|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
The third wave approached, sending forth a quiet blanket of water to carry a third distribution of sand between his malnourished yet strangely kempt looking toes. He knelt down to reach for a particular sparkle the sun had delivered to him, but slightly before a fourth attack, his balance gave way to a ray of dizziness that had caught him off guard. He fell forwards but witnessed no collision. Instead, a Grecian column found him leaning against it, his strength being diminished by the light of the moon and stars that were watching over the quiet, silver town that surrounded him. Somehow he was in no way alarmed. His mind summoned a rustling of the star like leaves of a nearby tree. A gust passed through the town, quenching the crackling sound of three nearby torches, and extinguishing the flame of the moonlight. He inhaled the air of the void around him in a long breath through his nose. Part of him smiled.
He felt a familiar hand gently touch the side of his face; a hand which would h
I sit and watch the stars' adventures,
Atop my cliff the world re-enters,
When I blink, the oceans crash,
When I think it all has passed,
Compare to this,
The endless list
Of things to come.
Never thinking I'd mature,
Begin to write, or find this land.
Find a friendship new as yours,
Or live to share with you, my hand.
I wonder, this time next year,
If I'd come back to this sky,
Just how this poem would read again,
Good day sir, MMI.
Pach, 61st night of Winter, MMI
Shall I Clobber Thee
Shall I not clobber thee?
Having thought the Clavi died, he ventured;
He knew that Clavi'd get no daily poem..
But now the fiend returns, with new dentures,
While Banjo brings the Ukulele home.
Mama took those batteries from Santur;
He'd handed Ukulele to the Borg,
Banjo had to be the gallivanter;
Saved him from bostonclavichord.org.
I sir, am Bick Pentameter, you know.
Leading ev'ry Clavi poem.. it's sucky.
'tis chimpanzees, not bubbles ye shall blow..
Sonnet's not intrigued, it's in Kentucky.
And this macadamia nuttlery,
She has tremendous taste in cutlery..
Never'd fit in a sonnet, any ending climatics,
You can keep yer pancakery, ye of odd aromatics..
Pach, 31st night of Winter, MMI
The gracious Karmadillo ventures far in search
of far but nearby trees near which to search;
to search for ever distant souls who search forever
wondering why the Karmadillo doesn't stop to search
inside their church nearby the tree; To search there for eternity.
The wondering souls want answers that the Karmadillo knows,
but the Karmadillo knows the souls must know that on their own
they'll find they'll know that which the Karmadillo ventures on his own
for; the things they long to know for, that the Karmadillo knows.
The Karmadillo knows they search
for nearby trees like him.
Perhaps someday they'll understand,
they'll know they're just like him.
The bolder boulder's getting colder; older as the boulder smoulders.
Kept it all inside her folder, despite the words the boulder told 'er.
But still it's all so savvy, without the boulder's clavi,
It seems it has all gone, as is the supple's Mon'.
Still I wonder.. 'this a blunder?
Where's the thunder? All snow'd under?
Now I ponder, over yonder,
Helloh, is John ther'? The Banjo's fonder..
Speaking of which, speaking from a ditch,
At a very high pitch, like he had a strange itch.
Since there has been no word, tho' it may be absurd,
The rule is, I've heard, that the clavi comes third..
And the Banjo shall reign, shall be freed of his pain..
Dammit I miss Elaine.. still this honour I've gained.
There'd best be word soon.. for soon will come the noon,
And the Banjo play'll the victory tune.. as he sits on his boulder.
Doesn't look lahk they's commin'..
Still the Banjo keeps hummin'..
Lookit the fireplace!
Look at it go..
Look at it burn like a blimp in the snow.
Throme-ee the frizbee!
Throw me the barn..
Throw me the sense of your musical yarn.
Ee'tup the veggies!
Eat up the fruit..
Eat up the cereal's leftover lute.
Sitt'n the furniture!
Sit with the fruit..
Sit comfortably for a pointless dispute.
Play'n the playground!
Play for an hour..
Play with the monkey that lives in the tower.
Write me some poetry,
Write me some thoughts..
Doesn't have to make sense, just as long's we can waltz.
Pour out the cuttlery,
Pour out the fire,
Give the man back his amusing attire.
End me the universe,
End me the poem,
I canny stop writing and want to go home.
Take me to Spartacus,
Take me to Rome,
Take me to the end of the motherhuggin' poem.
Pach, press continue,
Pach, press it now,
Hark Pach, a musical, fun-loving cow!
I hate the term "Banjo"; I'm Clavi Impaired,
Just because I'm a deity you seem to be scared.
There's naught wrong with Banjos, we're just like you all,
Yet you fear us; our power- you fear we're too tall.
You don't understand us, don't know what it means
to have Clavis and 'Monicas 'ttacking your genes.
Don't wann' be alone, can't you all just accept me,
Just want pineapple gumbo and blue antihistamine.
You know, for my Banjo.
Don't Go Mad.. Go Instrumenthol
Oh deary me what on Earth has been done..
I've provoked instrumentals from another someone..
I Banjo'd another poem, it was quite miserabel,
And now comes along this harmonica named Isabel.
Caught us all by surprise, with it's freaky disguise,
Nonetheless, I digress, 'ti'll get from me no prize,
As a battle is waging 'mongst the 'mentals of funk,
As a simile might, like a Guru of Funk..
This shall not be the end, ye Harmonicabel,
For the Banjo will triumph, and that clavi, he'll fell.
Keep in Touch!