Girls from ghettos
In cheap
Stilettos
Keep
The numbers of regulars on their mobile.
And, when down on their luck
Will text, or phone
And say, to men who are alone,
“Let me make you smile.
Come and feed a duck.
And lonely men reach for bread
For the duck
Must be fed
‘Ere a man’s need
For spilled
Seed,
Can be fulfilled.
Travelling by train
At night,
The light
Of another train
Passes by,
Then is gone,
It’s light
Lost in night.
And my
Wheels clack on,
Their sound
Echoing around,
Until my light
And sound,
Are lost in night.
When the clock
Does stop,
You can wind
It again.
But when
The brain,
(Some say mind)
Ceases to be,
What shall become
Of you and me?
For there is no sun
To see,
And we,
Can not rewind.
The Reader, (which is based at Calderstones in Liverpool), are offering a free “Home for Christmas” anthology. Being from that great city and, of course a poetry lover, I was keen to download and enjoy the anthology, which can be found here, https://www.thereader.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2019/12/Home-for-Christmas.pdf.
“The Home for Christmas” anthology contains poems by Shakespeare, Robert Browning and Christina Rossetti amongst others.
Kevin
I prefer
My comfortable old armchair;
And the tick tock
Of my clock
With it’s traditional chime;
And poetry that rhymes.
To a world where
My old armchair
Is replaced
By minimalist furniture;
Clocks have a digital face
(And do not chime);
And I am told, that rhyme
Is out with the present time.
I saw a child
In a pram
And smiled
For I am
Always glad
To see
A happy
Child.
Then, I was half-sad
That I have
No children to leave behind.
But then my mind
Turned to climate change, and I
Was half-glad
That when I die,
I will have
None to leave behind.
I gave a young lady
A copy of my poetry.
She likes my verse
And, for better or worse,
Having read my poetry
Knows something of me.
For, through my art
I reveal
A part
Of my heart.
Maybe,
‘Tis the better part
That she
Does see.
Conservatives speak of radical change,
Whilst Socialists say
Everything will stay
The same,
For that is the Conservative way.
And perhaps some long dead Tory squire,
bemused and confused,
By this desire
For change,
Turns in his sleep
And mutters,
“I thought Conservatives where there To keep
Things the same”.
But, no one hears the words he utters.
This solitary park.
This winter sky
And I.
Soon, it will be dark.
Is there shame
In not knowing a girl’s name?
Maybe it is so
When you go
To the place
Wherein
Grace
Gives way to sin.
And what if her name
Be false,
But you waltz,
Just the same.
Is there shame
In a waltz
With a girl with a false,
Or no name?
She has agency,
But is free,
Is she not?
And in your hot
Passion,
A name
(and compassion),
Is soon forgot,
Is it not?
