Without rain
there would be no frog
to leap into the pond.
No pond.
No sound.

By Robert Lee Brewer

Now that Grant is in charge of us boys,
Wins for Lee will be likely hard fought.
Cards and rounders are a few of our joys,
Here’s a tip: Avoid canister shot!

By Mr. Cox

It was the 4th of July

Two battles had ended

But as the war goes on

The south needed to be mended

Gettysburg had many names written on stone slates

And in Vicksburg it rained bombs from the sky

And to think that all this happened

In 1863 on the 4th of July

Line 3: 2 syllables
Line 4: 3 syllables
Line 5: 5 syllables
Line 6: 8 syllables

Evening cell phone conversation--
he rakes his hair with long fingers
that were once filled with devotion,
though she's not a pretty singer.

He never was a man to say,
"baby," or let his eyes linger,
and she only likes boys who stay,
but she's not a pretty singer.

So he offered his warm coat to
another to start a fling her
aging looks could never undo,
and she's not a pretty singer.

Some say she moved to another
state and made her name selling or
buying something, though why bother
when she's not a pretty singer?

By Robert Lee Brewer

My
first
poem
was not a
Fibonacci or
even an unrhymed sestina.

By Robert Lee Brewer

He said to his friend, “If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch
Of the North-Church-tower, as a signal-light,—
One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country-folk to be up and to arm.”

Then he said “Good night!” and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war:
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon, like a prison-bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street
Wanders and watches with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers
Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Then he climbed to the tower of the church,
Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry-chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,—
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town,
And the moonlight flowing over all.

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night-encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, “All is well!”
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay,—
A line of black, that bends and floats
On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride,
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse’s side,
Now gazed on the landscape far and near,
Then impetuous stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry-tower of the old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry’s height,
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns!

A hurry of hoofs in a village-street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed that flies fearless and fleet:
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.

He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders, that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

It was twelve by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer’s dog,
And felt the damp of the river-fog,
That rises when the sun goes down.

It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.

It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadows brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket-ball.

You know the rest. In the books you have read,
How the British Regulars fired and fled,—
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farmyard-wall,
Chasing the red-coats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,—
A cry of defiance, and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo forevermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

By Robert Lee Brewer

Line 6: 3 syllables with an a rhyme

I hoped that someday I would see,
though adventure eluded me
in my prison cell
echoing my yell
as I fell heavenly

into dark and dreamy attics
filled with jockeys in their spandex
and little black whips
with feverish grips
that will quip ecstatic!

By, Robert Lee Brewer

Line 1: 9 syllables

Line 2: 8 syllables

Line 3: 7 syllables

Line 4: 6 syllables

Line 5: 5 syllables

Line 6: 4 syllables

Line 7: 3 syllables

Line 8: 2 syllables

Line 9: 1 syllable

There's a life curled in the darkness
sweating out the evening storm
beneath leaves covered with rain
and an urge to bolt like
the lightning before
thunder. Under
here we run
free of
why.

The trees appear to be covered in glass;
there's another missing child on the radio.

He knows the many shades of wrong and right;
there's another missing child on the radio.

If there's a city waiting in the night,
there's another missing child on the radio.

By Robert Lee Brewer

LIne 5: 2 syllabes

Boxes
contain the days,
but is my life really
just a graph of numbers held by
staples?
 
By, Robert Lee Brewer

Fall for the trick, seeking gladness
in fine trinkets, milk, and honey,
and what can be had for money
for this makes the greatest madness--
trying to swap things for sadness.
Let us discover on this night
things that are wrong and love that's right--
alone in the woods, we will kiss
and find new paths to priceless bliss
on this soft journey by moonlight.

By Robert Lee Brewer

Spears reads radar passes,
spares dapper dad seeds...

Dear are dead are dads
are ads pressed deep sea dares...

Dear papa pared raps,
spread seeds, snapped red era apps...
 
By Robert Lee Brewer