Monthly Archives: November 2017

Afternoons Long Ago

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Afternoons lazing.
No trail blazing.
Desultory chatter.
Dreams shatter.
An invitation.
A pale imitation of love.

You were mine to choose.
I chose to lose.
To lose what? My heart?
Best stick to art,
For if I start
I may impart
Too much.
For Dutch courage has led many a man to say
More than he meant to say.

The street
Where we did meet
Was a cul-de-sac.
Perhaps you yearned,
(We could have turned
Back).
Was it need,
Greed
Or something other
That led you to become a kind of lover?

There Was A Young Man Named Nick

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There was a young man named Nick
Who purchased a rain stick.
He danced about
And made great shout,
But it failed to rain on Nick!

—

There was a young man named Nick
Who purchased a rain stick.
He raised it high
Unto the sky
But it failed to rain on Nick!

—

There was a young man named Nick
Who purchased a rain stick.
When it failed to rain
He didn’t complain
But bought another stick!

Commercial Break

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If we stripped away the advertising hoardings
And quelled the glitzy TV commercials,
Those recordings
Of sexy girls telling you and I
What we ought to buy,
Would we cease going around in ever decreasing circles
And gaze awestruck at the great sky?

Perhaps it would be as above
And love
Of higher things would reign,
But then again
There is the stain
Which caused God to expel
Lucifer to hell

Stream Of Consciousness Rambling

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Shall I write
To delight
My reader’s a stream of consciousness piece?
Or should I cease
My screed?
For there is no need
To take up their valuable time
With my rhyme
Which goes,
As the river flows
Down to the sea.

I am lost in the ocean
My words a mere commotion
Which (as the bard now dead
So rightly said)
Is “a tale told by an idiot signifying nothing”.

“Macbeth”, or should I say
“The Scottish Play”
Is full of words cleverly stitched together,
With witches and stormy weather
Playing their part.
The dagger in Duncan’s heart
Brought Macbeth and his wife to perdition.
Ambition
Brought him low
As those who study Shakespeare know.

Should I go
On with this rhyme
Wasting time
Forever spinning
To keep my mind off sinning,
Which, of course I never do,
For you
Are aware
I dare
Say
That I am honest as the day
Is long. In fact a plaster saint am I
And when I die
I shall to heaven go,
Or perhaps somewhere below
Where all my desire
Shall end in fire …!

Memory

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Our memory is like a garden, where we spend many hours
Watering fragrant flowers.
Yet sometimes we succeed
In fertilising a weed.
Indeed
We take a perverse delight in watching it grow
Much though
We deny that it is so!

Let not the weed
Seed
Say I,
But learn from it, then let it die,
For if it’s growth you do not control
It will succeed
And choke your soul.

Dreams

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I dreamed and in my dream cups broke
And matters where confused.
When I awoke
I smiled an amused
Smile.
For I can not resile
From the view
That dreams oft times represent what is true,
Or at least what may be so
Unless a man say “whoa!”.

“A Confession” by Czeslaw Milosz

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I came across Czeslaw Milosz’s fine poem, “A Confession”, while leafing through “Essential Poems”, from the Staying Alive Series, edited by Neil Astley (Bloodaxe Books). We are fallen creatures all, and it’s a brave man who recognises his own frailties, (http://enothingblog.blogspot.co.uk/2010/03/poem-of-day-confession-by-czeslaw.html).