Sea, sand and . . .
Sun kissed skin
Does not
Lead to sin
For the weather is too hot
For that,
And I quite forgot
My shoe
In the flat
Of a girl named Lou.
But enough of that
For there is sea and
Sand and …
A professional tease
Paid to please
Is she
And he pretends
The women you see
Are his girlfriends.
While the smile
On her lips
Never slips
When a young man named Keith
Said, “love, ’tis often brief”,
His girlfriend Lou
Said, “that’s true,
You have already finished Keith!”.
Flowers in my living room
Now in full bloom,
Will be gone soon.
—
I spent a long time yesterday attempting to compose this poem, and ended up throwing away several drafts. Part of Friday evening had been spent with friends in a wine bar, which may or may not have impacted on my ability to get the above poem right.
When I asked my good friend Miss Wood,
“Do you think you could . . .?”,
She said, with a smile,
“You have wit and style,
But I really don’t think I should . . .”.
Her, lying there,
So innocent and fair
In slumber.
Soon she will wake
And make
Her way home.
He got her number
From that place of dreams and regret
– The internet . . .
When scientists have analysed you and me,
To the nth degree,
And found that there is nothing ethereal
And we are merely
Genetic material,
What will be
Left of you and me
Save for genes
And mechanical dreams?
Shall I sit out this dance
As the dancers prance
Heedlessly by.
Why
On occasions Can I not join in
With my companions and grin?
The song
Of the throng
Helps me forget
And yet
I am not as other men,
For when
I smile
There is, all the while
Within
The knowledge of this temporary din.
Others see it too
But construe
Me speaking of such a thing
As bad form and bring
The conversation around
To matters less profound.
But, when they are alone
Do they not think on skin and bone?
I can reduce my companions to laughter
With my jokes, but after
Our fun
Is done
Closing time will come.
—
“Shall I Sit Out This Dance” can be found in “My Old Clock I Wind and Other Poems”, https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0735JBVBG/
Roses I may not pick, tempt
With their sweet
Scent.
The peach,
Out of reach
I may not eat
For mine
Wine
Has passed its best.
But, in time
All things must rest.
The hour
Of the flower
And peach, is brief,
And all must, one day cease
“Check your privilege”, can not be said
To the dead,
But if it could, Kipling would
Remain the same,
A man of his time,
Who some would like to arraign
For the heinous crime
Of writing rhyme
