I Sang Of Contests After J R R Tolkien I Sang Of Leaves Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

I sang of contests, contests' gold, and judge's golden cue:
pre-writes I sang, for auld lang syne approaching New Year too.
Beyond all fun, loon tale begun, mouth foaming, all could see,
strand by strand planned with pen in hand there fanned fair poetry.

Beneath gold goblets' make-believe on Author's Page it shone,
in AP fame - what's in a name? - fall follows on home run.
Long list of golden goblets kissed have grown through branching years,
although one's true priorities now fall as Elven tears.

Yet centrefold of contest colds leave seldom leafy day,
though total contest numbers fall still stream themed entries' play.
Who contests hold too long may scold this entry evermore,
for fading crown comes tumbling down, as old year's at death's door.

This contest called for varied form expressing old ideas,
forlorn feels separation shorn from source when disappears
links pre-existent we may think when inking stanzas neat,
when in a twinkling inklings shine upon some pristine sheet.

Breeze, here today, tomorrow's play finds frozen as if time
suspended flight, ere endless night engulfed joy's pantomime.
But if of trophies I should sing, what gold would come to me,
what recompense reward tight rhymed write's light dexterity?

My melody accelerates from syllables fourteen
to sixteen swift, may syncopate upbeat, still sweet, serene,
can pick up speed, and thereon feed upon itself show
how harmony sets music free which, read aloud, shall glow.

I'll sing in song of right and wrong, as personality
expression finds, form self designed sets mind completely free,
experiments with sentiments, impediments are shed,
the rudiments of one-track sense fade from the memory.

I'll sing of sleeves, of shirt-sleeves clad in silk by day, in silk by night
pyjamas bright carress soft skin in pure delight from dusk till light.
The mind perceives that soul is glad as word world weaves forget-me-not
while verse threads spin tale's canvas sail that fast knots speeds, yet knots knows not.

I'll sing of Spring as seasons wing from one year's cold to bold new dawn,
I'll sing of Summer, childrens' swing which to and fro go, high-low spawn
a host of thoughts as spirit's caught a-musing on ripe Autumn corn
before Jack Frost dare etch time lost as Winter sketch turns quite forlorn.

I'll sing of studies which will take keen spirit forward, quantum leap
escaping time-trap, past mistake, rush whole towards goal as from sleep
free-choice awakes and double take's excitement grows as force-field glows
with energy which by degree past misconceptions melts, hope's flows
can then increase beat's ceaseless swing, and understanding may take wing
as jigsaw pieces can begin to find release through everything
from stars to dust, as great, small, must, set places mete, [th]ink-linked, discrete,
discard to greet new kismet meet sweet destiny, dream theme complete.

I sang of contest trophies gold, to golden leaves anew
I'll turn and spurn catastrophe where rigid guidelines grew
out of control despite control as leitmotif, I'll see
who once felt blind, thought fate unkind, my inner harmony.

I'll sing of sheets, restraints' defeats, of scores that by the score
sweetmeats reveal thief time conceals from those who'd set the score,
rhyme reels set free as harmony past discord, trammels tight,
dissolves to cue new liberty into key golden bright
that may resolve, conundrums solve the existential quest
once so elusive happiness appeared unwelcome guest
within mind's shell, so share bright bell that welcomes change of state
through terse verse which rehearses 'stitch in time can't be too late! '