Should I repent
Of her sweet scent?
She is free
Yet, her scent
Is costly to me.
Am I responsible for society,
With all of it’s flaws?
Heels click on floors.
And I ponder on the responsibility
Of her, and me, and society.
I am an admirer of Lorraine’s work, and would recommend taking a look at her blog. Kevin
I’m really not that sophisticated! I write poetry from my heart. It might not be “up there” with the good poets, but I try to put into words feelings and experiences the best way that I can. Feelings and experiences of all kinds.
I have done many poetry courses and got Diplomas and things. It was on those courses that I learned the different forms of poetry, and discovered a certain freedom in writing to a particular form, and i am always eager to learn new forms. I am not good at writing free verse. It seems to muddle me, although I sometimes do it.
Mostly I naturally seem to write mirror cinquains. I have tried to work out in my head why that is, but I don’t know. It just seems to come naturally to me.
Anyway, I just wanted to say that my poetry cones from my heart…
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There once was a poet from Gwent
Who, having all his meagre earnings spent
In his local sauna,
On pretty Miss Lorna.
Composed a poem about paying the rent!
When I met an extremely wizened old fryer
Drying my wet lawn with his hair dryer,
And I said, “why dry this grass?”.
He said, “sir, all things must pass”.
And I wept over that fryer’s hair dryer!
I know a young lady named Sally
With whom I’m more than just pally.
She often visits my house,
But not with her spouse.
As with him I’m not that pally!
When a silver-haired poet known as Kevin
Said, “I grow ever nearer to sweet heaven
As I turned 52 today”,
A young lady named Fay
Said, “you’re drunk and its not yet 7!”.
When a wicked young lady named Lou
Tied me up to poor Miss Sue,
I said to Pearl,
“You’re a good girl”.
But that girl she joined in too!
When a young lady riding a goose
Said, “my morals are so incredibly loose”,
The men gave a great roar.
But the goose said, “no more!
Young lady, your morals are too loose!”.
When a vicar named Warner
Walked into a backstreet sauna,
And religious Miss Fay
Said, “shall we pray?”.
That greatly confused vicar Warner!
A bench replete
With flowers,
In winter’s wood.
Hours
Incomplete,
Marked by a stone
Clock with lost hands.
We go into the unknown
Wood.
But, perhaps a bench may stand
To commemorate
Those who, of a late
Winter afternoon,
Think on nature’s passing bloom.
