When a short-sighted gentleman wearing dark glasses
Said, “I like to date pretty lasses”,
A young lady eating buttered toast
Said, “you are addressing my gatepost!
And it doesn’t like gentlemen wearing glasses!”.
There was a young man named Guy
Who said, “in July I never lie.
But, come the August,
Then lie I must.
In truth, I’m a lying young guy!”.
August is hot as lust.
I was born in January
And in me you see
The soul of winter.
I have a splinter
Of ice in my heart.
My poetic art
Is January. and hot August.
No man can outrun the sun.
But birds sing
In the spring.
And winter’s splinter is my art.
I was delighted to receive the following review, entitled “Excellent thought-provoking poetry”, for my collection of poetry “Light and Shade; Serious (and Not so Serious) Poems”:
“Kevin writes what I call ‘real’ poetry. I don’t like the so-called free verse that most poets seem to write
nowadays. Free of what? Rhyme and rhythm. Both are what make a poem. Without those, it might just as well be a piece of prose, albeit in arbitrary lines …”.
(To read the review in it’s entirety please visit https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/customer-reviews/R30SPC39XDZUXE/ref=cm_cr_dp_d_rvw_ttl?ie=UTF8&ASIN=B08B4X3GVX).
There once was a man who, whilst drinking
Slurred, “this here boatit is surely sinking”.
A young lady named Claire
Said, “sir, take great care!”,
And the seagulls they cried, “you are sinking!”.
When my dog found a stocking
Belonging to beautiful young miss Hocking,
The vicar looked grim
And spoke of sin.
But the dog found nothing shocking!
—
When my dog found a stocking
Belonging to beautiful young miss Hocking,
The vicar looked grim
And spoke of sin.
And her boyfriend he came knocking!
Time passes
In women
And glasses.
“What is sinning?”
The religious ask.
“Does it exist?”,
I reply.
Theologians persist,
“All this will pass”.
While poets smile
And compose a rhyme
To many a pretty lass,
And time
Which does so quickly pass.
Stilettos stir up dust.
Whilst men choose
To lose
Themselves in lust.
And girl’s new shoes
Tread dust.
When a gorgeous young lady named Frida
Said, “I’d make a most excellent breeder!”.
I said, “lets have fun
In this hot summer sun.
But please, can we forget the breeder!”.
Whilst declaiming my poetry to a crowd
In a town that’s known as Stroud,
A young lady dressed in white
Said, “sir, it’s long after midnight,
And your voice is far too loud!”.
