There is comfort in this tree,
For it was here before me.
And will stay
When I am clay.
To comfort those who pass
Along this self-same path
A few, perhaps
Gazing at this tree
May remember me.
I laugh,
For a tree
Has no vanity.
Last night on my way home
I met with a wicked gnome,
Who imprisoned me for hours,
Amidst the most beautiful flowers.
I believe her name is Joan!
His girlfriend
Brought him delight
For the night.
But did not comprehend
The meaning of euphemism.
They took a decision
To pretend …
A naughty young lady named Miss Moore
(Who all the dissolute old rakes adore),
Works in a club
Called the Good Rub .
Where they threw me out the door!
Away from my technology
I see the reality
In these
Bare trees
And fallen leaves.
The autumn rain
Will fall again.
I walked alone
Through the graveyard.
Then, on reaching home
I pondered on lovers
And the dead.
The graveyard plot
Is cold,
Whilst love is hot.
Yet the dead
And lovers
Both have their bed,
Do they not?
A rhyme
Captures a moment in time
Of joy or pain,
Which will never come again.
The poet may change
His original rhyme
But past time
He can not change.
My friend, whose name is Miss Heart
Is well known for her abstract art.
Her cousin Lou
Lost a shoe.
Now it’s part of Miss Heart’s art
A young man named Guy
Liked to make women cry.
But pretty Miss Pearl
Being a feisty girl,
Poked Guy in the eye!
I think on those who obsess
Over what they label “progress”.
And, on hearing the wind sing
In the venerable old tree,
I laugh, for all must pass.
