[Graham King]

Originally Posted by Peter Goulding

Never done this exercise before. It's bloody hard to make it flow logically. Decided therefore to go for the nonsense rhyme - the synopsis of my forthcoming musical about Sting.

Red-light Roxanne dumps him. He is too creepy, she explains.
So Sting resolves to call her up a thousand times a day,
although he suspects he might be wishing his days away.
He can’t stand losing her, so he flies to the moon, tear stains
on his spacesuit. There, he breaks his legs, to add to his pains.
(Luckily he hasn’t copped she is really Brian May.)
Then he meets a legal alien and begins to play
Da Do Do Do for it but it shuffles away. Sting leaves
the moon, muttering some tat about invisible suns.
Back home, he is so lonely, so lonely that he stuffs sheaves
of messages inside bottles, watching every last breath
she takes, every move she makes, until finally she runs
dementedly from him, shrieking, “Oh Sting, where is thy death?”

Peter, that's impressive! Especially the last (punch)line, which had me laugh out loud.

[Graham King]

Originally Posted by Jayne Osborn

...
Jayne

PS. Martin, it might just be me but I can't quite make sense of this:
That bloated bloom glints off the glass and stains that decorate the intersection.
The blooms glints off both the glass and the stains? Am I reading it wrongly?

If I may - Reading Martin's poem, I took 'bloom' here to be a metaphor of the sun as a bright flower, and the stains to be bloodstains (fresh) which - while still-liquid puddles - could indeed reflect the sun as the glass shards do. I don't recall seeing a tragic traffic accident described so poetically before...

And thanks Jayne for your tips about submissions in emails!

[Martin Elster]

Originally Posted by Graham King

Peter, that's impressive! Especially the last (punch)line, which had me laugh out loud.

I totally agree. It's quite clever.

[Martin Elster]

Originally Posted by Graham King

If I may - Reading Martin's poem, I took 'bloom' here to be a metaphor of the sun as a bright flower, and the stains to be bloodstains (fresh) which - while still-liquid puddles - could indeed reflect the sun as the glass shards do. I don't recall seeing a tragic traffic accident described so poetically before.

Graham - I just saw your answer to Jayne about that line. Yes, your interpretation is exactly what I had in mind. And I appreciate the compliment about the poem itself.

[Graham King]

I scan the barrenness of arid plains;
I test them well. Mercurial long day
Follows deep night: I send my song away
On its remotely-answered flight. Heat stains
My skin and bakes my heart; I have no pains
To speak of, but report my health. May
People come to live - their children, play -
Upon this land where heavens send no rains?
I, vanguard sentinel who never leaves
But watches seasonless the arching suns,
Know naught of harvesting of sheaves;
Hard wealth men seek, from world of furnace breath,
So here I am. The data through me runs,
Informing whether aught is here but death.
 

[Martin Elster]

Graham - good one about Mercury (the least explored inner planet)! Although it's slightly reminiscent of my Mars Rover (post #29), I think in some ways it's more poetic. I like the fact that it's in first person — the "vanguard sentinel" (a robot?) is personified with "I send my song away ..." and "heat stains my skin and bakes my heart." Love it!

If the automaton stands on the day side, it would be cooked of course, but if on the dark side, where it is freezing, it would be safe from the sun's heat.

Do you need that comma after "seek" (L12)? Also, L11 is tetrameter, but perhaps that was intentional.

Perhaps we'll eventually explore all the planets of the solar system in this bouts-rime challenge.

[Martin Elster]

In the Oceans of Europa

Beneath Europa’s glazed and crazed ice plains,
I bathe in a balmy sea. My day-to-day
routine is swimming to and then away
from thermal vents, where mineral-smoke stains
the deep, and tube worms ease the hunger pains
inside my seven stomachs. Come what may,
I’ll roam the oceans, watch the interplay
among the limpets, clams, and shrimp. Space rains
its cosmic rays upon these waters, leaves
it full of oxygen. No need of suns
for warmth. The algae grow in towering sheaves,
providing more than ample air for breath.
Although I’m in the dark as my moon runs
around her world, it never feels like death.

[Rob Stuart]

Originally Posted by Martin Elster

I like yours, Rob.

I'm surprised Jayne overlooked "planes." I thought homonyms like that weren't allowed. I've been avoiding them myself.

You may well be right about that, Martin. I damn near wrote the whole thing in homonyms just to be contrary!

[Roger Slater]

I get agoraphobic in the plains;
out in the flat expanses of the day
it feels as if my soul will drift away
and join the rainbow's pastel blur of stains
that fade into oblivion. It pains
my sense to see the buds reborn in May
and know how brief the game it is they play.
So hide the sun and wash me in your rains,
bury me protectively in leaves,
cocoon me safely from the far-off suns,
wrap me in a thousand loving sheaves,
for only when I'm trapped can I draw breath;
chain my heart, for only then it runs;
death alone can cure my soul of death.

[Brian Allgar]

Originally Posted by Rob Stuart

I presume that the singular of bouts-rimés is 'bouts-rimé', can anyone confirm?

Rob, since you need at least two words to make a rhyme, the singular can't exist.