LYRICAL BALLADS

Rice Farms

Ably, with a tongue of dust
Came the riders of a golden knit,
With an eye of smoke and a tender trust—
The women were more lovely for it.

They ambled precious on the wing,
Those lyric young undaunted,
And I could not but softly sing
“The women are more lovely for it.”

This Rice Farms was half a mile down the road from the church referenced in ‘Neath the bell tower.

When I was 16, a couple of my friends took horseback riding lessons there on Saturday mornings, and I would walk over to watch.

Black Pants

When the cream goes bitter on the spoon
The children stray, children stray.
The tailor sings his folly tune
And we slip away.

And we fall flat from the bastard’s hand
On such a day, such a day.
We turn the dirt off our shoulders and
Shhh... slip away...

I see now that this is largely “about” transcending decay and death.

Also, all of my pants were black. It was not a goth thing. It’s just, all of my pants were black.

I have typed up three different ways to summarize this post, and each one reads like an apology.

An apology for being anachronistic. An apology for being a poetaster.

But you know what? I’ve decided not to apologize...