The rain
Patters Amongst these leaves.
I listen again
And ascertain,
That its the breeze
Midst these trees.
Yet it sounds the same
As rain.
The Rain Patters Amongst These Leaves
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Category Archives: musings
Mix
A mix
Of limbs
And diverse sins.
Some get their kicks
From rhyme.
Time
Passes
For lads and lasses.
Bodies intertwine
Genes travel on
Though we are gone,
Whilst others leave a rhyme
Behind, for posterity to find.
51
Its my birthday today.
I shall walk in the wood
And maybe see
A nymph.
But, if so,
I shall be good!
I shall go to the pub
Tonight
And delight
In the company of companions dear,
As we sit near
To the open fire.
I am 51.
Over half a century has passed.
Tonight I shall raise a glass
And wonder where the time
Has gone,
And be glad
That I have
Friends, and rhyme.
I Would Rather Die In This Darkening Park
I
Would rather die
In this darkening park,
While
Evening birds sing,
Than in some sterile
Hospital wing,
Where drugs oblivion bring,
And no birds sing.
—
Having written the last line, I am reminded that I owe a huge debt to John Keats, “La Belle Dame sans Merci”, https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44475/la-belle-dame-sans-merci-a-ballad).
The last 2 lines of the first stanza of Keat’s poem read:
“The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing”.
While the last stanza of the poem runs thus:
“And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing”.
You May See Beauty in Poetry
You may see
Beauty in poetry,
And smile
While
The thing being described,
Is otherwise …
A Poet’s Epitaph
“He liked to rhyme
And was fond
Of women
And wine,
And sinning.
Now he has gone beyond
Women,
And wine,
And sinning.
And he is out of time
For rhyme”.
I Have Sat Round the Open Pub Fire
I have sat round the open pub fire
And discussed the rights and wrongs of empire,
And the ends
Of men
With friends.
But when
I walk through fallen leaves,
The ends
Of men
I truly perceive.
Thinking of A Girl He’s Never Met
Thinking of a girl he’s never met,
And perhaps he,
Will never see.
Memories of heels and skirts.
And flirts
(Who where not).
Momentary joy, close followed by regret
And pain,
Maybe he
Will do it all again.
But, If so, for what?
A brief hot
Rush,
A flush
Of pleasure.
Recollections of girl’s scent,
Then repent
At leisure.
Dark Heart
I love
The dark heart
Of the wood.
But the black
Has been cut back
Allowing me
To see
Where the mystery
Should be.
Yet the dark
And the light
Fight
Within me,
Still, and will
Do so
Until I go
Into the night,
And become forever part
Of the dark,
And the light.
Politics and Poetry
I met a young lady named Ling
Who said, “you poets are all left-wing!”.
I said, “between you and I,
Eliot was a Conservative kind of guy,
Whilst Philip Larkin was really right-wing!”.
