I saw 2 men who did contend
Over who could a clocks hand’s bend.
I feared it would break
As one did a forward motion make,
While the other pushed back.
The mechanism shivered
But did not crack.
Those men are at it still
And will
Not be content
Until that venerable old clock is rent
Asunder,
For like a dog with a bone
They can not leave it alone.
Forgive them, for they know not what they plunder
There was a young lady called Bess
Who wore a very short dress.
The vicar’s daughter walked by
And said, with a sigh
“Would that I could that way dress!”
Knowledge I possess (and a degree),
But the wind free
Laughs at me
As he
Shakes yonder bending tree
Dancing
Unwilling
But needing
That shilling.
They desiring
Her to dance
But needing
No romance.
A red apple she takes
And slakes
Their need
To feed.
Her bust.
Their lust.
Apple pips
And dust.
“If there be such a thing
As false memory,
Why then does recollection sting
As a demented wasp?
The physical pain
May go, but the buzz
Does remain,
Churning,
Returning
Again and again.
The lunatics have taken over the asylum
But who are the lunatics and who are the sane?
And why in the brain
Does the imaginary sting
Remain?
The plays the thing
Wherein we’ll catch the conscience of the king”.
“But Claudius is long since dead
And Hamlet is mad”,
The doctor said.
She plays
And the last rays
Of the setting sun
Catch her hand
That can command
An ocean.
A final motion
Of her wrist
And their game is done.
Thoughts muddy
I will forsake
And take
Refuge in my study,
Among poets who speak
Words that endure beyond a week.
I shall sit listening to birdsong.
The long
Summer days willimperceptibly turn
Into Autumn. I shall the world spurn
And yearn
For Keat’s Nightingale.
Harken
As gardeners their scythes
Sharpen
And see, how the skies
Darken.
There was a young poet called Leigh
Who wrote using free verse.
Sometimes she would find
That not using rhyme
Was a bit of a bind,
So wrote using verse that was free!
I am offering the opportunity to win a signed (print) copy of my forthcoming collection of poetry, “My Old Clock I Wind and Other Poems”, which will be published, by Moyhill Publishing later this month. In order to enter please answer the following question:
What is the name of the famous English balad from which the following lines are taken
“The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, …”.
Please email your answers to newauthoronline (at) gmail dot com. Please put “Competition to win a copy of “My Old Clock I Wind” in the subject line of your email. Please do not provide the answer in the comments of this post (as everyone will be able to read your answer)! The first person to furnish the correct answer wins a free, signed copy of “My Old Clock”. Good luck!
Kevin
