A giddy surge of shining glee
Abruptly intercedes the gloom
That had before so hounded thee.
The uproar laughing its way free
Casts blinding light upon the doom-
Enraptured ones who yet will see.
Contageous of a hearty kind,
Those sounds of laughter come in force
And capture all the neighbor minds
I do so love the bouant feel
That brings a certain woe divorce
And has unequaled gift to heal.
Ahh, laughter. What a joy!
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From Wednesday, April 25, 2007
The Reading of the Old Class Log (4/25/07)
The inspiration for this poem (it's title) will make a lot of sense to anyone who has had Mr. Hickerson and has therefore been exposed to the painful delights of the daily class logs, or minutes, as most sapiens would term them. I enjoy the oft-employed line "The reading of the old class log," so I snatched it into an unrelated environment.
The Reading of the Old Class Log
And yes, the dappled, lighting rays
Bespeckle pads of mossy green.
And always trees of cavern height
Besmudge the brightened sheen.
But this rich scene is centered on
Bespectacled eyes and silver brow
Bent low above a block of wood
Begrudging ancient vows.
Cool shadows play across the mead,
Consume the geezer's tipsy head.
Caught up by thoughts, he of past days
Consults the wooden thread.
Blackened edges smooth with soot,
Condensed from tribal fires spent,
Border words, engraved and cut,
Concealing power pent.
Deepened burns obscure some words,
Each a loss to those who read,
Depending on tradition's voice to
Ease their wisdom's need.
Elaboráte designs these aren't;
Every word instead contains
Eden's promise kept in grain while
Evil here remains.
Finally, the old man stands,
Forward holds The Old Class Log.
For he has quite discerned at last
Four messages from fog:
Equal men will always strive.
Fervent work will always yield.
Even poor will change the world.
Justice is our shield.
The Reading of the Old Class Log (4/25/07)
The inspiration for this poem (it's title) will make a lot of sense to anyone who has had Mr. Hickerson and has therefore been exposed to the painful delights of the daily class logs, or minutes, as most sapiens would term them. I enjoy the oft-employed line "The reading of the old class log," so I snatched it into an unrelated environment.
The Reading of the Old Class Log
And yes, the dappled, lighting rays
Bespeckle pads of mossy green.
And always trees of cavern height
Besmudge the brightened sheen.
But this rich scene is centered on
Bespectacled eyes and silver brow
Bent low above a block of wood
Begrudging ancient vows.
Cool shadows play across the mead,
Consume the geezer's tipsy head.
Caught up by thoughts, he of past days
Consults the wooden thread.
Blackened edges smooth with soot,
Condensed from tribal fires spent,
Border words, engraved and cut,
Concealing power pent.
Deepened burns obscure some words,
Each a loss to those who read,
Depending on tradition's voice to
Ease their wisdom's need.
Elaboráte designs these aren't;
Every word instead contains
Eden's promise kept in grain while
Evil here remains.
Finally, the old man stands,
Forward holds The Old Class Log.
For he has quite discerned at last
Four messages from fog:
Equal men will always strive.
Fervent work will always yield.
Even poor will change the world.
Justice is our shield.
This Way to IHOP
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About Me
- ihop unpublished
- What can I say? I'm 18 and I graduated from Charlottesville high school, AP scholar with distinction, 4.0 gpa, and second team all-district in soccer. I'm now at the College of William and Mary, immersed in scholarly pursuits (and goofing around in the lounge until 3 a.m.). In my oh-so-not-busy life, I find enough to write about.
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