There was a young lady called Ruth
Who said “there is no proof.
But you may find,
If you look behind,
Something approaching the truth!
There Was A Young Lady Called Ruth
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To Rhyme Or Not?
It will not do
To force one’s foot into an ill fitting shoe.
Likewise it is a mistake
To make
Poems rhyme
Where no rhyme properly should be.
Tick Tock
The steady tick tock
Of the clock.
I am here,
You are not.
All my human pride.
I can not hide
From the inexorable tick tock
Of the clock.
Now I am here,
Then I am not.
There Was A Young Lady Called Honey
There was a young lady called Honey
Who had the brain of a bunny.
She got a job
With a man named Bob,
But he never paid any money!
Your assistance in choosing a book cover for “My Old Clock I Wind and Other Poems” would be much appreciated
As many of you are aware, I am in the process of publishing a further collection of poetry, “My Old Clock I Wind and Other Poems”.
The collection derives it’s title from the first poem, which is entitled (appropriately enough) “My Old Clock I Wind”.
I am in the midst of choosing a photograph for the book cover and would greatly appreciate your views on the photographs featured here, which show the clock from which the book derives it’s title.
Comments concerning the quality of the images, which picture you prefer and why (together with any other input) would be much appreciated.
Version 1: Clock Close-up
Version 2: Clock
Version 3: Clock and Picture
Please leave your comments below or, if you prefer send an email to newauthoronline (at) gmail dot com (please note, the address is rendered in this manner to avoid spam)!
There Was A Young Man Called Holmes
There was a young man called Holmes
Who investigated some missing gnomes.
But if one takes a look
In Watson’s enthralling book,
There is no case of “The Missing Gnomes!”
Dowson
Sinking into bliss.
A kiss.
A silver penny
So many
Shine
On women and wine.
As Dowson searches, for love divine.
Pale lost lilies.
Sillies
Weak
No words they speak
Will make him cease
In his search for peace.
Dowson died young.
No joy his lovings brung.
The same old song sung
Once more.
The hoare
Frost froze the poet, to the core.
—
Ernest Christopher Dowson was one of the Decadent or Catholic poets. Born in 1867 and dying in 1900 the poet spent a life full of wine, women and song, often seeking solace in the arms of the world’s oldest profession.
The reference to “Lilies” refers to Dowson’s fine poem, “Cynara” (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ernest_Dowson).
Kipling May Regret
In the restaurant its just the waiter and I,
While outside the window Vehicles speed by.
“There are a lot of beautiful women outside today”,
He remarks by way
Of conversation.
I drink
My wine and think
About this nation
On who’s empire the sun would never set.
Kipling may regret,
Yet
The sun continues to shine
And there is curry and wine,
While in the street
Multiracial feet
Hurry
Along,
Beating out a more or less harmonious song.
There was a middle-aged man called More
There was a middle-aged man called More
Who was a saloon bar bore.
He asked the barmaid,
“How long have I stayed?”
She gave a very loud snore!
Should I Explain?
Should I explain
Or leave those who gather the grain
To glean
What I mean?
I am no expert
But hope my words divert
And cause readers to think
As they from poetry’s fountain drink.
