My Lady Wakes, an experimental mock epic composed on 11 February, 2011, after a failed sonnet, in the moonlight, whilst thinking of home, with a fine cigar.

(dedicated to my father)

My lady wakes and blinks and sighs,

Her room alit by bright’ning skies.

Around her head the fairies dance,

Laughing and pulling her glad glance

Away from sleep and t’ward the morn;

Her brilliant face they do adorn

With joy itself’s glad countenance,

Then flit away before her glance.

She quickly climbs out of her sheets

And down across her bed, on feet

That long to run and dance and play,

To spin and twirl the whole long day.

Her toilette is not complicated,

She flies without but is ill-fated

Soon to return, soon to retry,

To fix her dress (put on awry).

Topsy, her steps atop the stairs,

A pirouette, her pink skirt flairs.

Then down she runs and down again,

For breakfast time (she won’t abstain)

Comes now at nine, the best of times,

The fairies laugh as down she climbs

And guide her steps to keep her safe

Their marv’lous charge, this brilliant waif.

Then eggs and milk and cereal,

Proper fuel for a growing girl,

Then off to visit mys’try’s land

With costumes various near at hand.

A queen, princess, and mother too

Her horsey friend has got the flu.

So, “Quick Cecilia!” now she cries,

“You be a doctor,” the surmise,

And very soon the crisis past

Good luck indeed, for lunch comes fast.

And after feasting once again,

She vanishes and naught complains.

For rest the day is filled with laughs

The fairies clap their hands (not gaffe).

Then dinner baths and rosary,

And daddy comes home tired to see.

But still his presence deep joy brings:

My princess flies as if on wings,

To greet him at the very door

When he arrives, all tired and sore.

He scoops her up, she squeals with glee.

He hugs her close, he’s glad, you see.

Tired and calm she drifts away

To fields of sleep where fairies play.

Her father smiles and walks upstairs;

He lays her down, soft strokes her hair.

In dreaming fields the world moves on

And tho the day, (so fleeting): gone.

She dances on and dances still,

My lovely lady, golden thrill.