The sun
Is hot
And my thoughts run
To where they ought not.
Short clothes
And her toes
Bare
To the teasing air
Hot
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There Was A Young Lady Called Joan
There was a young lady called Joan
Who called me up on her phone.
When I asked, “who are you?”
She replied, “believe me, its true!
I’m Joan, calling you on my phone!”.
There was a young lady called Joan
Who called me up on her phone.
When she said, “is that Lou?”
I replied, “no, but thank you
For calling me up on your phone!”.
A Rake Reflects
Waking up next to another
Lover
Who is not so,
I wish her to go
But the gentleman inside
And my pride
Say no
For it is not yet
Light.
But oh
How I regret
Last night!
The taxis run
Come
Star or sun
So
She could go,
This “friend”
Who’s name or end
I do not know.
Later, the taxi will arrive
And drive
Her somewhere,
As to where
I neither know nor care.
Perchance
The driver will think
(as he suppresses a wink)
“She did dance
But not in romance”,
Or maybe, having taken her before
From door to door
He already knows the score.
Wooden Fruit Bowl
There you stood,
A bowl made of wood.
Your imperfections drew
Me to you
As we shopped long ago.
I know
Not what happened to you.
Though I have the bowl still
On my window sill.
I trace each notch and curve
That do no purpose serve
(Other than to beautify).
As I
Wonder do you
Live or die.
There Was A Young Lady Called Kim
There was a young lady called Kim
Who was both petite and slim.
A man of fashion
Developed a passion
And Kim was no longer slim.
There was a young lady Called Kim
Who was both petite and slim.
Being a girl of fashion
She developed a passion
For a dandy who’s name was Tim.
The Passing Breeze
I solace seek
In the breeze
That does speak
Amongst these
Ancient trees.
Or do the trees
Themselves speak?
Lovers make free
Midst the budding tree
And in love’s dance
Perchance
Do not hear
The breeze
That passes near.
This Wall
I woke up this morning, drank a cup of coffee, smoked
A cigarette and stared at the wall. There was nothing
Special about this wall. It had no
Fancy wallpaper to draw your eye. No vibrant colors
That made it stand out. Just a plain dingy wall white and
bland in need of a good washing. A question came to mind
“What if I was this wall?” I ashed my cigarette and pondered
That. What if I was that wall. What if I was bland, boring, insipid?
That cannot be. I am not invisible like the wooden beams that
Support that wall. But what supports me if not boards
Of bones that is my skeleton? Yet I am not bland like the
Paint upon that wall. I have emotions that run deep and are
More complex than any wiring or plumbing can be. I have a
Past that have been…
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There Was A Young Man Called George
There was a young man called George
Who did on baked beans gorge.
He made a sound
And all around
Deserted that young man called George!
They Are Hanging Him High
They are hanging him high.
I sigh
And walk on by
Disdaining to catch my neighbour’s eye
Five of the Best Poems about Clothes
The best clothes poems
‘Clothes maketh the man. Naked people have little or no influence on society.’ So Mark Twain is thought to have once opined; and yet poetry has been less concerned with the material features of our clothing than we might perhaps expect. How many classic poems about clothing can you name? In this post, we’ve tasked ourselves with choosing five of the very best poems about clothes.
John Donne, ‘To His Mistress Going to Bed’. No sooner have we begun this rundown of some of the greatest clothes poems, and we’re taking them off. Not too hastily, though: Donne’s poem may be regarded as one long literary striptease, as a naked Donne undresses his mistress verbally, one item of clothing at a time. Donne concludes ‘To His Mistress Going to Bed’ by leading by example: ‘Look, to show you how it’s done, I’ll take off…
View original post 397 more words
