Tag Archives: poems

A Poem for National Poetry Day

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It had slipped my mind
But now I find
That it is National Poetry Day.
Poets will make hay
Or not
Depending on whether they have lost the plot.
I have got
No plot at all
So will my readers stall
With words that writhe
As they strive
To go somewhere.

Shall I write about a pair.
A clever play on pair and pare?
I swear
That the pair
I have in mind
Is more divine
Than any wine
One will find
In vineyard
Where maidens pick the hard fruit.

How long shall I pontificate?
For it is getting late
And National Poetry Day
Will soon pass away
Have I anything to say
Or do I merely play
With a word
Absurd
Which, joined with another,
(All words are brothers)
Forms a sentence perhaps,
Or do I collapse
Into something, I know not what?
Indeed, I believe that I have lost the plot.

“Dane-Geld” By Rudyard Kipling

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IT IS always a temptation to an armed and agile nation
To call upon a neighbour and to say: –
“We invaded you last night – we are quite prepared to fight,
Unless you pay us cash to go away.”

And that is called asking for Dane-geld,
And the people who ask it explain
That you’ve only to pay ’em the Dane-geld
And then you’ll get rid of the Dane!

It is always a temptation for a rich and lazy nation,
To puff and look important and to say: –
“Though we know we should defeat you,
we have not the time to meet you.
We will therefore pay you cash to go away.”

And that is called paying the Dane-geld;
But we’ve proved it again and again,
That if once you have paid him the Dane-geld
You never get rid of the Dane.

It is wrong to put temptation in the path of any nation,
For fear they should succumb and go astray;
So when you are requested to pay up or be molested,
You will find it better policy to say: —

“We never pay any-one Dane-geld,
No matter how trifling the cost;
For the end of that game is oppression and shame,
And the nation that plays it is lost!”

—

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Danegeld

Acting

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Acting is your forte.
Your part you did play
(Was it really only yesterday)?
So incredibly well
That it was almost impossible to tell
What in your heart did dwell.

It was a mere sinch
To convince
Me you meant no harm.
But your charm
Should have sounded an alarm.
I know you to well
And the slight smell
Of doubt
Ought to have caused me to throw you out.

I suspect
Someone tells you your lines.
While I ought to have seen the signs
There is a grudging respect
For your acting skill.
I wonder will
You fluff a line
One fine day
And stand, tongue tied with nothing to say?

Surely your charm
Can not forever disarm
The suspicion
Of those who should recognise pedition.

Yes, one day you will trip
Slip
And fall off the stage.
The audience will turn
In rage
And learn
Who feeds you those almost perfect lines.

Facade

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Outer beauty shows

And throws

Shadows of distraction.

The  magnet feels an attraction

To steel

And is drawn to seal

Its destiny in unholy communion,

A union of empty clang

And bang.

 

The fine façade

Hides a hard

Truth.

The roof

Is rotten

And forgotten

Woodworm Has eaten through

The fine oak beams

Which, at first sight it seems

Should hold true.

 

The magnet will rue

The day it did settle

On metal

Base.

Yet to the beautiful face

It is drawn,  As a fly

To the sty,

Where it will wallow

In hollow

Joys, then die.

 

 

 

Rain and Poets

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The rain pours
As I read poets long past heeding applause.
Their words will continue to speak
For many a week.
While papers display
Pictures of prancing idiots who have nothing to say.

The celebrities are revered for a while.
Their style
Is all the rage
Until the papers engage
In character assassination.

It is the sport of the nation
To throw stones,
Yet bones are brittle
And journalists loyalties fickle.

Beware for people may find
Behind
Your rictus grin
Your own particular sin!

Poets anthologised stand
As beacons in this troubled land.
While half-dressed celebrities are here today.
They strut and threat
Then fade away.

The Serpent

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Swimming in sulphurous waters
With the daughters
Of Eve.
Adam doth grieve
But woman does not deceive
For man does freely choose
His innocence to lose.

Man desires
Paradise
While the serpent sires
Vice
Under indifferent skies.

The serpent lies
Apparently slumbering,
While secretly numbering
Every notch
That does blotch
His once perfect bed posts.

Ghosts
Themselves flaunt
And haunt
The dismal caverns of the mind.

No peace can man find
With the vampire
Desire
For she on herself feeds
And seeds
Lust
In we human dust.

Derth

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Deep in the soul
Where CCTV
Can not penetrate,
A devil does wait
And whispers, “my goal
Is to make you free.
Come with me
Where the light is no more
And see what pleasures are in store
For those who would ignore
Society’s law.

Empty the brain
And do not restrain
Your carnal needs.
Only the herd feeds
On the myth of The Fall.
Pleasure is all,
Come with me
And be free”.

One may look up to heaven above
And call upon God’s love.
But what if we are alone
In our temple of skin and bone,
With only our conscience weak
To speak?
Shall the meek
Inherit the earth?
I fear
There is a clear
Dearth
Of proof
In support of this “truth”.