You in just
Your heels.
Me and my lust.
Sometimes it feels
Like love.
But I won’t lie
And go with your pretend
That I am your friend.
We have known each other
A long time.
I buy dinner and wine
Then we go back
Like 2 lovers
To my bachelor flat
Where we pretend
At lovers and friends.
Next day we chat
Of this and that
Over hot tea.
You smoke a cigarette.
Then leave me
With my regret
And thoughts of how
I am growing old.
In the dark park
A myriad leaves
Whirl in autumn’s breeze.
And optimists stress
The inevitability of progress.
But these fallen leaves
Do not deceive.
I will close my curtain
And shut out the night.
But it is certain
That light
And dark
Will continue their fight
In my so human heart,
Until light and dark
Are swallowed by night.
On a cold autumn day
I find that time
Has stopped. But my clock
May be wound today.
Yet, one day
I will not
Know the day or time.
She will wear heels for me.
I will have fun
And when I am done
Thoughts of the setting sun
And of eternal dust
Will come to cool my lust.
After their labours
They kissed him goodbye.
And his neighbours
Asked themselves why
2 young women laboured
Then kissed age goodbye.
So girlie and innocent
In your fearful fascination
With the big snake
In the aquarium.
You took my hand
In that public place.
Such girl-like innocence
And our lost grace.
In the moment
There’s the mad thrust
Of unthinking lust.
But after pleasure
Come thoughts of dust.
I am delighted to announce that a number of my poems have been included in “The Croydon Poetry Hour Anthology”, 2022/2023, https://www.lulu.com/shop/croydon-poets/croydon-poe-try-hour-anthology-20222023/paperback/product-v8r7e94.html?q=croydonpoetry+hour+2022%2F2023&page=1&pageSize=4
Among the poems included are:
“I Scent the Early Summer Air”,
“As I Drink My Red Wine”,,
“How Sweet and Sad Was the Bird”
And “In Early December”.
In Early December
In early December
November’s leaves still adorn
The woodland lawn.
Man’s pattern is made
In light and shade
And the gardener’s rake
Rakes all leaves.
In my bedroom
Your Perfume
Mingles with the dust
Of books.
Your scent lingers
On fingers.
But all I’ve touched
Will be dust.
