This is an eclectic tapestry of prose, poetry, and doggrel that I have composed over the years. Some is serious; a lot of it is merely word play; different styles of writing using word imagery. Anything that I had on my hard drive and couldn't find any other use for was fair game for this page, so don't get your hopes up.

I have recently placed some poetry by other authors up as well, for you, gentle reader, to purvey; the links on the top are things I've written, the links on the bottom are by authors with a little more renown.
Enjoy.

My Words
These are some of my words; they are personal, they do have meaning. Not wanting them to go unseen and unremembered, they are being shared, gentle reader, with you.

hazy light
cold
whistle
looking glass
Clouds
Simple

Strange Wanderings
Haiku
Doggrel
Poetry

Words of others

Rudyard Kipling
The Last of the Light Brigade

There were thirty million English who talked of England's might,
There were twenty broken troopers who lacked a bed for the night.
They had neither food nor money, they had neither service nor trade;
They were only shiftless soldiers, the last of the Light Brigade.

They felt that life was fleeting; they knew not that art was long,
That though they were dying of famine, they lived in deathless song.
They asked for a little money to keep the wolf from the door;
And the thirty million English sent twenty pounds and four!

They laid their heads together that were scarred and lined and grey;
Keen were the Russian sabres, but want was keener than they;
And an old Troop–Sergeant muttered, "Let us go to the man who writes
The things on Balaclava the kiddies at school recites."

They went without bands or colours, a regiment ten–file strong,
To look for the Master–singer who had crowned them all in his song;
And, waiting his servant's order, by the garden gate they stayed,
A desolate little cluster, the last of the Light Brigade.

They strove to stand to attention, to straighten the toil–bowed back;
They drilled on an empty stomach, the loose–knit files fell slack;
With stooping of weary shoulders, in garments tattered and frayed,
They shambled into his presence, the last of the Light Brigade.

The old Troop–Sergeant was spokesman, and "Beggin' your pardon," he said,
"You wrote o' the Light Brigade, sir. Here's all that isn't dead.
An' it's all come true what you wrote, sir, regardin' the mouth of hell;
For we're all of us nigh to the workhouse, an, we thought we'd call an' tell.

"No, thank you, we don't want food, sir; but couldn't you take an' write
A sort of 'to be continued' and 'see next page' o' the fight?
We think that someone has blundered, an' couldn't you tell 'em how?
You wrote we were heroes once, sir. Please, write we are starving now."

The poor little army departed, limping and lean and forlorn.
And the heart of the Master–singer grew hot with "the scorn of scorn."
And he wrote for them wonderful verses that swept the land like flame,
Till the fatted souls of the English were scourged with the thing called Shame.

O thirty million English that babble of England's might,
Behold there are twenty heroes who lack their food to–night;
Our children's children are lisping to "honour the charge they made—"
And we leave to the streets and the workhouse the charge of the Light Brigade!

--Rudyard Kipling
E.E. Cummings - pity this busy monster manunkind

Thomas Hardy - Hap, I look into My Glass, and A Broken Appointment

Percy Bysshe Shelley - Ozymandias

T.S. Elliot - The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

Rudyard Kipling - If
Rudyard Kipling - The Last of the Light Brigade
Rudyard Kipling - Mandalay
Rudyard Kipling - Recessional
Rudyard Kipling - Tommy

William Carlos Williams - THIS IS JUST TO SAY
Kenneth Koch - Variations on a Theme by Wiliam Carlos Williams

William Butler Yeats - Sailing to Byzantium
William Butler Yeats - On a Picture of a Black Centaur by Edmund Dulac
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