I make her mine
With a kiss.
But no,
It is not so.
For her mind
Runs free
Of me.
And behind
All the gloss,
Hides innocence
Half lost.
I make Her Mine
2 Replies
Tag Archives: rhyming poetry
Izzy
I know a gorgeous lady named Izzy
Who, on account of being incredibly busy
Sent her rather plain cousin Kate
To meet me for a date.
But I had arranged to see Izzy!
Paul the Anarchist
There once was an anarchist named Paul
Who said, “all governments they must fall!”.
So he huffed and he puffed,
And he wrote lots of stuff.
And governments took no notice of Paul.
—
There once was an anarchist named Paul
Who said, “all governments they must fall!”.
So he huffed and he puffed,
Until governments said, “that’s enough!
You have bored us into submission, Paul!”.
When A Young Lady Named Miss Doyle
When a young lady named Miss Doyle
Said, “have you seen my massage oil?”.
I said, “your behaviour is truly shocking!
I can hear the good vicar knocking!
Ah, that’s why you want the oil!”.
When An Elderly Spinster Named Jean
When an elderly spinster named Jean
Called me a wicked old libertine.
My new friend Miss Hocking
Said, “I’ve lost my stocking.
And Jean, what is a libertine?”.
Sex Positive
“I am sex positive”, she said”,
As she lay upon the bed.
She teased
And pleased.
And made his day.
This was all okay,
As she
Was truly
“Sex positive. While he,
Paid a little fee
Hot Buttered Toast
As I strolled home at a little after midnight
I met with a young lady dressed in white.
She sat on a post
Eating delicious hot buttered toast.
And she offered me some at just after midnight …
I Think Of You
I think of you
In your low shoe,
And short dress.
A girl’s caress.
Some moments of delight
And then, good night.
The Past
Perhaps one ought
Not to look back.
Yet I walk
That old, familiar track.
I pass the flats,
(Once a bustling, hustling pub).
And remember idle talk
Over Sunday grub.
Having passed the flats
I retrace my tracks.
For one can not go back,
To what is long since gone.
A Bird On The Wing
Below are 2 slightly different versions of a poem I composed earlier today.
—
A bird on the wing
Is such a temporary thing.
Though, when it dies,
In poetry, it survives.
—
A bird on the wing
Is such a temporary thing.
Though, when it dies,
It’s poem may survive.
