Do you know, I never thought of that.

Oh, dear - this type of challenge is compulsive. It's such a simple, yet enticing, limit which just sits there cheekily beckoning one to have another go - like a coconut shy in a fair ground. Quite possibly with as few winning results - or maybe, more satisfyingly, like that lovely crockery smashing stall in the Tivoli Gardens in Copenhagen. Anyway - I promise, like any helpless recidivist - this third one will be my last.

A BOTTOM LINE

With eyes set on Iraq’s oil-sodden plains
and shielded from the honest light of day,
that man we had elected lied away,
convinced such oleaginous dark stains
rich dividends would pay. Certain no pains
he’d bear, past trifling slights in Erskine May,
he treated truth, an extra in his play,
as evanescent as some desert rains
whose vapoured drops, on voters burnt like leaves,
tempted their trust, ’neath shock and awe’s twin suns,
until their shrivelled hopes, like rotten sheaves,
exhaled, in vast disgust, betrayal’s breath.
’Twas ever thus, when cheating lucre runs
to hoard power’s pension - yet he’ll not cheat death.

My thanks to Jayne for posting it all in the first place.
Nigel

"My thanks to Jayne for posting it all in the first place."

It really is a pleasure, Nigel, but thanks for your thanks :)

Jayne

TREE OF LIFE

When I was young, we lived out on the plains.
Sometimes I would not see a tree all day.
I used to dream my afternoons away
wishing I could see one. How it stains
the fabric of my memory and pains
the little boy inside me when each May,
in my new home, I watch the children play
among the trees, and in my heart it rains
to think that I grew up without such leaves.
The universe is filled with countless suns.
Their names could fill a billion billion sheaves.
But none of them is worth your time or breath
compared to my new home. A wise man runs
to places where new leaves demolish death.

Our work-worn life upon the plains
is hard enough, let's call the day.
And would we ramble far away
we'd find 'tis gay to gather stains
And worth collecting bumps and pains
from joying in the early May,
from rolling in a bout of play,
from dancing round in chilly rains
to fall into a pile of leaves
baked dark by seven months of suns,
shuffed off and broken, stinking sheaves,
long aged and foul-sweet tall tree-breath.
A drip of water smartly runs
and lands in quick momentum-death.

Upon the Serengeti plains
The lion spends each idle day.
Contentedly, he licks away
At paws that still have bloody stains
From last night's meal. He takes great pains
To groom himself while thinking “May
My life be one of food and play.”
Out here, it hardly ever rains,
And when it does, acacia leaves
Give cover till returning suns
Pour down their incandescent sheaves.

But she, his mate, with panting breath,
In fierce pursuit still runs and runs
Until their dinner’s done to death.

The first line of this sonnet ends with "plains,"
not because I woke up one fine day
and said I think I'll fritter time away
by writing "plains" and rhyming it with "stains,"
but for a different reason. I took pains
with hopes that I might win a contest. May
the judge enjoy this trifling bit of play
as much as farmers do the summer rains
that help the crops to bear their fruit and leaves,
as much as photosynthesis loves suns.
I've sent the Oldie entries by the sheaves,
but will I ever win? Don't hold your breath.
That's not the way my sorry story runs.
I have no choice. This sonnet ends with "death."

Ah, Andy and Brian, octosyllabic sonnets. Shakespeare wrote one of those as I am sure you both know.

I especially like Brian's 'lions' idea - highly original - and I was amused by Roger's 'lament'.

I've sent the Oldie entries by the sheaves,
but will I ever win? Don't hold your breath.

Heehee. :D

This is going to be a difficult one to judge. What will Tessa go for? I can't wait to see!

Jayne

PS. Roger, I'd amend it to read: "I've sent The Oldie entries by the sheaves" as the magazine is called The Oldie, not Oldie. (But if you've already submitted it, don't sweat it.)

Roger's entry will strike a responsive chord in the cynical heart any contestant.

His submission ought to finish in the money simply for his clever use of that cussed word, "May".
Then, "photosynthesis" in L10 really puts the whole thing over the top.