These fallen leaves
On the cold January ground
Send a message profound.
I am bound
To be as these leaves
And fertilize the ground.
These fallen leaves
On the cold January ground
Send a message profound.
I am bound
To be as these leaves
And fertilize the ground.
A good short post on form poetry, https://www.writingforward.com/poetry-writing/what-is-form-poetry
I know a young lady named Honey
Who has found I’ve come into money.
She’s proposed to me
Along with Miss Lee,
But I can’t marry Lee and Honey!
Sometimes the fox’s bark
Pierces the dark
As our bodies meet
Under comforting sheets.
A girl’s soft kiss
And exploring hands
Can command my lust.
But your bark,
So cold and sharp
Speaks of dust.
There once was a man named Neil
Who said, “I shall invent the wheel!”.
A young lady called Sun
Said, “that’s already been done!”,
As she rolled around with that Neil!
I can not write tonight.
I find my mind
Dwells on discordant church bells.
I think this discordancy
Is a part of me.
Young women’s heels click.
Clocks tick.
The weather is cold.
Girl’s arms
Have their charms.
I grow old.
A January breeze
Whispers through trees
And winter grasses
And, as it passes
It speaks to me
Of my mortality.
I met a man named Dorian Gray
Who said, “my portrait it must pay.
With this sharp knife
I’ll end it’s life!”.
But it was Gray who did pay …!
What will survive from this present time?
Will poets continue to write
Long into the night?
Or will rhyme of the human kind
Be replaced by robots who trot out rhymes
Of indifferent kinds.
Rhyme of the human kind will survive
And continue to thrive.
While for better or worse
Robots will write verse.
But who owns what a robot writes?
The red pillar box will go, although
A few will remain to show
That there was mail long before email.
The world will move ever faster.
I hope eccentricity will survive and thrive
When I am no longer alive
And that man can live on
When I am gone
For I am of humanity