If I told you what I dream
You would move the conversation on to the weather
Or any subject but that
Of which I dream.
But why so?
For you know
That every man has his craze,
The secret fire that does blaze within.
Some are driven mad
And are almost glad
To give in
And sin.
There was a young man named Moor
Who explained the limerick’s core.
Had I the time
I would finish this rhyme,
But alas I can write no more!
There was a young lady named Nell
Who wished her soul to sell.
It was bought by a demon named Mark,
Who dwelt in the dark,
But was really an actress called Bell!
A beautiful butterfly
Flutters by
And a gentle breeze
Russles the leaves
Of fine old trees.
Where shadows dance
Couples may see,
By some lucky chance,
The otter wild and free
That dreams
In woodland streams.
Standing on the street
With dusty feet,
They gazed
Amazed
At the museum of yesteryear,
While far and near
Stretched the asphalt drear.
Mugabe goes to Singapore
For his medication
While the poor
Of Zimbabwe’s nation
Must seek treatment in their own country.
I ask you who can disagree
With the decision
Of the World Health Organisation
To appoint Mugabe as an ambassador? So feline
Cease your derision,
But perhaps you may be allowed one final smile
As there can be no denial
That all flesh is dust.
Kick off your shoes
For a stranger is a friend not yet made.
Be not staid
Dear maid
But lose
Yourself in booze
And forget
Regret.
Let us draw the curtain
For tomorrow
Is uncertain
Your skin is silky smooth
But how the clock’s hands move
Towards the morrow,
Which the forecasters say
Will be a dismal day.
There was a young lady named Claire
Who had extremely long blonde hair.
Her boyfriend Mark,
Sang like a lark
And birds made a nest in Claire’s hair.
Knowledge they seek
Though none dare speak.
They hide behind magazines
And play out scenes in their head,
Doubt gnaws
Away and words go unread,
“But he said … And I know he wouldn’t lie
Don’t I?”
And behind closed doors
That which is concealed
Will be revealed.
Trees by Strong winds battered.
Leaves descend
And lie
Scattered,
And I
Think on Friendships end
The poet does capture
Beauty’s rapture
In verse.
How perverse
That in his desire to ignite
Delight
In another’s heart
With his art,
So much of his precious time
Is lost in rhyme.
