Monthly Archives: May 2018

Men Surf The Brine

Men surf the brine.
As a line
Of mermaids throng
The sand. Their song
Odysseus heard long ago.

Many men were lost
For they failed to count the cost
And drowned. Twas always so
And the wise well know
With Sirens not to play
And with Odysseus stay
Lashed to the mast
Lest they drown in the ocean vast.

“The Odyssey isn’t relevant today”
The stupid say
But only look behind
The text and you will find
A very modern tale
Of the sailor who with a mermaid played
And for his stupidity paid.

Each Text Would The Bishop Vex

Each text
Would the bishop vex
Where he to know
So
Let us draw a discreet veil
Over his daughter’s conversation
Lest he turn pale
And the congregation
Find something other than hymns
To sing. Yet I think
That I see the devil wink.
I hear him whisper low
“You know
The bishop also
Has his sins …”.

What Is Love?

“What is love?” I asked the poet of romance.
“Tis a rapturous dance
Wherein lovers lose countless hours
In verdant bowers
And flowers
Forever bloom”.

“What is love?” I asked the advertising executive in his suit of gray.
“Tis money you pay
On Valentines Day
For the overpriced chocolates I
Want lovers to buy”.

“What is love?” I asked the scientist in his white coat.
“Tis a chemical reaction in the brain
That causes pleasure and pain,
From which few can refrain”.

“What is love?” I asked the working girl.
“Tis a pearl
I once had but then did sell
As all men know well”.

“What is love?”
I asked the rake.
He refered me to the girl above
But could no further answer make.

A Single Flower On A Cacti

A single flower on a cacti
I thought dead. Should I toil
In barren soil
For hope? Yet there is that flower
To brighten this dull hour
Of shower
And thunder.
The wonder
Of existence,
The persistence
Against all odds
In sods
I thought sterile.

On my window ledge
On the edge
Of rebirth
From seeming barren turf
My cacti
Teters and I
Recall how, only yesterday,
I was on the point of throwing it away.

Metaphor

Some men collect metaphors,
Others a girl’s stiletto
(some literally so).

Some collect doors
That open onto corridors,
And girl’s faces (so romantic by starlight)
For the night
Is full of metaphor.

Some collect stamps
Under street lamps
But the stamps
Are ultimately the same
For they all play the game
Of metaphor

The Lightning Flashes Across The Sky

The lightning flashes across the sky
And I
Hear the roar
Of Thor.

Its just passed midnight and from my window
I am reluctant to go
For I know
That although
The roar
Of Thor
Will be heard once more,
That this show
Of an evening late
Which I spectate
May survive
For a time
In rhyme