Oxford Awesomesauce

Every three months right before beer o’clock,
a poet’s arsenal gets awesomesauce
as the bruhs at Oxford* release new stock
of MacGyvered words with pop culture gloss.

Should Old Souls be Young Again

T’was late last eve while beset with FoMO,
I ventured forth with my closest mofo;
     we bravely crunked towards Bacchian Hell,
     and now ’tis morning, methinks FML.
“Damneth this vile Devil!”, says I. YOLO.

The Oak Tree

There beneath a June’s mid day sun,
among a clearing stood just one
lone looming tree of weather’d oak,
green on top with its tatter’d cloak.
Then over me the oak’s bough spun.
“Come sit with me,” he did so kindly bade
“and have a restful place within my shade.”

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A Warbler’s Song

I have every early forest morning
     listened to the warbler sweetly singing,
     as they chirp among their lofty nesting.

Dressed in a gown made of sunbeam yellow,
     she calls to him from across the hollow
     a song he knows well and quickly follows.

Mountain Lord

A biting cold set in tonight,
the warmth of day no longer felt,
my breath afloat in mist of white,
before a meager flame I knelt
’round which this forest’s shadows dwelt.

Five Million Steps

The month of March will set into motion
a journey through woods as wide as oceans,
from the Georgian foothills of Nature’s fane
to sky altars in the mountains of Maine,
a pilgrimage with whole devotion.

I shall hike on this Appalachian trail,
following the blazes of white detail,
‘neath the open sky be it blue or grey,
looking forth only to the northern way,
across the wild rivers, ridges, and dales.

Playtime

We spend our days in a box stacked up high in the sky,
then eternity in a box, in the earth we’ll lie.
If these are the irrefutable facts that must be,
then won’t you at least for now come out and play with me?
Run wild in what time there is left, a blink of an eye.

Alight

The years leafed by with me in disbelief,
of times and moments shared which seemed so brief.
The sands too eager in its glass perchance,
and gave no care to our circumstance,
that when the last grain drops there’s naught but grief.

When time did come, at first I only clung,
to lingerings of silence since we’ve sung.
I waited for the beauty you might speak,
but what I heard from you then made me shriek.
So often is the fate from fickle tongues.

A Lady to Meet

I met a lovely lady quite refined,
The etiquette of elegance she knows,
A classy dame who keeps the men in line,
And disapproves of my lusterless prose;
at last my syllables do flow.

Nonplus

Poetry challenge: Limerick.

This is a word I think needs be discussed.
Latin times, but no more, it wasn’t fussed.
But our parents got confused, perplexingly.
Now kids misuse it, unimpressively.
Do you know what it means? I’m quite nonplussed.

Jameson

Down the hatch, down my hatch,
Old mister Jameson.
Take a swig, chug a shot,
Night is still young!

Oy, my head. Where am I?
Teleportality.
Sun is up, pants are gone,
Toilet I clung.

Noctilucian Romance: Limerick.

 

Poetry challenge: Limerick.

Noctiluca in shadowy gloom,
You give off such a luminous bloom.

A Man Who Puns

A man who puns is strong and bold
A champion who needs not boast
Ever sure with lightning punches
No other can steal his punder

A man who puns is generous
Gives to friends his humorous gems
As all good deeds need no reward
A good pun is its own reword

A Failed Limerick

Poetry challenge: Limerick.

 

I tried to write this anapestically,
as common limericks were historically,