I can not write tonight.
I find my mind
Dwells on discordant church bells.
I think this discordancy
Is a part of me.
I can not write tonight.
I find my mind
Dwells on discordant church bells.
I think this discordancy
Is a part of me.
Young women’s heels click.
Clocks tick.
The weather is cold.
Girl’s arms
Have their charms.
I grow old.
A January breeze
Whispers through trees
And winter grasses
And, as it passes
It speaks to me
Of my mortality.
I met a man named Dorian Gray
Who said, “my portrait it must pay.
With this sharp knife
I’ll end it’s life!”.
But it was Gray who did pay …!
What will survive from this present time?
Will poets continue to write
Long into the night?
Or will rhyme of the human kind
Be replaced by robots who trot out rhymes
Of indifferent kinds.
Rhyme of the human kind will survive
And continue to thrive.
While for better or worse
Robots will write verse.
But who owns what a robot writes?
The red pillar box will go, although
A few will remain to show
That there was mail long before email.
The world will move ever faster.
I hope eccentricity will survive and thrive
When I am no longer alive
And that man can live on
When I am gone
For I am of humanity
I am tired.
Should I compose a rhyme
To women and wine?
I have desired
Both women and wine
But all pens run dry
And I
Grow so tired
Of rhyme
Of women and wine.
There once was a girl in red
Who liked to stand on her head.
When they asked her why
She would wink 1 eye
And play the drums with her head!
December has become January.
Alas last summer’s grass
Is a quagmire.
We all desire
The spring to come
But the grass
On which I stood
Remains as mud.
After an evening of laughter,
Restaurants and wine,
You took off your robe.
Now I find
Girl’s heels in my wardrobe
You left behind.
Am I a mere magpie?
I have found earrings
And other such similar things
Young women leave behind.
But love would be divine.
I pass by
Drains gurgling with rain.
How quickly rain
Drains away.
You and I
Are like the rain.
But rain
Does not die.