Sun dappled lawns.
The vicar yawns
As Colonel Trickett
Defends his wicket.
The sound of bat on ball
mingles with a blackbird’s call
that floats
amidst ancient oaks
and the Colonel’s son takes Lucy’s hand
as the sun sets on Angleland.
Were high heels for they make you tall
But be careful lest you fall.
Situations are slippery as eels.
The ground feels
firm
but the worm
may turn
and swallow
the hollow
you.
Were high heels for you are pretty
And the citty
Is full of witty
Men
Who employ their pen
To record every slip
And trip.
Watch the pavement as you walk
For people talk
And reputations are brittle as bones
That break on stones …
I awoke to the rain
drumming on my window pane.
Opening my lattice I let it in
the purifying water that washes away sin.
The hypnotic sound
of rain falling all around.
All my life I have listened to the rain.
The same drumming
of water coming
from the sky
falling on you and I.
The rain has no end
But you and I my friend
May listen for a while
Smile
then pass on by.
I must confess to being a little disappointed on receiving the below reply, in response to my submission of several poems to a magazine.
“I read the poems with interest but nothing takes my fancy”.
It would have given me pleasure to see my work featured on a platform other than my own. There is within the heart of man, deny it though he will, a desire for the approbation of his fellows. I am no exception to this rule. I receive a warm glow every time one of my readers likes or comments on my work. Likewise I derive tremendous pleasure on reading reviews left by my readers.
The approbation of others is not, however what drives me to write. Despite the swearing at my computer and the shaking of my fist in frustration when the words fail to come (at the machine I hasten to add), I can not stop writing for I have an itch which needs to be scratched, scratched and scratched again. Thoughts run through my head and must find expression on the page. I can not help myself. I must put pen to paper and leave it to the gods to determine whether or not my words find a place in people’s hearts.
I would like to close by thanking all my readers for following me at newauthoronline.com and reading my work.
Kevin
Now that I have reached the Autumn of my years
and the grey has chased the brown away
shall I forget the undiscovered rose
whose perfume
hangs in the air
on a spring night
replete with pure delight?
Should I wear sensible shoes
And lose
The joy of walking
Barefoot on grass?
Shall I seek the fairies dancing
Or insist
They do not exist?
I must persist
In my search for bliss
For to be alive
Is to strive
for something more
Than to achieve the title “saloon bar bore”.
I am not a bee in a hive
A mere part of the whole
Lacking a soul.
Joy is my goal!
When man catches the wild wind
And a screen protects us from the rain.
When all flowers’s scent is sweet but, somehow the same.
When all rough edges are smoothed away
And the grain of the wood is lost
A few men may, perchance, count the cost.
Listening to commercial radio
The warblers come and go.
Photogenic girls fill my brain
With the same
Or similar sound.
Autumn leaves strew the ground.
I reach for the off switch.
Oh what bliss!
In the garden a bird calls.
Leaves whirl and fall
And the warbling is lost, beyond recall.
As I walked through the trees
a soft breeze
Stirred the fallen leaves.
A girl was there
with golden hair.
Light as a feather she flew
into mine arms true.
The scent of the forest she wore.
Her clothes blended with the woodland’s russet floor.
“I can not stay
for my father, winter is on his way”,
she did say.
The sky turned grey
and winter did bay
As a ravenous wolf
who would the earth engulf.
I felt her father’s icey hand
laid firm upon the land.
His command
is law.
I must see his daughter no more.
But winter must sleep
And out his children will creep.
The lover I adore
I will see her once more!
The young man preens
And dreams
Of girls in frocks
Who lose their socks
The young girl thinks of fast cars
of fumbling hands
And broken bras.
The middle aged man ponders on his misspent youth
On wonky car seats
and a girl called Ruth.
The middle aged lady takes her husband’s hand
As they stroll contentedly along the sand.
A lack of musak.
No ghost, for spirits are immaterial as the wind
and here is a material world.
Aisles empty as the minds of the robots who patrol
for security has no soul.
Automated tills say
“have a nice day”
in a voice as caring
as the check out girl who is inwardly swearing
at her bloke,
“the guys a f..k joke”!
“Big Issue?”
the girl outside the store asks.
it’s a hopeless task
For the issue has been lost
and tossed
with the needles and dodgy cash
into the trash
Long ago.
Clubbers admire the snow, so pure and white.
It will be a delightful night.
Out of mind, out of sight
