Sound of gongs upon the wind of lust
Makes her passion rise

Turns her promises to dust

Night-time rhythms on repeat
Keep the pattern

Here’s a gong that you can beat

Jacky-boy can make her smile
She feels special

He does it all the while

Thirst of the body, rules over the brain
Crescendo is real near

Thunder now and rain

The echoed tones of a brassy gong
Fills their hearts

In time to a summer song

Sound of gongs upon the wind of lust
Makes her passion rise

Turns her promises to dust

Night-time rhythms on repeat
Keep the pattern

Here’s a gong that you can beat

Jacky-boy can make her smile
She feels special

He does it all the while

Thirst of the body, rules over the brain
Crescendo is real near

Thunder now and rain

The echoed tones of a brassy gong
Fills their hearts

In time to a summer song

I didn't sleep again today, it sucks
but that is my usual insomniac way
running, drugs, bad books don't aid
it doesn't help to run away,
I've considered a blade.

I'll get up and walk around, even run
for no productive purpose i can see
my general premise isn't a sound one
but I'll be the best that I can be

so wash and eat, the basics help
even if it seems inept to do
I ask you, seriously?
what would you do?

The birds sing in courtship's display
on this, the first warm day of spring
unfortunately the wasps are out
along with fire ant mounds of clay

Flowers' perfumes drift upon the breeze
along with my true love's faint scent
whose "look" tells me to cut the grass
and then trees' pollen makes her sneeze

And walking along a clear lake's shore
where the fair ones swim and ski
I glance down at my knobby knees
then look at the girls once more

A true fact of life is:
It's not always black or white,
but a mix of this and that-right,
which is, I trust, a bliss.

So when the woes grow, swell
find a way to your young heart.
Let no pain incise that part,
let no troubles there dwell.

Clean the stains of hatred,
in love's sponge let all that go.
Wipe out the tears of sorrow,
time needs not be wasted.

Now, hurry up! come on dear
put your helpful hand in mine.
Ways with gold shall ever shine
when good intentions clear.

Littleton Revision 2
Ron BlueDemon77

Littleton, killed his son
why oh why, he put out his eye
the same day, all the skies went gray
the fever came, never was the same

sun's warmth gone, as his madness spawn
crops to silt, Redbeard lived his guilt
days of dark, nights of terror stark
tiny mound, jutting out of ground

Littleton, Redbeard thick with lice
maggots, rats, sharing habitats
every night, eyes shined with red light
at the door, child's voices implore

it doesn’t seem You wish to answer my request
I wonder what has caused You to desire to taunt
the perky breasts I asked for are too gaunt to flaunt
though everybody says You always do your best

they say for You to grant exactly what we ask
we merely have to order it and we’ll receive
I don’t remember asking for them to my knees
just what was so damn difficult about the task?

Now (Rhyming Patterns workshop revision 1 Ron BlueDemon77)

A Rhyme pattern workshop it is indeed
to help us to germinate a small seed
to guage precision when limits are set
it can help this poem, many more yet!

A classroom, a guideline for each of us
meant as a forum where we can discuss
form poems that teach us disciplined craft
free style is still there the classicist laughed

Littleton’s son, Littleton’s son
His father loved to beat him
The poor kid was a bastard-child
Born of just a whim

Pokers of fire, glowing red
Were instruments of torture
Burning flesh and salty tears
On one so immature

Red Beard, Red Beard is so feared
No one knows he’s haunted
His daylight hours are dreadful
His nightmares keep him taunted

Stained cloak of dun, clutched closer still
Backyard grave is guarded well
Littleton’s son is buried there
In his father’s private Hell

Littleton by RW

Littleton's fun was to torture his son
The hearth fire roared but of heat there was none
space where old angers restore, cold, unwon
paths worn ancient scorn, past hurts redone

old man clutched his cloak of stained and worn dun
sweat poured small rivers, he could not outrun
grave in back yard guarded by Littleton
if death is pain's surcease he's just begun