Some find their muse in forests green
Where the nymph (so rarely seen)
Is brought to life on paper.
Many a romantic caper
Takes place on virgin page,
That pristine stage
Where maid
Is forever staid.
Other poets reach their sweating hand
Towards the lone phone,
So as to command
For a while,
A nymph’s enigmatic smile
Shall I compose
A poem about fingers and toes
Or write one more complex
So as to vex
My readers?
Yet who knows
For a poem about fingers and toes
May not be
What you see,
For dig down
And you may drown
In profundity,
Or not as the case may be!
I play with words
Which soar like birds
Or, like flat pancakes
Stick to ceilings
Evoking feelings of amusement
Or bemusement
But at the end of the day
One can clear the pancake away …
Some lakes
Are deep, while beneath the surface of others
We discover nought but a shallow puddle.
Her short skirt.
His crisp white shirt.
Her heels
Too high
Fail to reach the sky.
Flowers on a quilt
Can not wilt
But will fade
With age.
As I neared my home yesterday evening, a man called out from the other side of the road, “Do you have a light, please?”
“No, sorry”, I replied and continued on my way home.
As I walked on, I heard the voice of a young woman, “no, don’t, it’s a blind dog!”
Being registerd blind, I wondered what the point would be of me having a “blind dog”. One hears of the blind leading the blind. However, I, having no desire to become intimately connected with a telegraph pole or other such obstacle will stick with my trusty guide dog, Trigger!
The above occurance is far from being an isolated one. Indeed I have lost count of the number of occasions on which people have refered to my guide dogs (I am now working with my fourth) as “blind dogs”. My heart goes out to all those visually challenged dogs manfully leading their owners to who knows where. A medal should be struck in their honour and, of course the blind who entrust themselves to these fine animals should also be honoured for their … bravery!
To be serious for a moment, the evening was dark and the panic in the young woman’s voice made me conjecture (perhaps in error) that her companion might have been up to no good and, seeing that I was accompanied by a guide dog the lady’s conscience kicked in. As I say, I could be barking up entirely the wrong tree here. I was, nonetheless extremely glad to reach home yesterday evening.
In the future, will robots dress
To impress?
And will men and women sigh
Over a lover’s imperfect thigh?
And choose
To lose
Their very being
In the never seeing
Robot eye?
For therein does lie
Perfection,
For there can be no rejection
For you or I.
And one can not sin
With a thing of tin.
As I walked through the churchyard this morning, I passed by a teenager on her mobile. As I did so, I couldn’t help overhearing the following gem:
“You made me run, with my legs up a hill”.
I wondered idly to myself, “how else would one run, other than by using one’s legs?”
There was a young man named Round
Who owned a lugubrious hound.
Its name was Bill.
They lived on a hill
And this limerick says nothing profound!
Most of my poetry is expressed in rhyme. However a few of my poems (perhaps I should say short prose pieces) are written in a form other than rhyme. One such poem/brief prose piece is Merry-Go-Round. You can find a recording of me reading Merry-Go-Round HERE, or below:
Rising at 6 am
I take up my virtual pen.
Then I see
Staring at me
The sandwich wrapper from yesterday.
Ah the romance of a writer’s life.
Had I a wife
She would clear that away,
Or more likely say
In a manner most sweet
“You throw away what you eat
My dearest love
For you are not above
Taking a trip to yonder bin.
Therein
You will discover abandoned schemes
And broken dreams”.
