I dreamed that I was dead.
There was no dread,
Merely a desire
To cross the barbed wire
And escape something or somewhere,
Perhaps despair.
Pressing my hand against the barbed wire, I felt no pain.
No guards came.
I did not cross, for I new I should find
That which I had left behind
– A man locked in his own mind.
A minor poet, of little note,
Once a poem wrote.
I am sad to say,
That self-same day
His verse was eaten by a goat.
the man of letters said, in a most melancholy tone
“would that you had left my verse alone
O most vile goat
And fed
Instead
Upon my coat”.
I heard an angel sigh
And ask “why oh why
Must I
Fly
In Azure sky.
I spy
A man below
And I would go
Amaying,
But my conscience is asaying
Angels belong up here.
‘Yet ‘tis drear
To see one so handsome and so near!
I fear
That I shall fall
And my angel dust
Shall turn to gall”.
A handsome man, looking upwards, did softly say,
“The day
Is beautiful. Pray
Float down
In your gossamer gown
From that painted sky.
Ney do not resist or frown.
You and I
May our sorrows drown
In yonder pub, for the audience refused to pay,
To see our most excellent play …!”
The estate agent’s lights fade.
I wander home,
Thinking on other temporary things.
On 17 January, I received the following comment/question in response to my limerick “There was a young lady called Lou”:
“Do these like, just pop into your mind; or do you have a scrapbook full of them?” (https://newauthoronline.com/2017/01/17/there-was-a-young-lady-called-lou/#comment-49477).
I replied as follows:
“Thank you for your comment. I thought this one up while eating boiled egg on toast and drinking Earl Grey tea this morning! Many of my poems come to me while walking my dog. Being blind I don’t carry a notebook. I have never learned to write by hand. I do, however touch type and write my poems using a standard Windows laptop equipped with Job Access with Speech or JAWS (software which converts text into speech and braille relaying the screen’s contents to me). I write my poems either at home or in my lunch hour in the office”, (https://newauthoronline.com/2017/01/17/there-was-a-young-lady-called-lou/#comment-49478).
In light of the above exchange, I thought it would be helpful for me to expand on how my poems come to me.
As I said in response to Daria’s question, “There was a young Lady called Lou” popped into my mind as I was enjoying egg on toast with a piping hot cup of Earl Grey, while other poems come to me as I walk my guide dog Trigger. It is frequently remarked that exercise is good for both the mental and the physical self. I would certainly endorse this view as a brisk walk often leads to the composition of a poem. I can not, however swear that all poems appear on paper exactly as they originally churned around my mind. My memory is good but far from being photographic in nature.
At other times I sit in front of my laptop pleading with my muse to take pity on me and whisper words of inspiration:
She is a fickle mistress who oft times does tease
And, on occasions doth please
The poet in search of inspiration
With which to wow the nation.
To my consternation
She does come and go
But, I know
‘Twas always so
And ‘twill remain
Until my life drains away
Or I, in senility, languish one day.
Kevin
There was a young man called Mike
Who said “I can do as I like”.
He two-timed his girl
(her name was Pearl).
She said “Mike, get on your bike!”
—
The term To “two-time” is an informal way of indicating that someone has been unfaithful to their partner.
Again, the term “on your bike” is an informal way of saying “never darken my door again” or, to put it more bluntly “get lost”!
I have now added a search bar to newauthoronline.com which will, I hope make the task of searching for content on this site much easier for my readers.
My thanks to Hugh Roberts for prompting me to include this facility, https://hughsviewsandnews.com/2017/01/12/13-weeks-13-quick-blogging-tips-week-1-the-search-bar/.
Kevin
There was an elderly poet called Lott
Who long ago had lost the plot.
He wrote copious amounts of verse,
Which grew worse and worse,
Although Lott knew it not!
K Morris - Poet 