A Feast of Lanterns

-Yuan Mei

In spring for sheer delight
I set the lanterns swinging throught the trees
Bright as the argosies of night
That ride the clouded billows of the sky.
Red dragons leap and plunge in gold and silver seas,
And, o
O my garden gleaming fair,
Fair and white,
Fairer than argosies of night,
That ride the clouded billows of the sky.
You are fairer than all the argosies of night
You have outshone the far faint moon on high,
In spring.

Inspired by Alice

A boat beneath the sunny sky
that lingered onward dreamily,
breathing heavy in the hot July
the crew gasped air quite steamily.
Sailing off into the sunny sky.
The three children that nestled near,
listening, watching, silent to hear
the tales of sailors drinking beers
and laughing loud and jollily.
Eavesdropping eyes popping
as the sailor’s tales of sharks and snails
and strange sea people who sing their songs
and sink their ships
on their long and dusty ocean trips
to lands far beyond the horizon’s dip.
Quell and go,
the harbor shields
but what it yields
is nothing without the lofty pea green sea.
The frothy waves and whistling wind
sing a song the tune begin to
sweep the cloudless sunbeam sky,
And moonless nights the stars go by,
the stars be guiding while waves whisper their songs
and wait for the sun to kiss them goodmorning
and the ships on the run with the winds
at their back and Venus giggles happily.
She’s the only one left, for Orion had gone and left her again,
away when all the sea beguiles them.
Leafless, lifeless seas’ October, salty men .
Taken away by the shiny white clouds
on the great open blue
until it rained on all of us giving it a rather grey hue.
The sky grew pale with a heavy gale
that filled our masts and the captains sound
could not keep the angered winds at bay.
Through the winds and heavy hail
the tempest torn our sorry sail
and the foresail to lower away.
and filling us all with the dread of the storm in the dark.
and the snap of the ship and with tears in our eyes
we cursed the stormy, whirling, twirling skies
surrendered our ship to the end of her days.
Once more she has the sea in it’s ways,
cruelly cruelly dooming our days.
They boarded the wreck in the morning,
a dismal sight beheld by all
the captains log and the masts once tall.
Three dead seamen underboard,
fourteen more unaccounted for.
Seventeen heartsick widows weeping
‘curse the sea be, my husband keeping…
keep him safe and warm and dry…
not under where the shadows lie
beneath the waves he had to die grey and cold and worn.’
A tear came to the children’s half-unbelieving eyes,
the tales that seamen always tell,
and all we can do is echo their anguished cries
and weep for them as well.
And as a sunrise doesn’t last all morning,
the tears do not quell the whole night through
for along the shoreside thinking of you
and your return if return you will,
I be here this clam and krill…
Do not listen to the siren song
and do not be away too long…
bittersweet love that cannot die.
Crushed the rocks and made me cry
for one more day you were away forever out at sea.

Lady of the Dancing Water

Grass in your hair
Stretched like a lion in the sun
Restlessly turned
Moistened your mouth with your tongue.
Pouring my wine
Your eyes caged mine
Glowing
Touching your face
My fingers strayed
Knowing.
I called you lady of the dancing water.

Blown autumn leaves
Shed to the fire where you laid me.
Burn slow to ash
Just as my days now seem to be.
I feel you still
Always your eyes
Glowing
Remembered hours
Salt, earth and flowers
Flowing
Farewell my lady of the dancing water.

-Crimson

Of all nacyons under the Heuyn,
These frantyke foolys I hate most of all,
For though they stumble in the synnes seuyn,
In peuyshnes yet they snapper and fall,
Which men the vii deadly sins call,
This peuysh proud this prender gest,
When he is well yet can he not rest.

A swete suger lofe and sowre bayards bun
Be sumdele lyke in forme and shap,
The one for a duke the other for a dun;
A maunchet for Morell thereon to snap,
His hart is to hy to haue any hap,
But for in his gamut carp that he can,
Lo Jak wold be a Jentylman.

With hey troly loly, lo whip here Jak,
Alumbek sodyldym syllorym ben,
Curyowsly he can both counter and knak,
Of Martin Swart, and all hys mery men,
Lord how Perkyn is proud of his Pohen,
But ask wher he fyndyth among his monachords
An holy-water-clark a ruler of lordes.

He cannot fynd it in rule nor in space,
He solfyth to haute, hys trybyll is to hy,
He braggyth of his byrth that borne was full bace,
Hys musyk withoute mesure, to sharp is his my,
He trymmyth in his tenor to counter pardy,
His discant is besy, it is without a mene,
To fat is his fantsy, his wyt is to lene.

He tumbryth on a lewde lewte, Roty bulle Joyse,
Rumbill downe, tumbil downe, hey go now now,
He fumblyth in his fyngering an ugly rude noise,
It seemyth the sobbyng of an old sow:
He wolde be made moch of and he wyst how;
Wele sped in spyndels and tunyng of travellys,
A bungler, a brawler, a pyker of quarellys.

Comely he clappyth a payre of clauycordys,
He whystelyth so swetely he maketh me to swet,
His discant is dashed full of discordes,
A red angry man but easy to intrete;
An usher of the hall fayn wold I get,
To pointe this proude page a place and a rome,
For Jak wold be a Jentilman that late was a grome.

Jak wold Jet and yet Jill sayd nay,
He counteth in his countenance to check with the best,
A malaperte medler that pryeth for his pray,
In a dysh dare he rush to wrangill and to wrest,
He findeth a proporcyon in his prycke songe,
To drynke at a draught a large and a long.

Nay jape not with him, he is no small fole,
It is a solempne syre and a solayne,
For lordes and ladyes lerne at his scole,
He techyth them so wysely to solf and to fayne,
That neither they sing wel prike-song nor plain,
This Doctor Dellias commensyd in a cart,
A master, a mynstrel, a fydler, a ---.

What though ye can counter Custodi nos,
As wel it becomith you a parysh towne clarke
To sing Supinitati dedit AEgros,
Yet bere ye not to bold, to braule ne to bark,
At me that medeled nothing with youre wark,
Correct first thy selfe, walk and be nought,
Deme what you list thou knowist not my thought.

A prouerbe of old say well or be still,
Ye are to unhappy occasion to fynde,
Uppon me to clater or else to say yll.
Now haue I shewyd you part of your proud mind,
Take this in worth the best is behind.
Wryten at Croydon by Crowland in the clay,
On Candelmas euyn the Kalendas of May.

John Skelton
...(gigglingly jokes to herself about what a bad speller he was)