A short black dress
You wore.
Making it easy for
My hands to explore
Your unstockinged legs.
Yes I confess
That I remember the dress
So black and tight,
And the hot
Night, though not
To my shame,
Your name
I smell new-mown grass
As I pass
By the field
Where school children play,
Then pass
Through the Churchyard, where all must,
One day,
Yield to dust.
In a hot land
Man can not command
The sun,
But those of a certain mind
Will find
That fun
Under a foreign sun
May be had
With a girl or lad.
Though the trip enjoyed
Is a life
Destroyed. Yes, man can command
A smile
While at home the wife
Or girlfriend does trust, or pretend
That she does not know.
And, when he does go
To the pub on his return
His mates may learn
Midst laughter
Of fun
Under the sun
While disaster
Unlike Banquo’s ghost
Does not spoil the feast.
I think of you in dream,
Walking barefoot, along the sand
But you are forever out of reach
For ’tis impossible to command a dream.
I wake
And feel an ache
In my bones.
I must
Engage with cramp
For age
Has left a stamp
On me
And dust
Hides in corners.
You may
Clear the dust away
But ’tis a never ending task
Which, at last
Will defeat
The best of men.
And the ache reminds thee
And me
That, in the end
The dust will win, my friend
I know a young man named Hogg
Who composed a poem about the smog.
His work is too dense
And fails to make sense,
And he lost me deep in the fog!
Some men love the horserace.
‘Tis the thrill of winning
After which they chase.
Others prefer another kind of punting,
A hunting
After fallen women.
‘Tis a type of bet,
Which some call sinning,
Which may end in regret
Or pleasure, but never winning
When you saw her with me
And I asked, “did she
Look Happy?”
You answered “yes”
Which, I must confess
Made me
Smile, for she
Did not smile
Away her time
With me
For the love of my rhyme,
And a smile may beguile,
Reveal or conceal
Simultaneously, while
All you see
Is a smile
That does grace
A girl’s pretty face . . .
When a young man named Mitch
Said, “poetry will make me rich!”,
A young lady called Moriah
Sighed, “I must marry the squire,
For poetry does not make one rich!”.
Standing under this rain drenched tree
I hear the breeze
That rustles the leaves
Whisper to me.
Then, a sneeze,
Brings me back to reality.
