Some of Dominic's Poems
I've always thought of putting words together one way or another. My
grandfather was a huge encouragement here, and when I get the chance I
should put some of his poetry up here as well. In more recent years I
haven't really written poems so much as thought them up and
occasionally written them down. Anyway, Maryl encouraged me to start
making them more available, so here are a couple.
The Crocuses
The crocuses are here again
In plumes of white and gold
And though they wither and they sleep
They never do grow old
Our structures, they look oh so strong
(The bus stop and the wall)
And though we feel how firm they seem
They all one day will fall
But we are different, so we hold
From all that's gone before
For we too sleep within the ground
But live for evermore
He went to mass, he sang the creed
He whispered the divine
I wish I still had heart to hope
The faith that died was mine
The crocuses are here again
I eat. I sleep. I die.
The crocuses are here again
Yet one year older I.
(Sometime in the Spring of 1994, probably.)
Going Home
The sheep are daftly baaing
In the hills up by the Wall
The hedgerows all a-ringing
With the sound of winter's fall
The sun shone in a bright blue sky
(When we were lucky, in July)
In Sunny Mede and Cherwell foam
I wish that I was going home!
But I have roved the oceans
And have trod the desert bleak
And left the willows suckling
In Arastradero Creek
The ancient oak and redwood tree
And meekly wand'ring, you and me
And Sunny Mede, and Cherwell foam
I'm glad that all the world is home!
(Sometime in 2002, probably.)
The Song of a Thousand Lines
This song it has a thousand lines
Though most are often missed
It sort of scans and sort of rhymes
Its charms you'll not resist
Though other poems have better plans
Hear on, I'll soon desist
It sort of rhymes and sort of scans
Or at least it might have done if I hadn't been pissed
(A long time ago.)
The Sea Dog, or the Ducking Fog
The ducking fog!
Flits on the shore,
The nub of the rose
Pains his trooping.
The ducking fog!
Locks his keg.
Disguised as mere duck,
Proud of stinging clench.
The ducking fog!
Marks at the boon,
Nicks his leathers,
And buckles his sum.
Plot A: A pirate smuggler comes ashore, struggles through a rose garden and a barnyard, leaves his rum, and cuts his hands to grab some treasure that he secretes in his coat and his belt.
Plot B: I really date my hog sometimes.
(September 2011.)