Tag Archives: poems

Greenbelt

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I go out
Before the multitude is about
And walk in the wood
Where the air is good
And there are no words
Save for the birds
Who’s song, though not for man
Can set him free
Of desire. So is it for me
As I simply be
Amongst bird and tree.

Then the din
Sets in.
Not of human shout,
Although there are houses here about
That skirt the wood. I here the cry
Of the young in search of homes to call their own.
It is contended that we must sacrifice some green spaces
To accommodate the young’s need for places
To live. But if the Green Belt is no longer sacrosanct
What scant
Greenery will stay
When the planners have had their way?

I doubt this wood will go
Though other spots of green
Now seen
Will turn black
Under tarmac
And some will notice the lack
When the rats race
Where there was once a green place.

Perhaps I am being unfair
For Darren and Claire
And there 2.5 kids need somewhere
To live.
But will their children give
Thanks to mum and dad when there
Is less green
To be seen
Than was previously the case
And nature’s face
Is converted into neat little garden rows.
Who knows?
Not I
But for now I have tree and sky.

When Old Acquaintances Come Back

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When old acquaintances come back
Often we lack
The will to refuse.
Many a man has, in booze
Rekindled a former desire.
The fire
Burns, and he is lost
In the pleasure of pain.

He will splash
His cash
In a manner most rash
And go down the primrose path
With a bittersweet laugh.

He deletes her number
But she
Retains his.

Tis
Always the same
Though man may curse
He will continue to traverse
The well worn road of pleasure and pain.

Macbeth’s Owl

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In this place, half-urban and half-green
The owl is oft times seen.
Does he lament
The lives misspent
By men
Who
When
They hear
His too-wit too-woo
Are filled with the ancient fear
That so gripped Macbeth
Of death?

Who
On hearing the bird’s too-wit too-woo
Can deny
That they will die?
Not I.

Some, tis true
On harkening to
The owl’s too-wit too-woo
Think no such thought.
Perhaps I ought
Therefore to ponder
no more
Upon yonder
Cry.
Yet I
Know that I
Shall die.

You can dress it up as you will
But in the still
Of night,
Oft times out of sight
My friend’s erie cry
Reminds me that I
Shall die.

Flirts

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Flirts in skirts.
All is quiet
At night.
Save for the riot
Of dreams and nightmares.

He who dares
May Gain the prize
Of a girl’s come-on eyes.
But if she say “no”
Will he go
Down the path
Of nice guy or psychopath?

Flirtation
Is not an invitation
To remove a girl’s short dress
Unless
She explicitly says “yes”.

Having Her Headphones On

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Having her headphones on
And being far gone
In music’s sound
She perceives nothing profound.
But there is nothing profound
To see
In the pound, pound, pound
Of he.

It being over
She retrieves her pullover
And other things.
She sings
Her feet
Tap to a discordant beat
And with headphones still in place
She departs leaving a slight trace
Of perfume
And a discarded hairband
In the bedroom.
The latter he does not understand.

There Was A Young Lady Called Moriah

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There was a young lady called Moriah
Who married a country squire.
While her husband shot grouse
She would remain in the house
And stoke the parson’s fire

The disillusioned Rake

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Passionless kisses,
Abysses
Of sandpaper, but one must be polite
And feign delight
For that is what a gentleman must do,
Whether or not it be true.

Whether there be the expense of a meal or no
Round and round I go
Gathering the fruit that is seeming sweet to eat,
Then awake, and wash the bitter juice
That did so seduce
From the once innocent sheet.