Her name was Werner
He just couldn’t spurn her
Advance,
For she did dance
Ever closer.
He said, “I’m a grocer”.
She replied with a sigh, “Oh how I love bananas.
You must see my pyjamas
All covered in llamas.
To tell you the truth
My real name is Ruth,
But it is better to be a girl called Werner
For no one can turn her
Away.
Let us play
With the llamas.
I may lose the pyjamas
For the Bahamas
Are hot
And I have got
A thirst to slake.
Come, let us swim in yonder lake!” …
A hug spontaneously given.
Emotion
As an ocean
Wells up.
My cup is full
Yet the dull
Feel
Of an unreal
Embrace …
A girl’s pretty face.
Another time
Another place.
I have striven
To stand aloof
From the truth
And feeling
Yet my emotions are reeling
From a simple hug.
The fug
For a moment clears
And the truth rears it’s head.
Better an empty bed
Than meaningless words said
In pretence
And sense
Lost in arms
That hold no lasting charms.
I am overly introspective.
Can you turn
Detective
And discern
The thoughts that churn
Around my mind?
You may find
A butterfly dancing in the sun light
Or a bat that flies at night.
Perchance a heart you will find,
Sometimes cruel
At others kind.
Whatever you should discover
I shall take cover
In verse,
At times verbose
More often terse.
A poet I am, I could do worse.
Once butterflies
Would excite
And delight
The boy.
His heart would overflow with joy
At the sight of his new toy.
The boy’s passion grew.
He thought it true
That butterflies would stay.
To him they did flit
For a moment on a flower sit
Then pass away.
He came to disdaine
Butterflies for they caused him pain
Yet the boy knew well
He was under their spell
And could not refrain
From sorrow and pain.
Listening to the rain
Running down the drain
He thought on how life passes us by.
With the butterfly
We dally
Then die.
The audience watches askance
As they dance
On the edge
Of a ledge.
Feet moving faster.
The music and laughter.
What follows after
Cool reflection or disaster?
She stoops but who conquers?
The situation bonkers.
A man old enough to be her father.
They would rather
Not think
On those who wink
And titter.
A bitter taste
Is a man’s disgrace
Yet still men dally
With silk and lace.
Feet that dance
Awhile,
Perchance
Provide surcease
A kind of peace.
But romance Is not my style.
The painted smile
May for a time beguile.
A fleeting kiss.
A kind of bliss
But romance is not my style.
Lovers may dally
In verdant valley
While
I love’s cost tally.
But romance is not my style.
Would that I could resile
The made up face
The silk
And lace.
But romance is not my style.
An interesting article on “The 10 Worst Story Openings”, (http://lauralee1.blogspot.co.uk/2013/09/10-ways-not-to-open-story.html). While I agree with some of the points made in this piece, getting hung up on how one should (or should not) begin a story can lead to a loss of spontaneity, with the writer worrying about the perfect (if such a thing exists) beginning rather than simply writing the best story they are capable of. Again what one reader perceives as being clichéd may well be regarded by others as constituting a great opening paragraph.
Kevin
In an efort to help fellow authors, J K Rowling shares her rejection letters, (http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-3509237/We-publish-book-commercial-success-Harry-Potter-author-JK-Rowling-shares-rejection-letters-publishers-writing-pen-Robert-Galbraith.html).
Sometimes the words won’t come
And my thoughts run
Confused
Away.
I lose
The sense of what I want to say.
My muse
Doth refuse
To play
Today.
Oh how thin
Is the divide betwixt virtue and sin.
A rake’s grin
Or a smile
That beguiles
Girls who flirt
In skirts
Short.
Ought?
Ought not?
Passion hot.
Cool reflection
May lead to dejection.
There is no rejection
When the coin does spin
And what some call sin
Enters in.
K Morris - Poet 