Tag Archives: blogging

There Is Snow On The Lawn

A couple of weeks ago, I composed a poem entitled “December Snow”, which was subsequently read by me on Vancouver Co-Op Radio’s The World Poetry Reading Series.

Today I awoke to find the lawn covered in late December snow, so thought I would re-post my reading of the poem, http://www.coopradio.org/content/world-poetry-caf%C3%A9-120.

December Snow:

A typical, December day.
The sun has stopped
Away,
And the temperature has dropped.
The forecasters say
There may
Be snow.
I well remember the December
Snow.
And playing on frozen pond.
But oh, so long Ago!
And I shall grow
Old. and remember December
Snow.
We count the cost
Once things are lost.
And the foolish, wishing to sunbathe,
Pray for the coming heatwave.

December Snow

Waking, Much Later Than Intended

Waking, much later than intended
I see
The pretended,
And rush to make tea.
For my fun
is ended
And we must run.
I to my desk
And she
Home, to her rest.

Delight for a night
Maybe mine,
Again, for a time.
To rhyme
Is free
And tea
Is cheap.
While her smile
Will beguile
For a while

Sparrows In A Tree

A myriad sparrows singing
To me from a tree.
Their song
Bringing joy
To girl and boy.

I know not how long
My song
May be.
But sparrows in a tree,
Sang to me.

When A Young Lady Wearing Only A Towel

When a young lady wearing only a towel
Said, “sir, why does your dog loudly howl!”.
An elderly gentleman named Mr Hogg
Said, “that is not my dog!
And you need to pay for that towel!”.

Lin and My Gin

I met an attractive young lady named Lin
Who I took home and plied with gin.
She drank all my drink
And then, with a wink,
She left, leaving me alone with my sin!

When An Attractive Young Lady Named Bland

When an attractive young lady named Bland
Said, “I demand a one night stand!”.
It just didn’t feel right
To stand there all night,
So I romanced that young lady Bland.

This Clock

This wine
Is not divine.
Yet it is good.
The sun may shine
On me tomorrow.
And the clock on the wall
Has no will at all.

Nameless women survive in a rhyme
And time
Would laugh, if it could
At poets who obsess
Over their reputation,
And the unknowing tick tock,
Of the uncaring, ensnaring clock.