You are on a roll!

Kaiser?

Sorry.

Kaiser?

Dutch Crunch.

I'm proud of this drabble even though it's not from any Jossverse, and in fact was just intended to be...fanfiction methadone, if you will. [link] (Thought somebody might miss my Munchkin...I do, but then love is hopeless, isn't it?) Even though it's off-length, I think it is the best fanfic drabble I've written. Which in some circles is like the prettiest skin infection, but I know y'all understand.

erika, I damn near swooned over that. Comment in your lj.

This week's open on sunday challenge is poetry (I did that last week, damnit!)

First one, to Michael Drayton's "Since There's No Help". THe episode ref should be pretty obvious.

Since There's No Help

Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part

For a day, just a day, he was human again. He could laugh, weep, love. He could eat ice cream, shivering, warm blood expanding his veins as she licked a drop from his nipple.

Nay, I have done, you get no more of me

The Powers allowed him humanity. But it made him weak, no help to her. Now, wisdom triumphing over love, he's renounced it.

"When?" She clings hard, her face wet.

Shake hands forever, cancel all our vows.

"Now," he tells her, and watches her kiss memory goodbye.

The weird part is, Deb, me too. Right in the middle of kvetching about "Who writes these challenges? I bet it's the psycho who writes those 'L&O attorneys as babies' stories(I shit you not) And, damn, something kind of spoke through me in it.

Mmmm, baked apples.....

Second poetry challenge.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

My candle burns at both ends

They go down together, down the shadow-haunted hallways, down into the bowels of the earth where the darkness comes from. There are others, weapons ready, lives in abeyence. But first there are these two.

It will not last the night

From above, they look down. Below is a seething pit of danger, Turok-hans, teeth, power, death waiting to happen.

But ah my foes, and oh, my friends-

Their eyes meet: golden Buffy, night-dark Faith. Together, they turn.

It gives a lovely light!

"Go," Buffy says calmly, and the firestorm, slayers against First Evil, begins.

I liked that...you kind of had me going, I thought it would be 'shippy. I know very little poetry that's not lyrics or jingles, unfortunately. It's sad, but it's probably why I've not written any in a long time.

Nic's missing the poetry gene. I have it, enough for a few people.

Here's another, one of my favourites. The poem first:

Walking away by Cecil Day Lewis

It is eighteen years ago, almost to the day -
A sunny day with the leaves just turning,
The touch-lines new-rules - since I watched you play
Your first game of football, then, like a satellite
Wrenched from its orbit, go drifting away
Behind a scatter of boys. I can see
You walking away from me towards the school
With the pathos of a half-fledged thing set free
Into a wilderness, the gait of one
Who finds no path where the path should be.

That hesitant figure, eddying away
Like a winged seed loosened from its parent stem,
Has something I never quite grasp to convey
About nature's give-and-take - the small, scorching
Ordeals which fire one's irresolute clay.
I have had worse partings, but none that so
Gnaws at my mind still. Perhaps it is roughly
Saying what God alone could perfectly show -
How selfhood begins with a walking away,
And love is proved in the letting go.

and then the drabble, Angel's POV obviously:

Walking Away

I remember you.

I remember pain, ironic humour, on your mother's face. I remember her, saying tell this child he was the only good thing we ever did, tell him…

I can't tell you. I have no right. I gave it away.

I remember you, infant noise, thin scratchy wailing; I made you laugh by showing you the physical manifestation of my ugliest side. I remember the taste of you, my drink laced with your blood. I remember you, taken from me, gone from me.

I gave up your memories to give you peace. I have no right to you.

there's more in this scene, but Hubby wants to read his email. Silly him. We're back in Renaissance Italy.

The hot afternoon sun beat down on the dirty streets of Roma. Vendors loudly offered discounts in an effort to get rid of their day's wares so they could go home to their dinners. The sun cooked the garbage in the street into renewed fragrance, and the constant churning of the foot traffic stirred it all into new combinations.

Horses were generally frowned upon in the crowded streets. some people, naturally, were always considered to be exceptions: noblemen, important churchmen, and, of course, notorious mercenaries who, it was popularly believed, didn't feel a day was well spent until someone had died.

Angelo and Guglielmo were both tired after a long day conducting the snap inspections that so endeared them to the various Papal army units that had been put under their command. Still, there were few things they enjoyed more than making officers of the regular army dance to the mercenary tune.

Guglielmo was still shaking his head over the last incident as they rode through the crowd towards the Crusader's Kiss. "I still think you went too far," he said. "No matter if it is true, you shouldn't brag about bedding an officer's sister, especially when that officer is related to the Sforzas."

They reached the inn and dismounted, letting the groom take their horses. Angelo pulled off his cap and ran his fingers through his sweaty hair. "Madre, I need a bath." He began unlacing the heavy leather jerkin he wore. "That officer wasn't upset about me bedding his sister, Will. He was upset because I said she wasn't very good."

Guglielmo sighed. "One of these days someone is going to slip a dagger between your ribs, and I won't stop them."

Gianni the landlord greeted them at the door with cold, filled goblets. "Master Guglielmo, there's someone from the Vatican here to see you."

Guglielmo looked at Angelo, then back. "To see me?"

"Si, maestro."

"Someone from the Guards?" Angelo asked suspiciously.

"No, captain. A churchman."

Guglielmo shrugged and led the way in. He grinned when he saw who was being interrogated at the big table by Isabetta. "Brother Nobody, how nice to see you. What brings you down to our world?"

Isabetta tsked. "His name is Alexander, not Nobody."

Alexander looked relieved when Isabetta got up from the table. He got up too and nodded awkwardly. "Good afternoon, Signor . . . um . . . "

Guglielmo took over the seat Isabetta had occupied. "No need to stand on manners, brother. I'm Guglielmo, you're Alexander." He found a goblet and the wine pitcher, filled the first from the second, and held it out to Alexander. "What brings you to this part of town, Alexander?"

He hesitated, then took the goblet and resumed his seat. He glanced towards Angelo nervously, then looked away quickly. Guglielmo checked over his shoulder and saw Isabetta giving Angelo a proper welcome home kiss. Alexander took a quick drink of wine. "I was told to bring you a message." He jumped at a sudden shriek from Isabetta, who had just been tossed over Angelo's shoulder as he headed for the stairs.

Guglielmo chuckled and poured his own wine. "Well, he was wanting a bath." Alexander's dazed expression caught his eye. "When's the last time you talked to a girl? Much less a pretty girl?"

The young man blushed and yanked his gaze back from watching Angelo and the wiggling girl. "Um, a while." He stared at his wine goblet, his lips moving.

Which saint were you supposed to pray to, Guglielmo wondered, in order to resist the natural reactions of a healthy young man? "It's a shame you're stuck up in that monastery with all those shriveled up celebates."

Alexander glared at him. "Celibacy is a sacrifice to God. Women are a distraction from our proper work."

Guglielmo raised his goblet. "Praise be." He drained his goblet, then refilled it and leaned back in his chair to put his feet on the table. "Tell me about this message."