“Tell me wolf, why do you howl
At the rising moon?
Is it that our little life is over oh too soon?”
“No, ‘tis the owl
Most foul.
He stole my favourite towel!”,
He replied with a growl …! …
Howling at the Moon
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Category Archives: books
Cryonics
It is a will-o’-the-wisp, followed by the frightened or blind,
Who themselves bind
To the delusion, that the mist does not forever close
Over mouth and nose.
There are few posies for the departed,
Just an idea started
In the mind
Of those who would salvation find
In a deep freeze,
Designed to please
The ego
Of people who fear to go
Down that dark track
From whence none come back
Mannequin
As a mannequin in a shop window, at which people stare,
She stands in the glare
Of the bedroom light.
Once, such things did excite.
Now all is null
Or on occasions, he
Takes a dull,
Almost professional interest in yet another she.
Gazing at the girl, in her birthday suit
He thinks on the route
Cause of his obsession with mannequins.
Loneliness or sins?
Where begins
A man’s cursed traverse
Of the path to the ever lasting bonfire
Where desire
Ends in mechanical sport
With a mannequin bought
Out of boredom.
He knows there is no true joy in hoardom
For him or her.
Still, in despair
He takes a half-hearted pleasure there.
Feather
Shall we speak as though we will go on forever?
I saw a feather
Borne on a summer’s breeze.
It did please
Me
To see
So carefree
A thing
Dance on the balmy air.
The breeze became a gale,
Then came the hail.
The feather
Was by the tempest tossed,
And forever
Lost
In that passing storm.
Another Time, Another Place
A man, alone, in a room, listening to a distant bird.
Not a word
Of his overheard.
The neighbours are friendly enough, not prying
Or spying.
Liberty’s flower
Blooms an hour
But he has heard tell
It may be dying.
There Was A Young Man Called Jack
There was a young man called Jack
Whose view of the world was black.
When they asked him “why?”
He said, with a sigh,
“because I always take the flak …!”
There Was A Young Lady Called Gale
There was a young lady called Gale
Who wrote to her lover in braille.
He said with a look most perplexed,
“Really, I’m vext,
For my fingers,can not read braille …!”
The Gods Have Left Mount Olympus
The gods have left Mount
Olympus. Zeus grits his teeth
At the lack of belief,
While Venus haggles over a discount
On second hand clothes.
And Heaven only knows
Where the world goes.
Night Duty
The click clack of stilettos.
Girls from ghettos
Feet are lost
In carpets they could never afford,
While a discreet board
Shows the cost
Of most things.
The lift bell pings.
What goes up must go down.
The receptionist, eyes lost in her book
Gives a slight frown.
Why bother to look?
For of course
A nod is as good as a wink
To a blind horse.
Newark Abbey, by Thomas Love Peacock
Newark Abbey
August, 1842
with a remembrance of August, 1807
I gaze, where August’s sunbeam falls
Along these grey and lonely walls,
Till in its light absorbed appears
The lapse of five-and-thirty years.
If change there be, I trace it not
In all this consecrated spot:
No new imprint of Ruin’s march
On roofless wall and frameless arch:
The hilss, the woods, the fields, the stream,
Are basking in the self-same beam:
The fall, that turns the unseen mill
As then it murmured, murmurs still:
It seems, as if in one were cast
The present and the imaged past,
Spanning, as with bridge sublime,
That awful lapse of human time,
That gulph, unfathomably spread
Between the living and the dead.
For all too well my spirit feels
The only change this place reveals:
The sunbeams play, the breezes stir,
Unseen, unfelt, unheard by her,
Who, on that long-past August day,
First saw with me those ruins grey.
Whatever span the fates allow,
Ere I shall be as she is now,
Still in my bosom’s inmost cell
Shall that deep-treasured memory dwell:
That, more than language can express,
Pure miracle of loveliness,
Whose voice so sweet, whose eyes so bright,
Were my soul’s music, and its light,
In those blest days, when life was new,
And hope was false, but love was true.
