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.
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.
There was a ghost called Frank,
Who liked his chains to clank
In a manner most foul,
(Which caused the dogs to howl)!
And his stare was cold and blank.
—
A disreputable old ghost called Frank
Liked his chains to clank.
He stole a young lady’s towel,
In a manner most foul
As she lazed on the river bank.
A workman shouts to his mate.
An ordered state
With everything
Working as it should.
I enter the nearby wood
Where birds sing,
My dog and I revelling in the spring.
Idly I ponder
Whether the robot will come
And eclipse yonder
Workman’s sun.
There was a young man called Ron
Who wrote a poem about a swan.
He said to the bird,
“Have you my poem heard?”
But the swan had long since gone.
Compose a poem about the deep red rose,
And how it’s scent does perfume the soft evening air,
And I swear
Readers will raise
You up with praise.
Compose a verse about the rose
And the bee’s burning lust,
(Oh see how they are both but dust),
And I will eat my hat
If the poet does not receive a brickbat
Or the vilence
Of silence
Poet Kevin Morris reading his poem ‘She stood upon her head’.
Poet Kevin Morris reading his poem ‘Cigarette’.
Sometimes I attempt to shout down the birds
And choose
To lose
Myself in words.
But as a dart
Ere long
Their song
Pierces my heart.
On occasions I try
To escape the owl’s cry
And pretend
There is no end
To meet
And sheet.
But as night falls,
He calls to me.
The bird’s call
To man, who’s fall
Brought
Him knowledge. Now caught
Up in his thought
He hears words,
While the birds
Sing,
Welcoming the spring.
There was a young man called Matt
Who kept an enormous rat.
It caused the girls to scream,
But some say I dream,
And it was, in fact a cat!