As I grow older, my blood cools.
I shall leave fools
To kick against the rules
And retire
From desire,
For the fire
Has burned me to the core.
The flames roar
On occasions still entices.
But no, I will not haggle over prices!
Fools may pursue their own devices
While I drink
The water that cools
And think
On half-forgotten spices.
Licence to use image obtained – Copyright: worac 123RF Stock Photo
“Excuse me, have you got the time please?”
“No, sorry”.
In the early hours of this morning (Saturday 26 August), I became conscious of my dog wandering around my home. This is, generally a sign that he needs to go out so (with some reluctance given the ungodly hour), I threw on some clothes and took my restless friend outside. I am not at my best of an early morning. Consequently I received quite a shock when a young woman enquired about the time.
On returning home and checking the time, I discovered that it was 1:41. Idly I wondered what took a young woman out at such a late hour. Possibly she was waiting for a bus (there is a bus stop close to my home). She could, perhaps have been visiting one of the residents of the flats in which I reside, or someone in the neighbouring block. Alternatively …
In any event it occurred to me that a fellow writer out there might like to use this as a writing prompt. If so, I would be interested to read what you write.
Kevin
Once he would wait
In a state
Of needing,
To begin his feeding.
The plate
Would arrive.
Man felt alive
As he ate.
But no,
It was not always so,
For on occasions he would feed
And reluctant to retire,
His greed
Did more desire
Breed.
A wise man did once remark
On this truth stark,
“There is enough for every man’s need,
But not his greed”.
With indifference or hate
Man comes to regard the plate.
But what of the wish
Of the dish?
For do not plates
Have states
Of being?
A dish, itself seeing
Reflected back, in glass
Thinks “alas”,
And wishes for all this to pass.
There was a computer program named Spot
Who knew an awful lot.
He wrote a book
Which the critics mistook,
As a work by a man called Mott!
After a while
The smile
Becomes set
In stone,
And yet
Were we not always alone
Waiting for the telephone to ring?
Or, indeed
Anything
To prevent
The descent
Into looking inside
(for woe betide
That we
Should be faced with me).
Or perhaps we call
For the writing on the wall
Says there is no choice,
But conscience’s voice
Whispers “No
You should not go
There”.
The devil in his lair
Replies “you may be gone tomorrow,
Drown your sorrow
And forget
Regret
In desire’s
Never ending fire”.
We awake
And take
A look inside,
For man can not hide
From himself
In the arms of elf.
“Never again
Will we have such pain”
We say
(and perhaps believe
As ‘tis easy oneself to deceive),
But tomorrow is another day
And the primrose way
Leads gently down to hell
Where dammed souls dwell.
There was a young man named Moat
Who said “no woman should vote”.
His girlfriend Jill
Replied “You will
Go and collect your coat”!
We dance in a ring
In spring
When the roses bloom
And little think on winter’s tomb.
We cavort
In the summer sun
With unstaid maid
And give but little thought
To how the deer does run
Towards the setting sun.
In autumn, when leaves fall
We recall
Life’s joys and gall
Ere winter makes a bed
For lover’s head.
There was a young lady named Lou
Who wrote a poem about you.
It was extremely salacious
And very vexacious,
But there was nothing I could do!
There was a young poet called Kevin
Who said “I may not get to heaven.
But I shall write
Throughout the night,
And get drunk by half-past seven”!
Of an evening late
Oft times I would wait
For a click clack
To relieve my lack.
In the street below
Feet would come and go.
Heels would approach
And broach …
Or in the dark
Car park
A door would bang,
Which rhymes with twang.
Looking back, I recall
Bang
And twang
And fall.
