I love writing in verse and writing poems was where it all started for me as a writer although I have no understanding of non rhyming poetry and don't attempt it.
I wrote a large number of poems in the two years between finishing my bachelor's degree and starting my masters, and whilst most were rubbish there are a number from 12 years ago that I still like.
I sit in solitude,
with my mind for company.
Some thoughts of great magnitude,
flash by occasionally,
and go again.
A sense I activate when I activate yours,
I touch, we touch together.
A sense I captivate when I captivate yours,
I touch, we touch for pleasure.
A sense I propagate when I propagate yours,
I’ll touch, we’ll touch forever.
My life now slowly slips away,
I’m knocking on death’s door,
There’s still so much I’ve left to say,
I should have said before.
I’m losing track of consciousness,
It’s losing track of me.
I’ll vanish into nothingness,
a fading memory.
All that’s left to say I just forget,
I’ve finished all my crying.
I’m leaving behind no regrets,
It’s over now I’m dying.
. . dying . . . . .
. . . . dying . . .
. . . . . . dead.
I weep for the little ones, just begun,
Dunblane’s little daughters, Dunblane’s little sons.
I weep for their teacher’s brave sacrifice,
she shielded the children and paid with her life.
The cruelty in this I can’t comprehend,
and find little kindness in love that I send.
Yet as the time passes I’ll always remember,
Through sunlight in June and the snows of December.
At least in the heavens they’re being looked after,
I look to the skies and hear innocent laughter.
They’re safe now.
I see you so vibrant and lush
and can’t disguise my colour gush.
Within the form of head rush,
blood vessels burst, tomatoes crush,
to show an outward sign. My blush.
Privileged . . . in some ways!
He’s a privileged man with a different filly,
for each of his airs and graces.
Takes pleasure in dipping his, ‘Little Billie,’
in each of his filly’s places.
He’s a participant in, ‘The Venerable Society
for the protection of Adulterers.’
He revels in certain notoriety,
as founding member for this cult of sirs.
So many wifelets for his stately homes,
has this man from the leisure class.
His young pert wench provides the moans,
between sips from her champagne glass.
She asks, “Do you want a massage? I do egos!”
Whilst removing her Wonderbra.
He asks, “Would you mind awfully if I played with those?”
Then pleads, “Mind the Renoir!”
This country gent, he’s oh so posh,
he buys what he wants with his money.
But when he removes his trousers, he hears, “Oh gosh!”
His endowments so small, it’s funny!
The breeze blows long and cold,
as God releases breath.
Not wanting to be told,
of the leaves the breeze molests.
Still not before,
the kite soars,
will breeze stop for a rest.