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If I Where A Rentier

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If I where a rentier living off capital
(The very idea is laughable)!
I would retire to the moors
(with other bores)
And shoot peasants
Yes, I think that would be pleasant …!

I would terrorise the local wenches
And build high fences
To keep at bay
Those intent on stealing my wealth away.

Huge parties I would throw
And my reputation for debauchery would grow.
The vicar would pray
Lest I give his secret away
While the bishop’s innocent daughter
Would, like a lamb to the slaughter …

But I am no collector of dividends
And my efforts bend
To writing verse
Which, growing worse and worse
Will, I fear, not fill my purse …!

Autumn Ruminations

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The scent of leaves
Temporarily relieves
My introspection.
There can be no excuse
For dejection
When Autumn is here to seduce
Me with her heady scent.
I repent
Of fruitless hours spent
Over keyboards
While the squirrel hoards
Nuts in the nearby park
And the clear, sharp bark
Of a fox
Says “a pox
On your writing.
You ought in the outdoors to be delighting.
Take a walk in yonder wood
For the air
There is good
And Autumn fair
Is warmed by a gentle sun.
Soon winter will come.
Have done
With melancholy thought
For time, once passed can not be caught
And every second is dearly bought”.

Behind

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Being blind
Sometimes I find
Myself wondering, as heels pass
“Who is that lass?
Is she young or old?
Bold
Or shy
And what colour are her eyes?”

On occasions perfume, as of a flower
Does overpower
My senses, and I construct castles in the air
Wherein I while away many an hour
Thinking on the tender flower
Where other bees than me
Make free.

How the senses can deceive.
The girl I perceive
As being in the flush of youth
Is, in truth
(I blush) To admit it, sometimes a lady of mature years
Who has, perchance shed many tears
Over lovers past
And, by heavens no young lass!

Behind
Blind
Eyes
Lies
A mind
As frail
And lustful, as any sighted male

Requiescat by Matthew Arnold

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Strew on her roses, roses,
And never a spray of yew!
In quiet she reposes;
Ah, would that I did too!
Her mirth the world required;
She bathed it in smiles of glee.
But her heart was tired, tired,
And now they let her be.
Her life was turning, turning,
In mazes of heat and sound.
But for peace her soul was yearning,
And now peace laps her round.
Her cabin’d, ample spirit,
It flutter’d and fail’d for breath.
To-night it doth inherit
The vasty hall of death.

Why Do I Care?

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Why do I care
When you call me “sir”?
I say “call me by my name”
But, again and again
You draw that distinction between you and I.
“Tell me my friend, why?”

I am no Communist red
With idealism pervading my head.
But as one human to another
I tell you my friend, “you are my brother”.
So I guess that is why I care
When you call me “sir”.