There was a young man named More
Who said “impure thoughts I do abhor!”.
He took numerous cold showers
Which lasted for hours.
These soon put an end to More!
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Skin
Going to bed
I shed
My skin. When I awake
I shall take
It up once more
From chair or floor.
One day
I shall go away
Leaving my skin
To be sold in
Some charity store.
Rummaging through bags on the floor
Maybe some shopper will buy
A piece of me.
Perchance a thoughtful soul may wonder why
My skin came to be there.
Or, more likely they will not care
For bargain hunting is the new thing, and besides, giving money to a good cause
Oft results in applause.
—
Going to bed
They shed
Their skin. When they awake
They shall take
It up once more
From chair or floor …
Hustle
A hustle.
A tussle
Of thighs.
One-sided sighs.
A girl’s blank eyes.
Both will pay
Each in their own way.
Ghosts
Some see shapes gray
And say
“They are ghosts”.
Others perceive
Only bedposts
And grieve
For the naive
Fool
Who does believe
In spooks
And ghoul.
The rationalist takes refuge in books
But, on a dark night,
When the electric light
Fails
Even the sceptic sometimes pales
At the unexplained draft
Or shadows on the walls.
As he recalls
Nursery tales.
“I am daft”
He will say,
While fervently praying for the coming of day.
December 2015
I penned the below poem on 8 December 2015. The last month of 2015 was particularly mild which prompted me to reflect on climate change, hence the below composition.
December 2017 has, on the whole been rather cold (as one would expect in the depths of winter). While Christmas day itself was rather mild in my part of the UK, today (26 December) is much colder and I was glad of my coat when walking my guide dog, Trigger earlier in the morning.
“December?” can be found in my collection of poetry, “Lost In The Labyrinth Of My Mind”, which is available (ebook only) from Amazon, and as a paperback from Moyhill Publishing.
“It is too warm for December.
I remember
other years
When tears
Would freeze
And an icey breze
froze
the stinging nose.
No need for winter clothes.
The weather grows
Strange.
Something is deranged.
All, all is changed”.
There Was A Young Lady Named Bess
There was a young lady named Bess
Who wore a very short dress.
The weather was extremely cold
And I am told
That she turned blue in her little short dress.
—
There was a young lady named Bess
Who wore a very short dress.
A young man walking by
Said with a sigh
“Impure thoughts I must go and confess!”.
There Was A Young Man Named Guy
There was a young man named Guy
Who lived on the Isle of Skye.
He married a girl most fair
(Her name was Clare)
And this limerick is truly a lie!
—
There was a young man named Guy
Who lived on the Isle of Skye.
He married a girl most fair
(Her name was Clare)
And their dog had only one eye!
—
There was a young man named Guy
Who lived on the Isle of Skye.
He married a girl named Clare,
But her sister called Flare
Ran away with that young reprobate Guy!
On The Death Of A Man
“Was he clubbable?” they said.
“Indeed, many wished to belabour him around the head”.
“Was he nice?”
“Every man has his vice
Be it big or small,
But let us not recall
Each slip and fall.
For ‘tis true
That he had virtues too.
“And what virtues had he?”
“Most agree
That he pursued his own ends
(Though it must be said that he was loyal to his friends).
He would stand his round
And could oft be found
Pint in hand
As he did stand
At many a bar,
His conversation ranging near and far”.
“Was he a bore?”
“It must be admitted that he made some men snore
But as to whether he was boring,
Those who slept, also had him snoring
With the words they spoke
In ernest or joke”.
“Was he one for the ladies fair?”
“Should I your blushes spare?
Although he (having passed away)
Can not be harmed by ought I say.
I have heard it said
That he was fond of wench and bed.
But the red
Blooded man
(Who is now but dust)
Is forever excused from wench and lust.
There Was A Young Lady Named Hocking
There was a young lady named Hocking
Who hung up her Christmas stocking.
I regret that Santa Claus forgot her
(He left not even a pear).
And someone stole her stocking!
—
There was a young lady named Hocking
Who hung up her Christmas stocking.
I regret that Santa Claus forgot her
(He left not even a pear).
Her language was truly shocking!
This Ticking Clock
This ticking clock calms.
No alarms
Just the steady tick tock
Of this battery driven clock.
It is growing dark outside.
I shall put aside
My pride
And think on the tick tock
Of the ever present clock
That does for now measure
My work and leisure.
