There was a young lady called Fiona
Who took a boat to Iona.
She fell in the sea,
Shouted “Now I am free.
I have always been a bit of a loner”!
There Was a Young Lady Called Fiona
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As in Days of Yore
When the sun sinks
Man Drinks
From the Lillie lined pool
Where many a fool
Has drunk before.
As in days of yore
So it is now.
I think on how
Everything has changed
Yet remains the same.
The fool
Still drinks
As the sun sinks
Over the stagnant pool
Where lillies have long since gone to seed,
Vultures feed
And luxuriant weeds
Supply all needs.
“My Vibrating Vertebrae and Other Poems” by Agnes Mae Graham
A great guest post on my friend, Victoria (Tori) Zigler’s site, by Chris Graham (AKA the Story Reading Ape), about his mother, Agnes Mae Graham’s collection of poetry. For Chris’s post please follow this link, http://ziglernews.blogspot.co.uk/2016/07/poetry-book-by-author-agnes-mae-graham.html.
The Poet’s Obsession
Love and death are the poet’s great obsession.
Wile the former session
May be long or brief,
‘Tis certain, the performance, once over, ends in grief.
Owl
I have lain awake listening for the owl’s cry.
A note that chills
Thrills
Then does die.
One day
This bird of prey
Will carry my soul away,
Or so the supersticious say.
Mice hide
While I, in my pride
Decide
The owl’s erie cry
Signifies that I will die.
The bird has no interest in me
So why can I not be free
From his cry
That to my window nigh
does rise, then, as suddenly, die?
cynara by Ernest Christopher Dowson
Heels
Heels approaching
Conscience’s reproaching
Din Shrieks, “This is sin”!
But oh, how sweet it is to give in …
Sound ever nearer,
Clearer and clearer.
The man fears her
Yet desires.
unquenchable fires.
The body tires
Yet still he aspires
To take
And her passion awake.
Figurines
Not all metal is brass.
Figurines
Perform sceenes,
Reflected back in glass,
Then out of the play pass.
Some will return again
To cause the director pain,
But not all metal is brass.
Refracting
The poet may redact
The light that through his poem does refract.
But the reader will therein construe
That she believes to be true.
Walls
A thing done often palls.
Walls
Have ears
And down the years
They hear our tears
And fears.
The wall
May not speak
But as week follows week
It will recall
Each trip and fall.
In the halls
Of the great
And the abodes of the humble,
Walls wait.
This truth I state,
Edifices crumble
And walls do prate …
