The Midsummer Snow

Since midsummer has past I feel inverted.
I get to thinking of winter,
And a flit of the darkest day slips in in a split,
Because just after a split sight of the first fall I cannot but see slices of splintery icing from the broken skies that,
As a mask: like moss on a rock or tone on all talk,
Resheet our ambered Alaskan premises,
I wrote these, where, once upon a memory:

Moss, well at least his character in real time, mentioned something some way which struck a tune, a tune to my liking.
Although I don't think this is applicable for the play (well, not yet) is because it bodes well for this occasion.
Moss, well at least that's how I'll refer to him from here on out, and I were having an ordinary post-working hours conversation in the confines of this slightly foggy room we've been using to cut off completely and clear our heads.
Then he said, seeing was it had started to snow;
"I really don't mind walking home in these conditions," as he had just prior come back from the Blue Fox Bar, "because the world moves in slow motion."
I understood and asked him what he thought about walking in the rain.
He was humored and said, with amity, "That's why I'm glad you're here man. No one else gets that stuff."
I'm not so sure about that, but then again I doubt he thinks that so solidly.
Nevertheless, that was a good talk, a good thought, and a memorable moment.

Leached the end of the rime--no mo' po of ol'

I want your eyes, mind, and even ears all in.

It's a new world, from plays to sonnets.

The first few lines of my Shakespearean

Scribblin' lining up like bolts and what? Knuts.

Yup--

Yo, in the hole you gots only pens and pulp.

If symbols and meanings come between us

Then it's the squirrel's world, nuts and bolts.

Feed the needful thing, pursue it like Venus.

See--

Think a Costanza extravaganza.

Think Seinfeld, Much Ado About Nuttin'

I double-dipped with a pun last stanza;

Have some food for thought! Drink up, too! Glutton!
Whew--

I'm tired, going nuts, a crazy fella.

Third time's a charm, paronomasia.

Old Shakespearean Studies Sonnet

I've made a promise, one poem per blog.

The page is blank, the words in the cavern.

The whoreson Falstaff, that fat, aging hog

Sack and smog each behalf the Boar's tavern.

Hal holds the wealth, the inherent well-off;

Shall he lend coin so the fat may maintain?

The drunk's princely niche pays his rent and trough.

Thee horse spits and nays, so ends this quatrain.

We ask for no end, we desire for more

From this sacked Falstaff, we hire the boar.

It's late, we tire, and  Jack's flat on the floor

Till the morrow we'll retire, the fat horse snores.

A hog and horse, quite a contradiction.

We plead for more, in spite of the fiction.

Whip yur scripture out richer, full, thick, and stout

Disillusion dis fusion of lucre and sweetness
Dispelled inclusion of base above the fleeting mess
Lost. Hush, the bush rustles so pleasant
The pheasant not gone but turnt and tossed
Topsy turve, as the ears steer clear of the eyes
In swerve. The image put forth, believe it not,
The learned service is crude to the blinkless
Who think less and earn more slower, in turn
The balance is in bloom. Knowledge, got some?
Blossom, by ear, listen and void mispells,
Pleasure's endeared to the mind irrawed, as
Nails clipped, the saws of the past are claws as
Veils stripped.

Golf, Song, and Shakespeare

Grow as a tree but stick with Cobra's chrome

Flow as Nickel Creek, these my reasons why:

Drive'n off the tee is the quickest root home

I wish you out of the woods, the club's try

Find in your past a game of lost and found

Might as well be dream'n lest you hear a snore

Time comes at you fast, try to slow it down

One chip to the green'n she's on the dance floor

Find your roots but the capable break free

The story's weave'n is pretty far out

Mind the woods, but escape their lunacy

One putt to break ev'n, a nifty par out.

The myth behind the trees takes quite the toll

Take risks on your leave, with higher stakes next hole.

His and Yours As Mine

So I said, 'why not?'
Confide in your thoughts
So here's what I got.
Hope you're impressed
And anxiousness
Puts to the test
Those fluent
Influence
Since no sense
Is made
Without
Cool aid
Sugar-coated word of mouth.

                                                                  Spencer Stilwell
                                                                      March 2013

Investigation in the truest form is intuitive estimation—Wherein

Declaratives are inductive follies—By golly!—Appeal to definition—

Fie, how thou art stand!?—Which side detective?

Consist resist guestimate or jump ship—Choose either all—Be.

Stand ground. Persist. Live on and prosper…Listen…your sight, it sees.

Everything is and all is a thing. Me

You, the solipsist. the Monarchy; it’s all real and the real is fiction.

Souls are dust and matter masks us.—Appealing to diction—

Therein, beyond, blind eye sees slight directive.

Fakeness lives in the leaves on the lifeless

Street. It’s calm and cold but the coldness weighs

Down, and the first snow falls, the grounds compress

For some odd forever, till winter strays.

Rake-less lives are...