Tag Archives: poets


Silent reflector of dreams.
A girl’s make-up seems
To hide
What lies inside.
For no crack must be seen
On your perfect screen.

But girls waking up, in the morning,
Stretching, yawning,
Should they chance
To glance
In the glass, may see
The real she.


There was an elderly gentleman called Farmer

There was an elderly gentleman called Farmer
Who was a real old charmer.
He proposed to a much younger girl,
Which put her head in a whirl.
They were married by a Tibetan Lama.

What happens when a poet lets his pen run aimlessly away?

What happens when a poet lets his pen
Run aimlessly away,
In the mid afternoon?
He will write of a tree
Or some such thing.
Perchance he will talk of cabbages and kings.
But no, that would be to steal Mr Carroll’s words,
A thing not heard
Of amongst honest men,
Who dip their pen
In blood red ink
And think
Of original ideas.
Perchance they speak of wasted years
And tears that fall
And how all love turns to gall.
But there is, I fear
Nothing original here,
So I shall compose a verse about wenches and beer.
Yet women and wine (both truly divine)
Have been done to death by versifiers.
I must seek for different fires
To warm the hearts
Of those who lose themselves in the poetic arts.
But there are none,
For sages long since gone
Have said and done,
And had their fun
With words
That fly
Or die
Never to be heard
Accept perhaps in the rhymer’s drunken brain
Where he recollects a line
He once considered rather fine.

Of Death and Sex

Gravestones I can not see
Look back at me.
Tomb rhymes with womb,
Or is it the other way around?
Both death and sex are profound
Yet today
We go out of our way
To Avoid speaking of the final sleep.

Stories of sex do our need
For entertainment feed.
We are “shocked”
By a footballer’s disgrace,
Although the smile on our face
Mocks the “shocked”.

The papers care
About morality and titillate
Their readers over their breakfast plate
With stories of how a paedophile was caught
And brought to court
By vigilantes who perhaps encourage the week to do
What they might not otherwise do
By pretending to be an underage kid.
No matter for we are rid
Of another “monster” from our midst.

The gravestones continue to stare,
While the populace care
About the celebrity’s whore.
Perhaps it is a fear of what the grave has in store
That causes the tabloid readers
(Those bottom feeders)
To read
Articles about how the underclass do breed
And gaze at half-naked celebrities capers
In what some call “newspapers”.