Classic poem of the day
Why, upon this lovely day,
Must that wretched fiddler play, —
All the sky one stainless blue, —
Every note he strikes, untrue! ...
Summer deep embowered in flowers,
Silent music in the hours,
In the east a feather moon, —
And — that fiddler out of tune!
God's hand never slipped to mar
At the making of a star;
There's no true excuse yet made
For the bungler at his trade!
Member poem of the day
OUT
She always had a sense of being trapped
All doors locked, shuttered windows too
That smothered by an old blanket feeling
To make her escape was her only dream
From a cloying presence, sickly as cream
And those deep scratches on the ceiling
Never quite sure what was false or true
But her submissive mind finally snapped
She turned to see the house she had left
For the first time, from outside its walls
Uncertain how she had ...
