Truth
In Truth there can be no Lies, Yet it is Truth that Falsehood Defies. Poisoned words are Truly Fake, And no Lie a Truth can e'er Remake. A Honeyed Tongue may Lies Dilute. But a Truth no Lie can e'rer Refute. In Truth there can be but one Lie. Where Falsehood lives the Truth doth Die.
Oh, thou art the Master Paramour of my Mind. And I shall Think of thee my Tender Rake. For thou art my Kindred Soul Entwined. And Thoughts steal my Virtue, which thou Forsake. The Beauty of thy Image, so fairly painted, ‘Neath thy Helm, Soft art thy Golden Curls. For Master’s Gentle Kiss I hath awaited, Betwixt pink Lips my Poet’s Art unfurls. Laid down my own amongst thy Paper Sheets, Word Stained art Creations to which my Heart grips, Your Passion upon my Will, the one that readily Beats, A Thought I hath Surrendered to thy open Lips. Within thy Hand behold my Fair Jewel, A Gentle Kiss within my Privacy lingered. Thy Words and thy Wit be my Sexes Fuel, The Tools of thy Art, and skilfully fingered. With thy Hand thou didst Rape thy Muse And thou hast brought me thy Blessed Wit. My Master to his Mistress Will ne’er Refuse For Shame upon my Soul thou hast Writ.
One as lovely as thee has no need of decoration, And no golden bauble could ensure thy adoration. But I would present and adorn thee with love's tender kiss, Alas, surely thou wouldst be not bought so cheaply as this. Let me purchase thy affection with all that I possess, For my love, thou art worthy of nothing more, nothing less. But if the price of love be too dear for thee, Then I shall be poor and let love possess me.
The Edgar triplet of poem were written a very long time ago when I was just out of highschool, but I still like them (sort of), you might enjoy them
‘Twas one night did dreameth he, While in slumber as dreamers be. This frightful tale he seemed to see, Of pain and woe and joyful free. First he dreamt his cat was slain, ‘Twas the start of his great pain. For you see this cat ‘twas dear to him, And such a sight was more than grim. This poor scene began to fade, Our dreamer stood within a glade. An eerie gloom chilled his bones, And with it came these spectral moans. Alas! Our chap was overrun, With wicked feelings of being done. Forsoothe! This fellow was not his own, Henceforth this moment being not alone. A shadow befell this pitiful sight, A grown man, mauled by fright. Peering upon this stranger black, The ebony cloak, cloaking his back. A familiar chap, albeit fowl, Was lacking a face beneath his cowl. How be it then this fellow known, With no discernable features shown? Despite this fact our Edgar knew, This familiar feeling to be true. That this someone was someone that he, Somehow was one he knew to be. He cast these feelings out his person, For verily he knew this dream would worsen. The stranger’s lips breathed Edgar’s name, From Edgar’s lips, a breathless silence came. Edgar now being beckoned forth, Was to be shown, what it all was worth. Caution stifled his curious mind, For Edgar knew what visions he’d find.
For you see his self was a miserable gent, All feelings but misery had all but went. But this condition was not always so, As for conditions they come and go. But this was more a permanent slump, Edgar he made a dreadful grump. Age it seemed had struck him quick, As quick as a moll turning a trick. Vigour it seemed had left him for sure, For this affliction, one has no easy cure. The cause of this malady was classified, But now our Edgar could no longer hide. For sure as he was dreaming there, In dreams his soul was laid to bare. The figure he pulled from Edgar’s chest, A soul so black in this sleepless rest. Edgar gazed at the mess of black, Like the feathers upon a raven’s back. The figure clasped it in his bony hand, And turned it into hourglass sand. Now Edgar’s soul showed what time he had, Some time pre spent since being a lad. But what time was left in the ebony mass? Mere hours trickling down the glass. Did this mean until slumber was spent, And dreaming was mere dreams of a haunted gent? Or were they both more sinister rolls, As they say, for whom the bell tolls? Was this now Edgar’s time? But what time can I measure in an idle rhyme? Let me say instead; that Edgar’s time was not quite used Unless before he wakes, he can change his views.
Now when we left, Edgar was still in rest, Resting with his sombre guest. There he stays while we carry on, Soul and time are almost gone. I hope that you, whoever you be, Read of this and plainly see. It would be wise to heed this tale, Unless of course you see him prevail. On behalf of Edgar, you tell your kin, This tale of his abnormal sin. For you see the one that is base of all, The one that comes before the fall. This truly is the Faustian law, A man bequeathed with the fatal flaw. For the man with this is truly blind, To the nature of his undying kind. He cannot see how he goes, I’m sure that you know one of those. One whose pride knows no bounds, Even on these spirit grounds. This truly is his Achilles heel, A thing that may even break the deal. Unless of course before it ends, Edgar finds his way to making amends. As I recall we did not know, How Edgar’s wickedness began to grow. Now I can tell you with no hesitation, There simply was no justification. His soul was simply jet and raven, But beside this figure he was simply craven. For there is no man who wouldn’t quake, Amidst this figure’s shadowy wake. Now was the hour things would manifest, Things that would pervert his rest. Visions of demonic vice, Villainy, for which Edgar would pay a price.
Some may think this toll is steep, But what can I say, when there’s a soul to reap? The Shadow will overlook his fate, If our Edgar is not too late. For Edgar to see his life so fowl, He must peer into the cowl. Gazing into the empty void, Of this dark and impromptu Freud. Slipping into the deepest trance, He saw the Strumpets of Satan dance. This view of flesh came as a blow, As the sin in him began to grow. This was the figures greatest trick, As now his time was ticking quick. For every sin he cannot withstand, An hour passed within the sand. Now was the hour for Edgar to shine, As now the sand was growing fine. To resist these trials was the greatest test, That would have him wake from this hellish rest. These Succubae were baying for blood, As only a Satanic concubine could. When a soul falls prey to their sinful way, Poor Edgar is easily led astray. The hooded figure is soon to find, That our Edgar is sorely weak of mind. He so easily succumbs to the passion, As is the way of a man of his fashion. Three more trials await our man, Overcome these temptations, we’ll see if he can. In the next instalment of this tale. I wonder if our dear fellow will fail?
This is the finale of Edgar’s plight, Will he be a sinner contrite? Let us regain our point in the verse, As Edgar’s dreams are getting worse. Edgar was handed a babe, new born, But from its brow grew a double horn. Its eyes been gauged from its skull, With maggoty flesh, the effect was null. You may not see of what the sin, But you see our Edgar was blank within. No bile did rise from within his mouth, A vacancy worthy of the deepest south. This next test depends upon, Whether Edgar, our Edgar reacts tres bon. The Shadow handed Edgar a knife, To be used at the time of vicious strife. In silence he watched the vision uncover, An attack on a baby and its mother. Harpies and Serpents lashing their skin, Upon Edgar’s face a morbid grin. The demons were poised to cut her throat, Edgar’s heart was luridly remote. His fingers they stroked the blades hilt, And as he did so her blood was spilt. Not stopping such lunacy was his crime, And now a minute was his time. His sandy soul could be put aright, If only arrogance had not blinded his sight? Who is the fellow behind the mask? Who grows more sinister with each new task. Edgar foolishly pulled down his hood, And froze in horror as any man would. For he expected to see a face of bone, Instead he found the face his own. The impostor’s eyes were pure as jet, But this cruel fate could be avoided yet.
With one more task still at hand, Edgar may leave this spectral land. The answer was simple, yes simple indeed, To steer his course from this Satanic creed. He asked his self the truthful word, To be spoken upon the time it is heard. The word that would suspend his curse, A damnation in this gospel verse. Before him lay his timely soul, No more than a grain left in the bowl. He rushed himself for his view, The gentleman that could start anew. Being rushed this way, his mind went blank, His answer therefore was base and rank. As the last of his soul ended his time, His words will not be in this rhyme. He failed to do what was asked of him, And so, he went with his abnormal sin. It appears his flaw was much too great, And his penance it came all too late. I been the speaker in his stead, As he were dun within his bed. He woke with overwhelming dread, His eyed fixed upon his cat, lying dead. This was a tale of a soul then tested, Now Edgar be eternally rested. This is a caution, of a soul done reaping, While our sleeper had been sleeping. If from a slumber you do not rise, Then a flaw like Edgar’s was your demise. But for those of you who wish to wake, Then trust your Shadow and no soul it’ll take. For this is a tale that cannot be bested, The caution of poor Edgar Rested.
My sweet Ruffled Patty Blushed with pink its shade Is so dainty in its manner And for certain the fairest made Poppy is her cousin She of the Orient sent Alongside Peony in magenta Geishas to the garden leant The Canterbury Bells are chiming As a breeze blows through their blues The Violas wish to chime in But they are purple and orange hues My Orange Pippin Apples Are grown on a tree of Cox’s I believe them sweeter straight from top Than in brown cardboard boxes I smell the tangy berries Round and ripe Black Satin Those small and juicy Top Hats Vaccinium corymbosum; in common Latin My prize berry is fat and ripe, Like a rouge bright kiss. I love Ostara in the Summertime Carnation never goes amiss. Beams of sunglow, her bush of spiky yellow I speak of my Fox Tail Lilly, How she warms my garden so. Until the air grows chilly. I sight my Arctic Queen This is when my Clematis grows Her skin is alabaster pale But the Crocus bud when it snows Chrysanthemums roar with a burst Their heads are a lion’s mane Next to them a Busy Lizzie Deliciously striped like candy cane My Weeping Willow plays the part As his head hangs down in sorrow Round the base my Bleeding Heart Will be withered come the ‘morrow I see such happiness in my dreamy garden A smile within my flower bed But I grow sad as the ground doth harden As I know we are all dead But as the dewy Spring Gives birth to new life come dawn I know that from the soil Within the flower I am reborn