I wonder
Who makes the thunder.
Is it Thor
Who makes that roar?
The scientist will say
In a most prosaic way
That there is no deity on high
Merely electricity and the endless sky.
I sigh
For the forgotten days of belief.
This life is brief
And scientists say that there is no wonder
In yonder lightning flash
And the crash of thunder,
Yet still I wonder …
(Written in response to https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/wonder/).
Inchoate desire.
A fire
Fanned by a girl’s sweet scent.
No need to repent
As yet.
Come tomorrow
There will be sorrow
And regret.
(Written in response to https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/inchoate/).
There was a young lady called Lou
Who said “I shall thwart you”.
But ere long
She changed her song,
That capricious young lady called Lou!
(Written in response to https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/thwart/).
I remember well
The hut.
The rain fell
But
I swear
That I was content there.
Alone I was
Because
I wished it to be so.
I know
The rain and sky
For it is I.
A strange boy was I.
My heart
Given to rain and sky,
Standing aloof from the loud
Crowd
In my hut.
But
Half wishing to be part
Of those who were children as I
Yet knew not of rain and sky.
I see
The key
To my clock
On the bedside table,
As we …
I am unable
To block
The advance
Of time,
Although I can retrace
In rhyme
Many a dance
And half-remembered face.
The clock’s hands are still
Though mine move
And will,
Until
My inner clock
Receives a final shock
Thrusting
Into nothing.
Trusting
In nothing.
A way of coping,
Perchance hoping,
For Something
Of nothing.
There was a young lady called Fay
Who liked to say “haul away”.
So while out on a boat
In the middle of a moat
I hauled her overboard one day.
(Written in response to https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/haul/).
What does it profit a man if he gain a good education
To benefit the nation,
In a subject he comes to loathe?
The wild rose
Goes
Unsmelt
But he dwelt
Amongst those
Who wore fine clothes.
What good does it profit a man if he considers wealth
A supreme good in and of itself?
His health
He loses,
Boozes
Away
To help him cope with his stressful day.
He may pay
For a yacht
But he has got
A hole
Where his soul
Should be.
I can not agree
With those who would level down society
For variety
Is good
And we are not all of the same wood.
Yet to glorify economics at the expense of all else
Leads to an obsession with the self
And rich young things who sit, in groups, alone
Playing with their telephone
There was a young man called Coarse
Who rode a moral high horse.
I did hear tell
How one day he fell.
The people laughed of course.
I am no poet, for when,
At 10 AM
Men
Of letters drink beer
You will see
A sight most queer,
Namely me
Drinking tea
Or coffee,
So how can I a poet be?!
At 3 AM
When
Men
Of poetry are kept awake
By young ladies of ill repute,
There can be
No dispute
That you will find me
(Unbound)
Locked In the arms of sleep
Profound,
‘Tis enough to make me weep!
So while others get drunk
As the proverbial scunk
I shall sip my coffee
Or tea
And studiously avoid poetry …
