Monthly Archives: January 2026

A Memory

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You padded around my flat

Silent as a cat.

I strain

To remember your name.

Then it comes back.

And I recall

You wanted something else

And I, wanted you,

And fell from grace.

A few years later, you called my name

In the street

Were intimate strangers

By mischance meet.

You were no old flame.

Yet the memory remains

Of a girl, perhaps half there.

And your friend in the street

Who knew it was true

But claimed a mistake

Had occurred.

Yet, I knew you –

A sleek black cat

Who lost her fur

In a gentleman’s flat.

Lethe

One day

I will cross the Styx

And drink of Lethe.

All our memories must decay.

But some succumb

To Lethe

Before they make their way

Over the Styx.

We grieve

For those who are here

Yet gone away.

And pray

That when we leave

We may

Recognise Charron.

Yet some who forget

Before they cross

Know not what

They have lost

More wine

When a young lady drinking my wine

Said, “your rhyme it is truly divine!”

I said to her, “miss,

Do give me a kiss!”

She said, “first give me more wine!”

The Poetic Old Goat

There once was a poetic old goat

Who went and swallowed a coat.

He said, “that was delicious!”

But the effects were pernicious,

As a button stuck in his throat!

Identity

I heard my entry phone go.

I said, “hello?”

He said, “Its Tesco”.

I replied, “its not me!”

After, I thought I ought

To have said, “its not for me”.

For I am, of course “I” or “me”.

But, you see

I was not thinking of my identity

At the time,

For my mind

Was caught up in rhyme!

A Gossipy Young Lady Known as Cook

A gossipy young lady known as Cook

Has published a fast selling book.

An erotic dancer called Lou

Says we must sue!

But all Cook says is true …!

My Poetic Muse

The desk is cold to my hand.

I can not command

My poetic muse.

So think of girls who lose their shoes,

And poets who

Say more than they ought to

Of women and wine

And men who may seem

To spend their time

In fleeting dreams.

But it is no crime

For a poetic muse

To lose

Her ethereal shoes.

Yet what can be said

Should she lay her fickle head

Upon the poet’s empty bed

Where love sleeps.

Or is dead.

Being Blind

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Being blind I find

I can read and write in the dark.

I have some small sight

So turn on the light at night

To prevent the stubbing of toes

And avoid

The stairs.

For, if I fall

All dreams and nightmares

May end

And eternal dark descend.

But the night

Will shut out the light

For us all

In the end

Whether we have blind eyes

Or otherwise.

My Muse

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The desk is cold to my hand.

I can not command

My poetic muse.

So think of girls who lose their shoes,

And poets who

Say more than they ought to

Of women and wine

And men who may seem

To spend their time

In fleeting dreams.

But it is no crime

For a poetic muse

To lose

Her ethereal shoes.

Yet what can be said

Should she lay her fickle head

Upon the poet’s empty bed

Where love sleeps.

Or is dead.

A Young Lady of Peru

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There was a young lady of Peru

Who was famous for losing a shoe.

One hot day in May

They found it in Bombay,

Which was strange as she’d never left Peru!