Sunlight slants through branches.
The ethereal girl dances
As the poet romances
Her
Out of the summer air.
The trill
Of an evening blackbird
Is heard.
Then without a word
She is gone,
Though in his heart she lives on.
Perchance
She will dance
Once more
When Autumn winds roar,
And clothed in russet gown
We will lie down
And forever, sleep
There was a young lady called Anna
Who swallowed a very large spanner.
When the doctor tried to fix her
She said, with a glare,
“I will mend myself with that spanner”!
BLOODLETTING
by
Eric Syrdal
Once again
She
summoned to this place
against her will
never shy from battle
never austere in the face
of consequence
ever rising up against
that which would seek
to pin a name tag on her
significance
yet again she finds
she is brought back
to answer for deeds of which
she is guiltless
the crime lies
in the drawing of steel
ambition to claim
far beyond what the universe
decides is available
pursuit of oneness of mind
control over her vital organs of reproduction
more so
to decide
reliant upon her own free will
to cover her curves
behind plates of iron
hard armor protects supple skin
from the caustic glare of
an angry and jealous world
or might she
remove her breastplate
and cast it to the earth
her vorpal blade
slicing effortlessly through
the hide straps that
cling it to her
the metal…
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A useful list of blogs for those interested in collaborating with others/sharing their work. Kevin
There was a young man called Bert
Who was a terrible flirt.
He met a girl one day
Who to his dismay
Knocked him down in the dirt!
There was a young lady called Nell
Who, feeling unwell
Went to see a doctor named Locke.
He said, “Knock, Knock,
I have a terrible joke to tell”!
There was a young lady called Amanda
Who went to school with a panda.
The teacher did say,
“Take your pet away,
To you I refuse to pander”!
—
There was a young lady called Amanda
Who went to school with a panda.
Her teacher said
As he scratched his head,
“Is that your panda Amanda?”
A bizarre
Dream of a runaway car,
As real
As this desk I feel.
A mad man driving,
Me striving
To get out.
No point to shout.
Me on the phone.
The driver alone
In his crazed head.
We stop, I am not dead.
A few incoherent words are said
By one
Who is in his mind far gone.
I stay.
He moves away.
—
A day breaks much like any other.
Soon I may discover
What man drove that phantom car
And who we really are.
Perhaps he is me
And I am he …
There was a young Communist called Fred
Who the complete works of Marx had read.
He attended all Party meetings,
Giving the correct fraternal greetings,
But the world it refused to turn red!
K Morris - Poet 