Well. I figure I ha ven't been here in ages. I'm to make this my creative short corner. I don't want to flood the forum with tons of my shorts.
I'll use this as a shouting ground. I've done many of these in the past. But, I'll give this one focus. Wanting or Wannabe social commentary.
Here's the first one. It's a sestina I've been working on for a day or two.
I've titled it "Wanting Social Comentary in Sextet", but the name's bound to change. Seeing it also has an three-line envoy at the end of it. But, I digress
Wanting Social Commentary in Sextet: A Work in Progress.
Did the bird fly across the moon?
And did its eyes swoon – gay? Or was it a simple twitter,
Like the writer’s notes that litter. Such thoughts-plaid
Shan’t enter my mind-fray’d. See, I was on tomorrow
And it’s places to go. For that bird’s core will not exasperate.
unlike Shakespeare’s Kate. In this all other thoughts that writhe still fly blithe.
While on this bird-blithesome,
Sit with me and drink-rum. Having not done so since that blue-moon,
Has made me quite the loon, for does my blabber not exasperate
You and society, of late. When the birds stop their incessant twitter,
I shall be bit swifter. Laughing at what brings about tomorrow.
Still having wild oats to sow in decayed fields. could I still dream in plaid?
So many years later, I saw the bird knitted into a scarf-plaid
Hiding her hair except that lonesome braid. Walking like a puppet, not at all Blithe.
Yet her figure was oh-so-lithe. I coughed politely about her activities on the ‘morrow.
And she laughed and put me in sorrow; cruelly held up a ring shining like the Moon.
Maybe it was like this rhyme, a forced boon. Listening to more of twitter
Would surely make me that much more bitter. Too late! That more than did
I have yet to find a bird, bent only upon exasperation,
To the point I find myself again a track star on the run. Running in tube socks quilted
Running on stone or tar spartan. But, I shan’t give up. Listening to the bird twitter
Or walking my Irish setter, that’s what this life’s about, flying high like those birds
Ever a tune on my lips to hum. Filling up my resolve like that orbiting moon.
Just look for the next songbird to croon. No sorrow . And wait. Hope’s a coming on
Like Gauls thinking the sky could fall tomorrow
How I act is only paranoia for show, still that’s damned exasperating
an act to keep on stating. So like that imaginary cloud-boy on the moon,
My act shall dispel soon. And maybe you’ll see the legit me: not gold just
Just maybe after this act mayhap I fade, like that cloud boy appearing
shackled still leaving blithe.
So until then, my true thoughts are to hide, and you can only listen to me
flitting and that bird’s twitting.
Say? Do you tune me out? Or do you rev up the radio up over my grating
That I tell you as humorous bits, and not tease or ridicule. So as we sit here
thinking of tomorrow.
Forgive my taunts and attacks-low. Just answer truthfully. Just be of gay
I just want you to be the answer to this mess. Share your thoughts without
worry of exasperating
me or society. Just don't mind our berating. And just give your answer
straight and not– you guessed it plaid.
So tell me how does a hobo get paid, or how soon can you get that cloud boy
of the moon?
This twitter’s soon to end but meant to mend. Yet it will finally exasperate.
Listen! Then tomorrow dream of sunshine beams, and girls in scarves plaid.
But, think it pretty and blithe. Bide this to memory and don’t become that
cloud boy of the moon.
SO, tell me what you think.
edit: looks like the new update also added the updated WYSIWYG interface as well. Didn't notice the colour change when I C+p'd it from word.