I think I choose to stay fifteen
I'll just refuse to age
Why should I give up being young
When Time turns o'er the page?
I'll still wear sassy skirts and shorts
And have my eyebrows plucked
And go to all the Brighton clubs
And count the boys I've danced with.

This moment is the only time
There is, and I'll delight
In living laughing through each day
And partying each night
So turn aside your jealous eye
You know this is the truth:
All doorways open wide to me -
For beauty and for youth.

I'll not grow older, I refuse
For I'm fifteen, and I can't lose.

 

Tags: dorian, poetry

Seek mere passion in those moments
When our selfish souls collide,
For happiness and pleasure
Only rarely coincide.

Tags: dorian, epigram, poetry

I hear no voices crying “More!”
There are no mail sacks at my door,
No-one awaits the formulation
Of my fourth Z-bed variation.
Three nonsense pomes were quite enough,
There’s no more mileage in such stuff.
The epigram was short sweet verse,
The sonnet-thing was rather worse,
And dactyls which alluded to
KosOvan politics won’t do!
However, as most readers know,
I’m rather daft. So here I go.

It struck me then, and strikes me now
As quite mysterious, just how
The bed was got up there at all -
The hatchway is a foot too small!
We tried it straight, then upside-down
Then inside out, then turned it round
And folded up then held out straight
We held a family debate
On how to best of all despatch
This antique object through the hatch.
To no avail. We let things be
And went downstairs to have some tea.
In fact, when all is said and done
The afternoon was rather fun.

Iambic four-feet poems require
A moral ending to inspire,
To point to meaning in the normal;
Lift the petty to the formal.
And so, forgetting this damned bed
I offer you these words instead:
If it don’t fit, then it don’t fit
No matter how you work at it.
So give it up, and seize the day:
Turn your back, and walk away.

I wrote a short poem on problems with moving
A bed in my loft. That same day a friend
Had problems with Kosovo, seemingly proving
His demonic work was to hasten world’s end.

“When will the Serbs start to fight for their portion?
When will they stand and defend what is left?
When will the people be free from extortion?
from Westernist evil, perversion and theft?”

Thus wrote a protester. His diatribes show that
It’s hard work to be a KosOvan diplOmat.




[Groan. This is terrible! At least Nicholas is better at diplomacy than I am at poetry!]

The winter chill had started to set in
The heating laboured all the long grey day
To give us warmth, while in the parlour room
We played board games to keep the cold at bay.

Enough! said I, enough! We shall repair
To those who deal in attic insulations
And purchase fibreglass; and thus we did;
But soon upstairs we found new complications.

The granary was strewn, as fields of battle,
With bits of history piled in a mess -
Toys, clothes and tents and books, a copper kettle -
So we cleaned up the past, with great success.

An ageing rusty Z-bed stubbornly
Refused to move; and so we let it be.

Tags: poetry, sonnet

A lonely dull-eyed fish regards our walk,
Beneath the morning sun, autumnal cyan sky,
Would ask us, puzzled, “Why?”, if it could talk.

Three women in a boat rowed gently by
As five strode out, we pilgrims seeking Woking
Beneath the morning sun, autumnal cyan sky.

The landlord said, “You must be freaking joking”,
But armed with GPS and OS maps
We five strode out, as pilgrims seeking Woking.

The stimuli to learning did not lapse:
We read of Kennedy and Magna Carta.
And armed with GPS and OS maps

We stumbled on to find Virginia Warter.
Before us Saxon woods and alien crater,
Behind us Kennedy and Magna Carta.

We sit on Horsell Common, six hours later.
A lonely dull-eyed fish regards our walk
Through Saxon woods to find an alien crater:
Would ask us why, but dead, it cannot talk.

Tags: poetry, terzanelle

Murmuring of Innumerable Bees

Tags: araucaria, crossword clues

Would any French readers be able to tell me whether La Nouvelle Star is a "concours de petites talentes" or a "tele-crochet"?

Tomorrow does not always bring the thing
we hope. December marches into spring
with yellow flowers and higher clearer skies.
Still, our sight depends upon our eyes.

Tomorrow hardly ever brings the things
we wish. The January songthrush sings
to celebrate another year
for those who have the ears to hear.