RSS Feed In times of yore, within a shoppe of infant's delight, My sister and I, in kinship's tie, did daily unite. Our mother, the proprietress, with care the store she crowned, As I, with child, in gentle state, my duties there did bound.
A youth, new to our midst, did commence his toil, To navigate the storeroom's labyrinthine coil. His task, at my behest, a heavy crate to fetch, A test of mettle for our neophyte, to prove his worth afresh.
Yet mischief, in my sister's heart, did stir a playful scheme, To conjure a moment of surprise, a prankster's dream. With stealth, she hid within the box, as still as night's own shade, Awaiting the tender moment when her trap would be unmade.
As the lad did brace to lift the load with earnest care, Out sprang my sister, like Puck, from his hidden lair. His cry, so shrill, did echo through the chamber vast, A sound like sprites upon the wind, from fairy bugle's blast.
Alas, the jest, too jarring for his youthful soul, Ensured his swift departure, no longer in our scroll. Regret now lingers in my breast, for the sport that turned to sorrow, For the morrow came, and he, like mist, did vanish with no shadow.
Such is the tale of the prank that went awry, A lesson in the mirth we seek, and the care we must apply. For in our quest for laughter, we must always measure, Lest our jests lead but to loss, and not to merry pleasure.
A youth, new to our midst, did commence his toil, To navigate the storeroom's labyrinthine coil. His task, at my behest, a heavy crate to fetch, A test of mettle for our neophyte, to prove his worth afresh.
Yet mischief, in my sister's heart, did stir a playful scheme, To conjure a moment of surprise, a prankster's dream. With stealth, she hid within the box, as still as night's own shade, Awaiting the tender moment when her trap would be unmade.
As the lad did brace to lift the load with earnest care, Out sprang my sister, like Puck, from his hidden lair. His cry, so shrill, did echo through the chamber vast, A sound like sprites upon the wind, from fairy bugle's blast.
Alas, the jest, too jarring for his youthful soul, Ensured his swift departure, no longer in our scroll. Regret now lingers in my breast, for the sport that turned to sorrow, For the morrow came, and he, like mist, did vanish with no shadow.
Such is the tale of the prank that went awry, A lesson in the mirth we seek, and the care we must apply. For in our quest for laughter, we must always measure, Lest our jests lead but to loss, and not to merry pleasure.
| In the tongues of old, might I recount a tale of youth, When I, in verdant years, companioned with a truth: A lass named Vilasini, spirited and free, Did muse upon El Paso's winds 'neath a barren tree. "Such gusts that stir the dust," quoth she, "where no boughs sway," 'Twas a jest born of night's revels and the dance's gay. We shared in mirthful peals, for in her words did lie, A humor found in the absence of green 'neath the Texan sky. Ladies ought to be held in esteem most high, For we approach a time where their numbers do wane and sigh. Through the ages, as wares, they've been bartered and sold, A tale most grievous and oftentimes cold. Should we persist on this lamentable path, We may find their kind rare as a myth. Society's course must we correct with intention, Lest we lead womankind to untimely extinction.  | List of deeds for the abode's reclamation... Seek a vessel encasing a djinn. Master the click as the fair Julie Andrews. Attempt to twitch one's snout as the enchantress Samantha. Quest for a cylon to transform into a domestic of France. Discover a portal to times yore, and school the hound in cleanliness. Indulge in marathon of abode's purification. Conceive an abode that cleans itself. In pursuit of a new dwelling to inhabit. Acquisition of cleansers and machinations via the merchant's web. Retire to thy chamber and conjure dreams of neatness. Scribe a list for the morrow's tidying. Forsooth, I have perceived mine own age as constant, as a youth of six summers to four decades and one, still in the verdure of my late twenties' bloom. But lo, a change now takes its hold; a sense of advanced years creeps in, with differences and transformations new. A possibility now whispers that longer days may yet be mine, to witness wonders unthought and unseen. At last, the hourglass turns, and I embrace mine elder self. Once there was a maid. Ne'er was she famed for beauty so fair nor for wit sharp and rare. Yet, in her essence, lay a singularity. Something distinct from all her peers, an allure that set her apart. |
Ever hath thou parlanced with thyself, embarked on fervent soliloquy, only to find thine own audience hath vanished? Verily, I confess to such madness... then do I turn churlish upon myself. With harsh tongue, I utter, "Thou art dull as ditchwater, destined for naught." Alas, my dam was oft absent, toil'd for our daily bread, leaving me to foster mine own counsel, as if begot by beings not of this Earth.
List of chores for house most fair, Seek a genie's bottle with utmost care. Snap thy fingers like dame Andrews bright, Wiggle thy nose like Samantha in flight. A cylon maid to find, with French flair styled, A stargate quest, to teach the canine mild. A marathon of cleaning shall grace thine eyes, Concoct a dwelling that cleans itself, most wise. Seek a new abode, for a fresh start's embrace, Acquire cleaning wares in the market's vast space. Then to thy slumber retreat, where dreams of neatness abide, And pen a list for cleanliness, with satisfaction inside.
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| In a household of old, where whispers thread through the hall, Dwelt Tanisha the fair, and Melinani, sly in her thrall. The elder, with a spirit of jest most keen, Conceived a plot, with mirth unseen. "Forsooth," quoth she, "a ghostly tale shall I weave, To startle my sister, and her sweet peace bereave." For a week, she spun stories of spirits, a ghastly parade, Till the final act beneath Tanisha's bed she stayed. Came the innocent from school, unaware of the scheme, When Melinani's hand, like a specter, did seem. A shriek, a flight, the younger's tranquility torn, As the elder reveled, in her trickery sworn. Yet, in their hearts, a dance of joy they would share, For sisterly love, even in jest, is beyond compare. By Melinani King | AuthorAttend all ye who delight in beauty's form and art's grand expression, to this humble digital court of Melinani the artist, a modern-day mistress of the canvas, quill, and charcoal. Within this ethereal realm, she doth present a trove of visual splendours, each piece a testament to her journey through the tapestry of life. Behold, as she conjures images that bridge the mortal with the divine, weaving tales of light and shadow with her adept hands. Followers of this page, both esteemed and common, art lovers, and kindred creative spirits, thou art heartily welcomed to partake in the visual feast, share thine insights, and revel in the communion of artistry. Let the scrolling gallery herein be thy gateway to a world where art dost flourish and hearts are moved to ponder. |
