Home is where our heart is, so we are told,
Where home is a place to which we return; come home to the fold.
A place of sanctuary free from all fears,
And yet a place of sacrifice and heart-felt tears;
Still yet a place where we seek to avoid challenge
And deny a reality regret will not tinge,
Where complacency becomes rooted and opportunity lost.
Yet challenging times are always ignored at a cost:
To go forth and multiply your profit
Is better than wearing a cap while to a master you doff it
To be your own boss is to be desired;
But to be this you must be retired.
Out-sourced but not out-moded;
Out-spoken but not bar-coded.
An agony in eight fits If the shoe fits Fit the bill Fit the pattern The Misfits Fitter and turner Keep fit Fit for life Fitting room Tight fit Fighting fit Comfit Fit as a fiddle Fitted out See fit Fit of laughter Fit in Fit like a glove All the news that's fit I fit it if I fit it if I... Discomfiture Refit Retrofit Profit and loss Ill-fitting Unfit for duty Fit to kill Chuck a fit Fitted up Fits and starts Fitfully Survival of the fittest A fit of pique At the peak of fitness Sacrabiliter Cadiva caducus morbus comitialis Morbus qui sputatur Saisie Ergreifung Grippaggio Asimiento
I read a poem the other day,
A verse by Donne
Concerning the 'unruly Sunne'.
It made me wonder about the nature of verse and word play
And meter and rhyme and such,
And whether such rules matter that much.
Donne compares with Shakespeare, they say
But my versifying is so many limericks, and worse
Compared to the density of meaning in their exquisite verse.
Me compare a summer's day?
You must be kidding: I cannot compare
A lump of wood much less a maiden fair.
I like Dylan (Bob); it is true to say
He sings like speech and it happens to rhyme.
I too can rhyme and write in metrical time
And passably make my meaning play,
Achieving closure by the end of the line
But for this ability no one will pine.
All these things my words can say
But not all at the same time.
Perhaps I need a change of clime
And like Donne, tread upon English clay
Then I might pass as a minor poet
Whereas here, who would know it?
She says to wait ten minutes.
Ten minutes to soliloquise on a fish tank.
What's up, fish? Miss the pond?
You're captive, you know.
But you don't know it. Of course.
A plastic plant and a few pebbles.
Symbolic tokens of nature to us.
It is the whole universe to you fish.
A five-folded Flatland encompasses it,
An ectopic universe without form
But filled with a liquid void.
What do you see beyond those walls?
It is surely incomprehensible.
Except for the food.
And the shape hovering above,
Which presages the manna.
Does seeing prove a world exists beyond?
When I snatch you with my net,
Do the fish that remain
Commend you to the hand
That gives and takes away?
I think not.
Insulting scansion, euphony, rhyme and meter,
Beware the words of the poetaster.
If these words do not deter,
Then try rhyming with aster astir.
And should you stay the course, become a reader,
Then, blog help you, I am your master.
- "My words fly up, my thoughts remain below:
Words without thoughts never to heaven go."
