In forests green
I have seen
The nymphs play.
Cometh May
They will around the pole
Dance.
By chance
Some kindred soul
Seeing a special one twirl
Will take a girl
Into his arms
For who can resist the charms
Of beauty fleeting
As the budding rose
Pressed to a young maiden’s nose.
There will be time enough for weeping
When the dance is over
And we are pushing up the clover
Sugar so sweet
Looks down on girls who, on ill shod feet
Patrol the cold and lonely street.
She turns up her delicate nose
At those who in cheap clothes
Under street lamps pose.
Sugar loves fine wines
And in expensive restaurants dines
With her darling Honey
Who spends his money
As though there were no tomorrow,
Thereby concealing some inner sorrow?
Sugar so sweet
And the girl on the street
Engage in the same profession.
Discretion
Is sugar’s middle name
But, in the end they are both the same.
—
Alone
At home
I sensed an intruder in my hall.
My mouth was dry
And I could not call
Out for help.
For his throat I felt
And smelt
A stench as of a thing long since deceased.
All grappling ceased
And through my fear
I recognised death
Standing near.
—
The above poem is based on a dream I dreamed several days ago. While dreaming, I was conscious of a profound sense of fear, heightened by the terrible stench emminating from the intruder in my home. However it was only on awakening that I recognised the presence as that of the angel of death.
My thanks to Alain Gomez for this review of my collection of short stories, “The Suspect and Other Tales”, (http://bookbrouhaha.blogspot.co.uk/2016/04/review-of-suspect-and-other-tales.html).
We are supposed to strive,
And arrive
At a goal.
The whole
Point of education
Is to generate wealth for the nation.
One must be constructive
And do something productive.
Making wigits
And counting digits
Keeps the wheels of commerce turning.
Gradgrind says we must always be learning
But I am discerning
He means
As a machine
That thinks not but performs.
He scorns
Arts for they have no goal
Other than the enrichment of the soul.
Bentham is dead
Yet his head
Calculates still,
While the poet on the hill
Takes delight
In the dark and starry night.
—
https://www.ucl.ac.uk/museums/jeremy-bentham/about/bentham-head
With huge thanks to David Cronin of Moyhill, I am pleased to be able to post an edited version of my interview on Croydon Radio. The previous version (posted here) ran to some 2 hours, of which my contribution is approximately 30 minutes. The edited version (which contains only my interview) can be found at:
(http://moyhill.com/lost/assets/km-interview-croydon-radio-2016-04-09-16-00-53-edited-64k.mp3).
The Past Has Passed
Once upon a time
This heart of mine
Was broken by you
But now I’m no longer blue.
However, you seem to want me back
But as always you lack
To tell me how
You truly feel now.
I’ve had to let you go
Because I now know
Without the all important trust
It simply won’t work.
Perhaps I’m a little colder
Or wisdom came as I got older
But in my heart I feel it’s right
To bid our love a sweet good night.
The stallion getting old
Feels the cold,
But When he runs with the mares
His cares
Seem far away.
He doth play
At romance
But cannot prance
As once was the case.
Another pretty face
Becomes as one
With lovers long since gone.
There are always mares
With which to pair,
To keep him warm
As the dawn grey
Slinks over the horizon
Ushering in yet another day.
Thank you to Jayne King for drawing my attention to the poem, “Wha Fe Call I’” By Valerie Bloom. The poem examines the oddities of that wonderful language, English, (http://betweenthelines.darkbb.com/t334-wha-fe-call-i-valerie-bloom).
I hear
The sea in my ear.
It’s waves ever near
Go swish swish.
I wish
They would withdraw.
But what if the roar
Should cease
Leaving a deafly peace?
To be blind and without sound
Is to some a horror profound.
Yet many who in silence dwell
Do not consider it hell.
Society puts it’s fear
On those who can not hear
And finds
In the blind
An object of pity
For it is easy to patronise
Those with no eyes.
“I could not cope
And would abandon hope”
They say
While the disabled shrug
And get on with their day.
