Transcendental Sonnet #1131:
At Midnight in the Moonlight

Reclusive poet full of self-loathing
Yet with a certain twinkle in his eye
Crazy like a fox in artist's clothing
Whose sense of humor saves him freeze or fry

A lucky little bastard only son
At least of a good mother such a one
As never seen who might have been and is
The wiliest little one-of-a-kind
Well-organized in verse if not in mind
This is the heir the Baron left behind

He knows your name and knows that you know his
Elusive and cunning and hard to find
At midnight in the moonlight see him dance
Upon his foeman's grave? Beware the Lance!



+Steven Curtis Lance

Gules a Fesse Or

Copyright MMIV Silke LLC

excellent. you have ploughed your furrow well today.

Hand to the plough and no turning back!

Smigal is lurking about; can his precious be far away?

Thank you for saving our poetry board (that's my only bit of drama for this month, I promise); without intelligent people like you hereabouts, we would sink within the muck and mire ne'er to be found again.