Tag Archives: free verse

Fishing

Sitting here in my gown
I remember my once brown
Hair, now white.
Fishing is delight
(And often pain).
And frequently we gain
Our wish in fish.
But oh! how quickly our desire
For a particular fish does expire.
And then we fish
For yet more fish.
But time’s great line
Hooks us all
In the end.

Blackbirds

Dusk softly falls
. As blackbirds call
Tis a kind of poetry
As brother calls to brother.
Or, more prosaically,
Its merely territory.
But tis poetry to me.

She Remembered My Name

She remembered my name
And what I drink.
Yet I think
That she
Will not dance
With me.

Middle age
May engage
With youth.
But the truth
Is that she
Will not dance
With me.

Yet she
Remembered my drink.
But still
I think
That she
Will not dance
With me.

A middle-aged man
With white hair.
Is that how
She remembers me?
’Tis merely vanity
That makes me care

Macbeth

I dreamed of you last night
And by the morning’s dim light
I listened to the rain
And thought of Lady Macbeth
Whose Heart
Shakespeare’s art
Made clean
In death.

Passing

I left the woodland path
To let the couple pass,
And heard the young girl laugh.

I think on urban foxes mating
And remember men impatiently waiting
Whilst the police cleared away.

All this fleeting thought
Of our brief day
Must end in nought.

A Professional Young Woman

A professional
Young woman.
No confessional
Just dinner
Then a bar
(Again he pays).

Then its goodbye
And the evening sky
To keep him company.
While she
Being a professional
Goes home alone,
For friendship
Complicates a fee.

The Final Day of August

The final day of August
Brings Autumn’s coming chill.
Perhaps this is the last
Of Summer’s new-mown grass.
The eternal breeze
Rustles the leaves
And my once brown hair.

The Tide

Society rides
The tides
Of collectivism
And individualism.
Whilst in Highgate
Spencer and Marx
Continue their decay.

(Note: Karl Marx’s grave in Highgate Cemetery is almost directly opposite to that of the champion of liberal individualism, Herbert Spencer. See https://highgatecemetery.org/visit/cemetery/east#featurephoto71).

Does the Devil Read or Write Poetry?

Does the Devil
Read or write poetry?
It might be so
For compassion’s glow
May burn low
In the wickedest heart.
And camp guards
Listened to Mozart.