Where I to write a poem for you
How much of it would be true?
For one may construe
Black as white.
The night
May bring delight
But come break of day
The succubus will be on her way.
He who invites the vampire in
Has, I maintain
No reason to complain
When she leaves him pale and thin.
The blood red
Wine tastes divine
And there is a fine line
Betwixt the living and the dead.
—
A succubus is a female demon (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Succubus).
Thank you to Shital Shah for her poem, “TFL Limerick”. For anyone unfamiliar with London’s transport system, Transport for London (TFL) is the body with overall responsibility for the capital’s transport. You can find out more about TFL at their website here (https://tfl.gov.uk/).
Strong winds or heat,
Rain, snow or sleet.
Engineering works or strike actions,
Perhaps a leaf causing disruptions.
Whatever the reason, TfL simply can’t defeat.
*Inspired by Thursday’s weather and travel troubles. Londoners will sympathise.
The rain pours
And Thor’s
Hammer knocks
Against crumbling locks
As he our civilisation mocks.
A few, hearing the thunder
Lift their eyes in wonder
From the TV,
While fewer still, know what it is to be free.
I recall The library’s high shelves
Where I would delve
For books.
Often I forsook
My peers
To read
And on solitude feed.
All those years
Gone by.
I sigh
And wonder why
The past holds such sway.
And we humans lose ourselves in yesterday.
Oh how easy it is to perspective lack
As we gaze back
Down childhood’s track.
I remember the schoolyard’s din
And the wanting to join in.
Sometimes I ran with the crowd
Yet my nature proud
Held me apart
And I solace found in art.
I see the library now
And wonder how
The school goes on
Now that I am gone
An whether books still stand
Waiting to command
The future poet’s hand.
It takes a couple to waltz.
With beauty charming
And character disarming
She does dance
And romance
Until the sun’s ray’s lance
The comforting dark
And a new day starts.
Both parties are willing
But does the payment of a shilling
To the girl
Who does so seductively twirl
Render their interaction
An exploititive transaction
And the waltz false?
My head full
Of dull
Thought.
Then the ball you caught
And waving your tail
Did derail
My introspection.
How can I suffer dejection
When I recollect your playful snort
And the ball you caught?
He said, “I have wrought
What I ought
Not to have wrought
And bought
What I ought
Not to have bought.
I have caught
the wild bird
Who’s song I heard
In the lonely night.
Once delight
Of a kind, semed sweet to you and me
And we believed ourselves to be free”.
She said, “There can be no mistaking
That I flew into a cage
Of my own making
And now I rage
Against my own stupidity
And cupidity.
Expensive bras
Make for sturdy bars.
The truth is, you a bird caught
But together we rought
This cage
In which we now both uselessly rage
Skin soft as silk.
Giver of milk
But not yet
For you must get
What you need
In order to succeed
Or feed your greed.
Seed contained in a glove.
But one day a tree may shoot
From another route.
I would
That it’s fruit be good
And bathed in love.
Is it just sour grapes
When the lover of England exception takes
To the portrayal of his land
As a place where shoppers stand
In fractious line,
Oops, sorry I mean having a rare old time,
Getting and spending
In the never ending
Consumerist dance?
If by chance
One ponders on Elgar
Or Churchill with his cigar,
The lover of his country surely does think
How this ad would turn them both to drink.
Forget ancient oaks that russle,
In the fresh English air.
No one seems to care
And it is consumer muscle
I fear
That is celebrated here.
I was feeling overwrought
And somewhat out of sorts,
When my heart was caught
By a little girl who sang.
Joy into my soul sprang
And her father gave me a strawberry juicy and red.
Few words where said,
Yet my heart was fed
By fruit and a child
Who did beguile
Me to smile
On a crowded train,
Soothing my racing brain.
—
Thank you to the man, his wife and their little girl who touched my heart on the way home from the office last week.
