There Was A Young Lady Named Rose

There was a young lady named Rose
Who painted all of her toes.
She wore thick socks,
Which acted as locks,
So I have never seen her toes!

There was a young lady named Rose
Who painted 5 of her toes.
She left the remainder unvarnished.
Her reputation got tarnished,
As to why? Nobody knows!

There was a young lady named Rose
Who painted her fingers and toes.
She painted them black
But she did lack
Enough to varnish her nose!


There Is A Kind Of Conservatism

There is a kind of conservatism that has little or nought to do
With politics, but which runs through
Many a man, who will say
“I like it this way
For it has always been so.
I know
That the horizon seems bright,
But there is pleasure in the scent of these roses
Here and now in this night garden.
Other posies
May brighten some dreamed of day
But here I would stay
Surrounded by these well trodden garden paths
And the laughter of friends
Who are ends in themselves.

Such a man weeps to see
The ancient tree
Cut down, for it is more than a mere tree,
It is he.

Such a one is often inarticulate.
Of an evening late
When others speak of utopia he gazes at the starry sky
And wonders why
These others are not content
With god’s great tent.

Else he takes refuge in books, for the sheer pleasure he derives
From reading, and derides
Those who pour over dreary
Theory and take pride in attacking every institution.
He is inclined to defend the constitution
And although charitable is sceptical of wholesale redistribution.

You will find such a man in every walk
Of life and when you talk
With him he may say
“I am not in the conservative way”
As he strokes the cat, purring by an open fire,
Fulfilling his only desire

The Tune of the Millenial Grave

From the Brain of Amy

The man on the moon; hums a cynical tune,
watching over demise and distress.
For his evil will spawn as the sun breaks the dawn,
in a brilliant game of chess.
His pieces are played and he sharpens his blade.
He moves with ease and finesse.
The blood that is spilled as another swallows a pill;
their souls he will caress.

For his game has begun; no one can outrun.
Watching our demise and distress.
He will guide each hand till we cannot stand,
in a brilliant game of chess.
Till our blood pools; we are all the ultimate fools.
He moves with ease and finesse.
Taking that line maybe for the last time,
our souls he will caress.

Deep down he knows each of your delicate woes,
watching your demise and distress.
His work is a dance, but you fight for a chance,
it’s a brilliant game of chess.

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Some Find Their Muse In Forests Green

Some find their muse in forests green
Where the nymph (so rarely seen)
Is brought to life on paper.
Many a romantic caper
Takes place on virgin page,
That pristine stage
Where maid
Is forever staid.

Other poets reach their sweating hand
Towards the lone phone,
So as to command
For a while,
A nymph’s enigmatic smile


Shall I compose
A poem about fingers and toes
Or write one more complex
So as to vex
My readers?

Yet who knows
For a poem about fingers and toes
May not be
What you see,
For dig down
And you may drown
In profundity,
Or not as the case may be!

I play with words
Which soar like birds
Or, like flat pancakes
Stick to ceilings
Evoking feelings of amusement
Or bemusement
But at the end of the day
One can clear the pancake away …

Some lakes
Are deep, while beneath the surface of others
We discover nought but a shallow puddle.

The Blind Leading The Blind

As I neared my home yesterday evening, a man called out from the other side of the road, “Do you have a light, please?”
“No, sorry”, I replied and continued on my way home.

As I walked on, I heard the voice of a young woman, “no, don’t, it’s a blind dog!”
Being registerd blind, I wondered what the point would be of me having a “blind dog”. One hears of the blind leading the blind. However, I, having no desire to become intimately connected with a telegraph pole or other such obstacle will stick with my trusty guide dog, Trigger!

The above occurance is far from being an isolated one. Indeed I have lost count of the number of occasions on which people have refered to my guide dogs (I am now working with my fourth) as “blind dogs”. My heart goes out to all those visually challenged dogs manfully leading their owners to who knows where. A medal should be struck in their honour and, of course the blind who entrust themselves to these fine animals should also be honoured for their … bravery!

To be serious for a moment, the evening was dark and the panic in the young woman’s voice made me conjecture (perhaps in error) that her companion might have been up to no good and, seeing that I was accompanied by a guide dog the lady’s conscience kicked in. As I say, I could be barking up entirely the wrong tree here. I was, nonetheless extremely glad to reach home yesterday evening.