poetic injustice

I write what I would

Like to read and sometimes

I Even try to rhyme and not put too many words in one line
But then again 

Poetry can

Be surprising.

Beautiful.

Lyrical, lurid, unbelievably empty and always

Unpredictable.

When I read it, I say – my God I’d love to write

Like that!

But I follow my patterns

I write what I would 

Like to read and maybe even sometimes,

Someone,

Somewhere,

Thinks it’s pretty good.

Advertisements

Horses for Courses

I’m wrapped up in liquid – whiskey or rum

No sign of my lungs failing, but my heart is overcome

You are playing my organs with a serrated spoon

A gutsy concerto by the light of the moon.
The music is yours, hours upon days

Living for moments in the moon’s gentle gaze

An impassioned plea for your time, nothing more

But this dream was a harbinger of the nightmare in store
I wake up alone, you are gone.

Taking the sun, taking our song

I choke on a torrent of bile and of blood

The visions I’ve seen but never understood

The Prince sleeps

As Shakespeare said: ‘what dreams may come’?

Lying spreadeagled under the moon

no tension there but an occasional moan,

Morning light will come too soon.

Resting on his laurels now

The leaves of which will flavour

His dream meals of tomorrow, 

And the joys he has yet to savour.

And his throne will hide his tired eyes

Imperiously drained,

He dreams not yet of how far he’ll rise,

The future cannot be explained

So slumber on, little prince, 

With carefree snores and whines

What dreams may come, no one can tell,

But tonight your dreams are your design.