Oh churchyard tree
You will outlast me
And your branches provide shade
To lad and maid,
Though I go below.
Yet, in the end,
My churchyard friend,
Thee and me
Having our lives run
Must both succumb
To mortality.
Leaves creep in
And grin
At me, from the floor.
There are more
Outside, piled high
by The wind.
They can be cleared away
But, there can be no denial
That, one day
I to, shall be swept away
Along with these, fallen, leaves.
On an early winter evening,
In the darkening park,
I thought on beginnings,
And leaving.
Then, on my way home,
Alone,
I heard a couple behind.
They passed, out of sight,
Into a cold, December night,
Leaving me behind.
I saw a portrait
Of Lord Salisbury smile,
And heard the late
Bevan turn in his grave.
Corbynites are in denial,
While
One-nation Tories say,
“Disraeli will save
The day”.
Salisbury continues to smile,
While
The bereft,
Left
Remain, in denial.
When
Young women say,
In a conversational sort of way,
“I wasn’t born
When
You did such and such”,
Then
My heart does warn
Of dust.
Though I
Suspect, ’tis lust,
Which is last to die.
Today is general election day.
The sun must
Rise on Johnson or Corbyn.
Soon, manifestos will gather dust,
Or be re-read with a cynical grin
By people who will say,
“You promised such and such
On election day”.
Then, in disgust
They will throw the thing away.
Oh the joy
For girl and boy
Of yet, another, election day!
A young man named Lee
Composes lots of concrete poetry.
His poem about an urban pavement
Has led to much critical engagement,
But his poetry’s to hard for me!
Did she choose
To wear
Those shoes,
With her legs bare
To the evening air?
Look and you will find
That her name
Is as old
As mankind.
‘Tis an ancient game
Played by the bold,
The strapped-for-cash,
The rash
And those who, perhaps just
Enjoy the game
Of lust.
Perchance it is the knowledge of his own dust
Which causes man to thrust
Into an empty vessel, where his tingles
Of lust
Commingles
With dust.
When a young lady dressed in red
Said, “please, get out of my bed!”,
I said, “this bed is mine.
You’ve drunk far to much wine!
Go back to your own blooming bed!”.
A gentleman will never tell.
Well,
If that is so,
I shall go
And compose
A poem about a rose,
Or a sweet peach,
Quite out of my reach.
