A Haiku on Fishing

Flowing waters whirl
Trout swims in weeds 'round grey rocks
Setting sun glistens

Teaser Scene, from The Two Brothers

[Scene: A bedchamber, where Lord Royksar, a sickly old man, lies bedridden. Zashaznon, the court enchanter, Prince Nornivvus, heir to the throne, his wife Elzera, a doctor, the lady Grenella, and a few others stand round him.]

Nornivvus:
I heartily have hopes that you will get well as soon as possible, Lord Royksar.

Royksar:
Thank you, Nornivvus. But I fear I am going cold. I am weak. It is a curse upon me.

Nornivvus: A curse, you say?

[Enter Prince Razagos, brother of Nornivvus, husband of Grenella]

Razagos:
My lady, I greet you.[kisses Grenella's hand] Royksar, are you feeling better?

Royksar:
No. I am still in pain. [Razagos walks over to Royksar's bed]

Razagos:
Have you discovered the nature of the ailment yet, doctor?

Doctor:
It is a wicked curse. It is wretched witchery.

Royksar:
I feel weaker. Listen to me! If I die now-

Doctor:
You will not die, my lord.

Grenella:
You can't!

Royksar[moaning]:
Please! Help!

Zashaznon:
Wait, doctor! He needs our help, quickly!

Doctor[examining Royksar again]:
What- no! How can this be?

Royksar:
What is it?

Doctor[panicking]:
I am afraid that I was wrong. He is going, fast. I am sorry.

Royksar[coughing, voice fading]:
Let me speak. I have lived a long life. I have had my failures. But listen- please!

Nornivvus:
What is it?

Royksar[very weakly]:
My young prince, there is a plot.

Nornivvus:
A plot? What? Don't go! Don't go!

Royksar[fading,coughing]:
A plot to betray us all. The darkness..... demons..... tell your father.... danger....

Nornivvus:
Royksar? What! Pull yourself together!

Zashaznon:
It is too late. He is dead.

A Limerick I Found, Concerning Hamlet

Did Ophelia ask Hamlet to bed?
Was Gertrude incestuously wed?
Is anything certain?
By the fall of the curtain

Almost everyone's certainly dead.
— A. Cinna, found in The Penguin Book of Limericks

The Remainder of the Poetic Cycle

It may seem somewhat late to post the autumn poem, as it has already snowed, and may seem somewhat early to post the winter poem, as it is not yet December. However, I have decided to conclude this poetic cycle at this time, and move to a differently themed series of posts, perhaps one whose subject matter can be reasonably updated more frequently.

Autumn

But as this year's life drags along its path,
A gloomy darkness transfixes the clouds.
The golden wheat is reaped for toil's reward,
But its grey stalks soon crumple in cold dirt.
The sorrowed oak trees drop their brownish leaves
And willows wilt, casting long umbral shades.
The sable ravens croak forth requiems
As everything with life withers away.
The trees are each laid bare, the aster-plants
Turn grey, a sadness to the weathered eyes.
As pumpkins, deathly fruit, grow in night's grasp
The final show of colour's glory dims
As sorrow's heart strikes its dark twilight beat.

Winter

The elder year is crippled, dying fast-
Cold enters bones and nerves of every thing.
Dead grasses fade into black dusty grime,
And limp and leafless trees stand towering high
As sable beacons of this futile age,
While silver clouds are clustered in the sky.
From these white heavens come down an alban shroud
Of snow, a final resting beauteous touch
That glazes the vast world in stabbing cold's
Cruel knives, and wreathes every dark bough.
The old year smiles as its new heir is born
And breathes its last, is buried in soft snow,
And then departs forever to the heights.

Ode to Summer

I apologize for not posting much over the summer. Here is the next poem in the cycle:

The year grows older, to a blazing peak,
A pinnacle, a stony-mountain-height.
The shining sun beams down across the vale,
Its daylight rays bestowing full comfort.
A glorious warmth envelopes every rock
And tree, burning each touching mortal hand.
Long, endless fields of grain-stalks grow- tall wheat
And barley grass, as purple cicadas
Sing heat-born songs from towering maple-trees.
That blinding fire, that great laborious sweat
Is placed, as the worlds weight, upon the ground.
Throughout the rufous meadows, golden larks
Seal this fierce season with heroic cries.

An Ode to Spring

The newborn year shoots up in youthful growth,
With it, the golden tulip-petals sprout-
Each one a beauteous, lively spectacle.
On every tree-twig leaves bud, blossoms flower-
Fair-featured life comes unto everything.
The water-lilies in the wet mill-pond
Bloom as white lanterns, glowing o'er the night,
Their verdant stalks and leaves the thrones of frogs
That hum vivacious, sanguine melodies.
Ambrosial winds of bright new nectar- scents
Blow lightly through euphoric warming air.
The merry year grows fast, the trees grow tall
And bud out forth their sylvan leafy hair.

A Quote from Aristotle's Poetics

"...Comedy aims at representing men as worse, Tragedy as better than in actual life."