wb :

Another day, another story.
She tilts her head at her pet dory-
"What happens now, my drop of glory?

What bubbles in your damp history?"
It gulped. She frowned; "You blasted Tory-
another day, another story,

Your fishy life is old and hoary-
And when your time finds Purgatory,
What happens then, my drop of glory?"

It turned its back, the Monsignore,
And took of kelp its inventory.
Another day, another story;

She went to bed and woke up sorry-
Her fish had died, consumed with worry.
That happened to her drop of glory;

She plunged on downward, twenty-storey,
And ended on the concrete, gory.
Another day, another story-
Thus happened then, her drop of glory.

-~-

Surprisingly existentialist, given the silly mood I was in when I wrote this.

Don't turn from the hues in the sky-
Let its darkly purpling iridescence
compose
into a liquid glow
that distracts your eye

From ricochets of lovers' feet,
clock-work crescendos down the boulevard.

You will catch their mingling melodies
of rose wine? candle light? dinners
along the Champs Elysees
As they sweep past you,
and slot themselves places
methodically,
guided by the bored hand
of some somnolent Cupid.

But wait until the light has cleared-
Tune into turgid indigo skyscape
Then slowly stroll away
solitary
from the vacuumed vestige
of the melting sun.

Hey guys, Ryan here. I know I haven't actually been writing here, but I wanted to give you guys a little heads up about a new project of mine before I start send out e-mails.

A friend and I (Matthew Reuben, for those who know him) are working on a new collection of local writing. It's going to be fresh, exciting, and it's going to be published in print (read: on paper, in an actual book). We're looking for sponsorship from NAC and everything, so it's pretty exciting.

Of course, first we need pieces, and that's where you come in. I'm sure all of us here have stories floating around in our heads waiting to be pinned unto paper. Well, this is your chance.

is not yesterday's
orange julius and caesar
salad. it might be the cold gulf
or this post-war depression

it is the absence
of cats basking in sunshine; the
lack of umbrellas on a very
rainy day. it is the unseen

puddles that ruined the best
pair of jeans you owned; natural
disasters, storms and water-bombs.
don't bother cleaning up;

life is just another infectious
disease; you climb great walls
and soldier on. tomorrow may not
see you over the moon, but

you might see some stars soon.

you're full of hot air;
flying high above
many parties,
above oceans
of hair

just be careful of
the mountain-peaks
of the rigs of ships
of the passing
of weeks

remember to check
the weather, mate
for when pressure
increases, or there's
too much

on one's plate
one tends to deflate

greenly glisten in the sunlight;
boldbeaks wing-tucked, beadeyes sleep-struck.
like beached scallops in the seabright
are these senseless, careless ditchducks.

they snooze from dawn till afternoon
and still, their languid sleepwakes’s late.
more endless dreamdoze follows soon;
these birds shall grace my dinner plate!

Based on Malory's Morte Arthur. I wanted to have a go at the Anglo Saxon style, heavy on alliteration and compound words. Blogger didn't allow spacing hence the cut-&-paste. Click to enlarge.