I leave dry leaves behind.
Yet, I find
Leaves still whisper to me
Of my mortality.
Often they sound the same as rain.
I will return again
For they are part of my heart.
And poetry may live on
When I am gone.
While the rain will remain
I once met a sad old vampire
Who said, “I have lost all desire
To drink men’s blood”.
I said, “that’s good!”.
But I still didn’t trust that vampire!”
I find
Fantasies run riot
In my unquiet mind.
Sometimes in my dreams
It seems
That dark fantasy
Is reality.
But in unending dream
My fantasy
Will be clay.
When I took my Labrador for a walk
We engaged in a jolly good old talk.
I said to him, “Apollo!
Your stomach is too hollow!”,
He said, “pass me that knife and fork!”
I know a young lady named Grace
Who said, “do take me into space!”.
So we went to the moon.
But it was over too soon.
But that’s often the way with Grace …!
When a young lady in a rush
Said, “lets get amorous in this bush”,
It sounded quite jolly.
But o! what folly!
As that bush was a holly bush!
Crows core on a cold day.
My hair is long since grey.
These autumn leaves
Will not stay.
I once met a very large alligator
Who asked could he borrow my calculator.
I said to him, “mate
Please go and eat Kate.
She’ll taste much nicer than my calculator!”.
If we are going to hell in a handcart
Why should I be good?
Should my art be moral, when there is dark
In my imperfect heart?
When I am dead
I will not care what is said
Of me by she
Who must follow me in due time.
Poets leave clues in rhyme
To their misspent lives
And the literary critic thrives
By interpreting lost lives.
I try to be good.
But when nymphs call
I recall what is good
And yet still fall.
