There was a young man named Heart
Who knew nothing at all about art.
When he stole a painting
It led to no fainting,
As it really wasn’t art!
Red lights
Bring delight
For a moment,
On a street.
High-heeled feet.
Men are lost
In arms
They can not own,
Then, alone
Return home.
(This poem was inspired by Lorraine’s “Red Lights”, https://blindwilderness.wordpress.com/2019/04/25/red-lights/).
From tomorrow (Friday 26 April), the British Library will be hosting an exhibition concerning the history of writing. The exhibits include an ancient egyptian tablet which demonstrates that concerns about the quality of homework are far from being new! It also shows that worries regarding the decline in hand-writing are not confined to the 21st century. For more information please visit, https://www.theguardian.com/books/2019/apr/24/living-by-the-pen-british-library-explores-history-of-writing.
Kevin
I met a young lady named Rose
Who last night stole all of my clothes.
I was composing a rhyme to my love
When, great heavens above,
Rose she stole all of my clothes!
I,
know that ’tis easy, when alone
To pick up the telephone,
Or to click on the internet,
And buy,
Regret.
I think of you
Without shoe
Or sock,
But passion’s knock
Will never be heard
So I shall cease this empty word
Play and do something useful with my day.
But, when in the land
Of sleep,
You may creep
Into my head, for I can not command
The shadows of dreamland
Where passion unlocks
And girls lose
Their shoes
And socks …
I know a pretty young miss
Who asked me to give her a kiss,
But I being shy
Said, “I’m not that kind of guy!”,
But that miss she did insist …
