We three hundred with King Leonidas
Held our ground against all who defied us.
It was a battle hard fought
Until dead we were caught,
Killing Persians in front and behind us.
Mother Mary, immaculate born
To bear the Son of God;
In thee a new Eve, between night and morn,
When dawn is born of sorrows.
Ever virgin, who bore all in faith,
Ye laid thyself bare before God.
Emptied there He filled thee with grace,
from the fruit of thy womb all grace flows.
My country where is she?
Buried by diversity, bled dry by thieves.
Our fathers would have cried,
To see the day she died,
as I flee to the mountains high,
I weep for thee.
When conversing with a lady
There are some things a man should never do,
Like comparing the shade of her eye shadow
To an oyster shells green hue,
Especially if the exquisite beauty of a coppered emerald shell
Was an aspect of the oyster she’d never seen or knew.
A buddy of mine posted a random picture of a tortoise eating potatoes, without explanation, so I wrote a limerick. The picture was worse than my verse, so I decided not to repost it.
There once was a cute little tortoise,
Who ate taters and knew he was gorgeous.
He’d gorge there all day and then crawl away,
Crawlin’ slower than advanced ‘rigor mortis’.
That is all. I’m sorry.
Here’s a tongue-in-cheek sonnet I wrote in college. Thanks Mikey for showing me how to do the stress thingy over the ‘e’. It didn’t work, but I was able to cut and past yours, ha. Improvise, adapt, and overcome!
To Elizabeth, (Upon the Gift of a Box of Matches)
Elizabeth, bright light of my life and my pipe,
A fairer match nare have I spied.
You’ve kindled a flame that’s brought to ashes the tripe
That, for a time, I let be and abide.
For your sweet self I do feverishly yearn
And for your blessèd sake I do fervently burn.
For your radiant hair and complexion so fair,
My heart is aflame and lights my world like a flare.
Oh, what’s in a flame? Myself, seared and blinded;
Wounded by love, though I haven’t much minded.
Pierced by arrows of Eros like a pincushion on fire
I stand a martyr for loves blazèd sake.
‘Pon the grill and the embers of glowing desire
I lie and for you learn to bake.