I have lain awake listening for the owl’s cry.
A note that chills
Thrills
Then does die.
One day
This bird of prey
Will carry my soul away,
Or so the supersticious say.
Mice hide
While I, in my pride
Decide
The owl’s erie cry
Signifies that I will die.
The bird has no interest in me
So why can I not be free
From his cry
That to my window nigh
does rise, then, as suddenly, die?
Heels approaching
Conscience’s reproaching
Din Shrieks, “This is sin”!
But oh, how sweet it is to give in …
Sound ever nearer,
Clearer and clearer.
The man fears her
Yet desires.
unquenchable fires.
The body tires
Yet still he aspires
To take
And her passion awake.
Not all metal is brass.
Figurines
Perform sceenes,
Reflected back in glass,
Then out of the play pass.
Some will return again
To cause the director pain,
But not all metal is brass.
A thing done often palls.
Walls
Have ears
And down the years
They hear our tears
And fears.
The wall
May not speak
But as week follows week
It will recall
Each trip and fall.
In the halls
Of the great
And the abodes of the humble,
Walls wait.
This truth I state,
Edifices crumble
And walls do prate …
What to do when one is tired
And the desired
Word
Is substituted by one absurd?
This will not one’s reader’s impress.
‘tis time, I think
To drink
Copious amounts of coffee, and dress …
If mirrors could speak
We would seek
To have them covered, Lest our whole
Soul
Be laid bare
For the world to stare.
If mirrors could tell
What in man’s heart does dwell
We would do well
To turn them to the wall
Lest our reputation be lost beyond recall.
What am I?
A head full of whirling thoughts, then I die.
Who knows
Where my essence goes
When the din within
Ends and nothingness? Descends.
With legs bare
And wet hair,
A nymph bold
Doesn’t care
About the old
Men who, trying not to stare
Think on wives with grey hair
And sagging skin,
As they contemplate the power
Of the cold shower
As an antidote to sin …
“I have lost
My sock” she cried.
“And I can’t recover it, much though I have tried”.
“It is little cost
To replace a sock, for they are cheap,
Dry your eyes my dear, there is no need to weep”
He said, and rolled over on his side to sleep.
Men their hearts lose
To girls in unsuitable shoes.
Fire will always burn.
No lessons are learned
While the world, unconcerned
On it’s axis continues to turn.
—
I owe a debt to Kiplings’s “The Gods of The Copybook Headings” for line 3 of the poem:
“As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn,
The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return!”.
http://www.kiplingsociety.co.uk/poems_copybook.htm
