With legs bare
And wet hair,
A nymph bold
Doesn’t care
About the old
Men who, trying not to stare
Think on wives with grey hair
And sagging skin,
As they contemplate the power
Of the cold shower
As an antidote to sin …
The forest peaceful lies
Under English skies.
The rain will come
Ere the sun
Casts it’s rays,
As in bygone days
On pools
Where schools
Of fish splash
And seeing the herron, dash
For cover
Lest he discover
Their woodland joy
And with a stab precise, their life destroy.
“I have lost
My sock” she cried.
“And I can’t recover it, much though I have tried”.
“It is little cost
To replace a sock, for they are cheap,
Dry your eyes my dear, there is no need to weep”
He said, and rolled over on his side to sleep.
If I died yet dreamed on
How would I know that I had gone?
Men their hearts lose
To girls in unsuitable shoes.
Fire will always burn.
No lessons are learned
While the world, unconcerned
On it’s axis continues to turn.
—
I owe a debt to Kiplings’s “The Gods of The Copybook Headings” for line 3 of the poem:
“As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn,
The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return!”.
http://www.kiplingsociety.co.uk/poems_copybook.htm
You lay on my book.
Perhaps you mistook
It for a bone
And discovering your mistake, left it alone!
You creased it’s pages.
Oh the ages
I took
To write that book!
You lay on my book
But look
I have many more,
And ‘twas entirely my fault for
I should not have left it on the floor!
Dogs have such short lives
While the poet’s work survives
Long after master and friend
Have come to their end.
You lay on my book,
My faithful old mutt.
This short piece speaks for itself and is worth a read, (http://www.rjgeib.com/thoughts/gunner/bad-poets.html).
Kevin
My books among delph
On a shelf
May live.
I hope they pleasure give
To a soul
In search of a part of the whole.
The complete truth is impossible to find,
Yet the mind
Seeks on
Long after the poet has gone
To the skies
Where truth lies …
When I go will it be in a darkened room
With cloying perfume
Hanging like a stark
question mark,
In the unmoved air?
I shall beware
The unlit stair
For I may go
Below
Lest I tread with care.
Will I leave at dawn
With only the birds to mourn?
Or perchance it will be among friends
Who, seeing my end
Will say
“Blast. A blaggard to the last!
He failed to pay, his bill ere he went away”!
I know not the day
But pray
I go with conscience clear,
Without fear
And with those to me dear
Standing near.
“His crisp white shirt.
Her short skirt.
The way they flirt
One would never know
It where so”.
“Know what?”
“That Cupid’s arrow was never shot.
She has sold
Her soul for Midas’s gold,
And the gods fortell
It won’t end well”.
