The Lamentations of Mark: Ode to MLE

It's sad to say

I'd rather be

Alone, at home

With MLC

If you could see

How MLC

Has set me free

From ennui

Then you would say

It's not so grey

To sit and play

This everyday

Although at home

A little gnome

Is free to roam

And steal my tome

And yet to be

So far away

From MLC

Stuck in this play

My brain's not free

It turns to foam

Like on the sea

I slowly roam

Without a quay

Or a key

'Cos all alone

I'm not at home

So I'm not free

to MLC

______________________________________________

I wrote this during a boring meeting at the request of Mark to see what I could rhyme with MLC... You can put MLE in there too as you study for that, Mark :) The poem probably needs a little work, but it kept me busy for a little during a boring meeting and that's what matters.

Copyright © 2009 by Layne Cockcroft

All Rights Reserved

A Napkin Rhyme

once upon a time

I wrote a little rhyme

a little time

to make my rhyme

is all it takes

not much at stake

except my mind

as marching time

ticks on and on

for once upon

a time, a rhyme

is left to break

a world at stake

my little mind

a little rhyme

to pass the time

would be just fine.

Copyright © 2009 by Layne Cockcroft

All Rights Reserved

Love Letters

I wrote for you 

a letter today and 

threw it on the pile.

I don't know why 

But I just do.

There's 10 or 12 by now.

Perhaps for hope, but

Hope for what? Only 

I know what they say

Only I will read

The words as they fail

To explain.

I guess that's why -

It's just for me.

_____________________

This is also just another thought.

Copyright © 2008 by Layne Cockcroft

All Rights Reserved

Reading

I was reading today,
Well, "reading"

The stairs distracted me

Each creak,

I looked up

And waited

I miss you today.

_________________________
This is more like just a thought. The formatting sucks, sorry.

Copyright © 2008 by Layne Cockcroft

All Rights Reserved

Limericks

I write limericks in classes and meetings when I'm bored just for fun, so they probably aren't very good.

I

While I sit in this meeting of stats

I think to myself, "What's that?"

My brain is so bored

I wish for a sword

To cut through the excess of fat.

II

As I sit in my desk behind Katherine

I watch her shoot hoops in the dustbin

Her hair is so long

I think of a song

And wish we were both out a fishin'

III

I pay no attention to Ryan

I can tell all he's doin' is lyin'

He's just seventeen

But that's kinda mean

My attention is once again dyin'

IV

There's a prettyish girl named Rachel

I wish for a rhyming with Rachel

We never yet spoke

But there's always hope

I still have no rhyming for Rachel

V

White noise elocuting from Whiting

A signal in R I'm not finding

If I knew his tricks

I'd build a matrix

And then we'd see wicked, cool fighting

VI

There is a cute girl by name Rachel

I sit nearby her when I'm able

We never yet spoke

But still I can hope

If only we'd go on a datal.

VII

Mark has a creepy, cool mustache

If it grows anymore he'll earn fast cash

He looks like Old Lou

His wife will soon sue

And so he will need to bust some ass

VIII

If this meeting wasn't so boring

Then I wouldn't spend it all snoring

Although I don't mind

The aesthetics I find

My mind is on other planes soaring.

IX
There was a composer named Ludwig
Who bought crystal meth at a Who gig
He ended up deaf
His wife is bereft
Now he's Fi'ty's lyrical big wig.

X
Whenever I come to this meeting,
The toll in my head starts beating.
My brain might implode
From the dearth that erodes
And happiness goes off afleeting.

XI.1

As I stare and I stare and I think,

I could probably use a strong drink.

She is fantastic

I'm over dramatic

I'm entranced by this lady in pink.

XI.2 - Anti-limerick

As I stare and I stare and I think,

I could probably use a strong drink.

She is fantastic

And I'm a tool.

XII

As I try hard to be more succinct,

Coherence and Hope become extinct.

Now she floats away

And keeps me at bay

My battleship lies beneath sinked.

XIII

Why is it i can't find distraction?

I'm strangled by her to inaction.

With every new thought

To her back I'm brought

There must be some fatal attraction.

XIV

So I followed you into the street

'Cos I thought that maybe we'd meet

I may not be stalking

I wish we were talking

Can I follow a couple more feet?

XV - Dirtier than intended... sorry... Thanks, House.

I said that I like your new shoes

What I meant was your legs light the fuse

It's all just a ruse

how 'bout some more clues?

Your skirt and your blouse are my muse.

XVI

There once was a girl I called Sarah

I never yet met someone fairer

But I miss so much

The feel of her touch

The ground is now getting much nearer.

Copyright © 2008 by Layne Cockcroft

All Rights Reserved

Katherine V

Konsider all the rhymes I make with Katherine
As I metrifikate in perfekt diktion
Though suns set on a thousand homely women
Her beauty is beyond my rhyme's deskription
Even so, I attempt to make a token
Rhyming on, that my verse remains unbroken.
I sit here at the well-kurb in reflektion,
Not just idly swept away in vision
Enough then! She is e'er my drug: vikodin.

_______________________________________________

This poem is actually freakin' awesome, although it probably needs a little more work to get the meter a little better. This is modeled on the poem labeled number 5 by Catullus (Catullus V). It includes in it allusions to Tennyson's "Hendecasyllabics" and Frost's "For Once, Then, Something" which are also both modeled on Catullus V. The meter may seem weird 'cos it's Phalacian Hendecasyllabic - and I say that to sound smart. It also has some other stuff in it... Feel free to bask in my glow.

Copyright © 2008 by Layne Cockcroft

All Rights Reserved

Unless

He sits in the desert
By the tracks
Waiting
Trains come by, but
They don't stop
They won't stop
Not just for him
Not unless he finds a station.

He sits in the circle
Waiting
The candles lit
The signs drawn
The potion ready, but
They won't come
Not to him
Not unless he calls them

I sit beside you
Waiting
But you won't
Not unless I

Copyright © 2008 by Layne Cockcroft

All Rights Reserved

Distracted

To pay attention is a struggle, but
Distracted, how can I?
Voices, raging in my head, struggle.
Not voices, thoughts.

She pays attention.

In front, behind her, I copy the words.
Annoyingly, not in my head, a voice
Monotonous, it bores.
My eyes, along the stripes, follow
The contours of her shirt.

She shifts.

Her hair, golden, brushes my hand
Parts are, by pink folds, swallowed.

Copyright © 2008 by Layne Cockcroft

All Rights Reserved

Because There Were No Graves in Egypt

As he ran, he looked back
The salt saturated the air.
The earth trembled.
Chariots and horsemen, all the army.
Behind them he could barely see
Through the dust, the pyramids.
At the shore,
he stumbled
His chest
burned.
The sun
scorched skin.

Sand.
Sweat.

The Sea...

Dead.

He stood still and watched:
No longer did he fear, but willing
To die in the wilderness.

Copyright © 2008 by Layne Cockcroft

All Rights Reserved

Motus Animi Continuus

Darkness lurks at the window,
As black as hell, stifled by the candles.

Their scent

Obsession

And decay seeping from the kitchen

Brew.

My eyes burn.

I drain my glass, recrossing my legs.

The dryer's chorus drones.

Staring at my phone on the floor,
I watch it reflecting the flames.

_____________________________________

This is my new one, it's a work in progress... like all the rest. Hope you like it, let me know what you think it's about. The title is Latin for "constant agitation of the mind" It's from Thomas Mann's Death in Venice and is partly meant to invoke some of that story. Also, the blog publishing screws up the format, so it's not really formatted the way it's supposed to be.

Copyright © 2008 by Layne Cockcroft

All Rights Reserved

Christmas

The assignment is: Free verse which has a logic that governs the structure. I tried my best to format it how it's supposed to be, but formatting on this stupid blog sucks... The format came out mas o menos (so, so) - not too bad.

Christmas

I decorated the Christmas tree.

Not sure why really. I just did.

I clean my plate and set it to dry

In the dishwasher. I never turn it on.

I put some logs on the fire.

It's not really cold, but I light it anyway.

I sit at my baby grand, my fingers on the keys.

I can't really play much.

But, I like their feel under my fingers

I like to slowly press the high notes.

I worry that my glass will stain the finish

But, I like the ambiance.

Sitting there, I watch the snow fall outside the window

The river is frozen.

Families skate along.

There are lots of them.

Past the houses the river disappears into the distance.

No one follows, but I, through my window.

Copyright © 2008 by Layne Cockcroft

All Rights Reserved

(Now and Then There's)

I sit staring at the tickets,

My phone beside them.

The TV flashing. 

               The tape ticks over

(Elvis sings on)

The chairs in the parlor.

I slouch into the sofa

and loosen my tie.

Also: There's a prize for figuring out (explaining) the title. 

Hint: There's a clue in the poem.

Copyright © 2008 by Layne Cockcroft

All Rights Reserved

Waiting

A tick, it's just the clock

I need to think, but I'm waiting,

Waiting for her knock. The candle,

The wick is almost gone. I start

to walk, up and down. I lick

My lips. The room begins to rock.

I feel sick. Is the door locked?

I kick my toe. A rock? No a brick.

From the dock. A trick. Dumb jock.

My sock feels slick. I talk in

Epic shock, quickly, the clicking

blocks the thick mocking. Tick-tocking, tick-tocking.

The intent of my poem is to make it sound like a clock ticking as the person waits for someone to arrive. He israther anxious about the arrival and as the anxiety increases the ticking gets closer together and louder, invading his thoughts. I’m also reading Ulysses in my modernism class, so there’s some stream of conscious influenced stuff in there, I think. 

Copyright © 2008 by Layne Cockcroft

All Rights Reserved

Piano

This is what I'm kinda working on right now - thought I'd post it as a teaser.

A delicate ting in the empty room

I run my finger slowly down the key

Idly, lightly my left hand brushes

The black, the white

softly

Quivering light from the candelabra

Flickers in the half filled flute glass

A cork lies near the edge of a water ring

In the dark wood finish, the stain retreats

Beneath a slender green bottle

I shift my slanted posture

Following a peeling panel my eyes

Find the dots and slashes on the page

The flurry of pen strokes jostle, they breathe

In and out

My stare falls to my fingers on the yellow ivory

I absently, deliberately arrange them

Copyright © 2008 by Layne Cockcroft

All Rights Reserved