When I visited you
In your parent’s house
I doubt you knew
How I wanted you.
I remember your spouse
(To be).
Did he
Know
I wanted you
So?
After the ball
An owl called
And you said
How the owl’s cry
In the dark park
Was “sexy”, and I
Thought of bed
And went home
To tea, alone.
In the ancient wood I stood
And saw many a fallen tree
Brought low by storm.
They spoke to me
Of how shadows grow
On an English lawn,
In summertime. And of Kipling’s rhyme.
For he foresaw how empires go.
Do the Chinese and Russians know
What Kipling told not long ago?
(Note: for anyone who has not done so, I recommend reading Kipling’s “Recessional”, in which he warns against the arrogance of imperialism, and foresees the loss of the British Empire).
When I met an adventurous young lady named Mabel
Who said, “do you want me on this table?”,
I said, “I’ve met many young women
Who spend all their lives in sinning,
And, my dear Mabel, that table is very unstable!”
A clock does tick.
Hands of terror grip
An innocent child, while
The impersonal tick tock
Of the unseeing clock
Speaks of cruelty and power.
In childhood, an hour
Can be an eternity.
I would like to wish all of my readers a very happy Easter! Whether you celebrate with family, are celebrating alone, (or do not celebrate at all), may your day be a pleasant one.
Very best wishes. Kevin
In an English garden
I heard a blackbird
And thought on England,
And on how we
English, are still,
More or less,
Free.
She kept her stockings on
And soon was gone.
Now I write a rhyme
About the first time.
In a bedsit
By a canal
My first fall
Was just banal.
Shal I write
Of other nights?
Of fake flirts in skirts,
And the odd passing delight?
No, I shall pass
Over the mirrored glass
Where many a stranger does comb
Her hair, ere leaving me alone.
He deals with girls in heels.
Behind the pretty eyes he buys
You may find a tortured mind,
Or a girl who thinks
Of dishes in her sink
As she pleases and teases
A man who worships her shoe.
Or, as he gets his thrills
Perchance she thinks on unpaid bills
Which his night of delight
Will pay the following day
And what of John
When she is gone?
What will his conscience say? …
Why do I try
To cage
A blackbird in my paper cage?
In spring he sings
And makes for me
Sublime poetry.
That I can not cage
Within my poor poetic cage.
On hearing the same clock
On the same kitchen wall,
I recall, another blackbird’s call,
And that old Time Knocks,
1 day, for us all.
