There was a young chap called Dan
Who met a girl with a fake tan.
To his surprise
She batted her eyes,
And introduced herself as Ann!
There Was A Young Chap Called Dan
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Category Archives: poetry
There Was A Young Poet Called More
There was a young poet called More
Who wrote using metaphor.
His wife Jane
Did complain
That his poems made her snore!
Who is the I in I?
On Tuesday evening (23 May), I had dinner with 2 old friends. During the course of our conversation my friend, Jeff asked “Who is the I in I”? My response was that we are composed of a mix of genetic data inherited from our parents, environmental influences and the culture we absorb from a young age. All of these factors, I said, help to determine who the I in I is.
The snippet of conversation related above, reminded me of my poem “Genes” which is reproduced below:
“Are we just our genes
Means
To a meaningless conclusion,
A confusion of arms, legs and bed?
The head
Is often overruled
By the fool
Lust.
Into eternity we thrust
Desperately hoping to leave one of our kind
Behind
Ere our dalliance ends in dust”.
(“Genes” can be found in my collection of poetry, “Refractions”, which is available, as a Kindle download in the Amazon Kindle store).
Recollection
You left your heels behind.
It is no particular bind
For you
To lose them, its true,
But what am I to do
With a lady’s shoe?
I remember your voice
(Redolent of private school).
I played the fool
(It was my choice).
You left your shoes under the bed.
Few words where said.
There was no love to lose
As a thing never started
Leaves no one broken hearted.
Enough said.
Stillettoed Feet
Many a man’s goal
Is derailed by the beat
Of stillettoed feet
That tear a hole
In his suffering soul.
Cyborg
When skin and bone are gone
The cyborg continues on,
But is it you or I?
And can a cyborg die?
There Was A Young Lady Called Mia
There was a young lady called Mia
Who drank 10 pints of beer.
A passing monk
Said “your drunk,
And beer it is so dear”!
Light and Shade
Walking upon grass
I pass
Through light and shade
No maid
To accompany me,
Just the shade
Of the final tree
To engulf me
Anyone Can Write Like Shakespeare
Often do I sigh
On hearing the old lie
That anyone can write like Shakespeare.
Sensible people know it isn’t true
Yet through fear
Of being labelled with that dread
Word “elitist”, which cuts debate dead,
All but the brave withdraw into their shell
For they know full well
That the roof
Frequently does fall
On he who has the gall
To tell the unvarnished truth.
Wisteria
Wandering around Hampton Court
In late May, a thought,
Prompted by Wisteria hanging on a wall.
A few purple flowers, their scent
Already spent
And ready to fall,
Did to me call.
—
The flowering time for Wisteria is April to June. I visited Hampton Court with my friend, Brian yesterday (20 May).
