I was pleased to read this interview with Gabriela M, a writer whose work I greatly admire, https://spillwords.com/spotlight-on-writers-gabriela-m/.
Please do read Gabriela’s interview and visit her blog which can be found here, https://shortprose.blog/author/shortprose12/.
Kevin
2 Goddesses I know
And will go
And worship at their feet
But they may my ardour defeat
And bid me cease,
‘Else they will call the police!
Should I therefore hold my peace,
Or whisper words of love
To a goddess above?
And if I express my passion
To a young lady of fashion,
To which one should
I speak?
I am weak
With desire,
‘Tis best to kill this fire
For ’tis only a delusion
That a goddess could
Give me her love,
And confusion
Would, I maintain
Reign, where I to voice
My love
To 2 goddesses above.
No, I shall stay
Away from goddesses
As there is too much choice . . .
Oft I
Pass By
The graveyard plot,
But rarely stop
Though one day,
I shall stay
When the creator
(Whether god or nature)
Takes my breath away.
I kiss
And partake
In bliss,
Then wake
To my greying head
And an empty bed.
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!
