Though politics may bother some
ignoring it will keep us dumb.
A limerick overshadows time
the pleasantries of clever rhyme.
Free verse is mastered by a few
though much of it resembles pooh.
So many live inside a trance
where words perform their lovely dance.
We must, as poets stay alert
lest they may take our favourite shirt.
Our leaders ought to know the rules
that we are not pathetic fools.
Yet they behave as if exempt
and practice, laughingly, contempt.
same as people who would speakinstead of praying on a matof peaceful colour, knitted withthe fibres of explosives and despair?What once emerged with hopefor man to live togetherin harmony of spirit and of liberty,where no man be a tyrantit is abused, shamefully usedfor there can never bea true Democracywithout much opium for the people,one cannot…
Just buttermilk and herbal teawas what she saw as good for me.I drank my booze for sixty yearsas of today, I’m in arrears.I’ve yet to really sing the bluesand think that booze attracts the muse.They say that man’s above the beast,that’s why I never, in the leasthave listened to my mother’s voice.I say to her,…
a waterlily floated silently, and nude,she heard the strapping waterdragon’s call.As he approached she swung her leafy hipsfrom side to side as if to say Hello,far in the distance one could see departing shipsen route to the great cognac city of Bordeaux.He spoke, a clear and timid voice there in the heat.She cocked her pretty…
into the portals of all homesand palaces, perhaps it cansecure an entry permit forthe Pearly Gates at that.She was fresh-faced and pretty,lovely legs, and freckles,two dimples, mischievous(and placed with great precision)moist ruby lips and not a traceof fur as often can be seenadorning crazily the upper lip,white skin, caressable and soft,like light-pink velvet with a…
there are some for the deadand for those who can hear.There’s a flood simply waitingto enlighten the massesand the bold ones are matingwith the word middle classes.I am swimming with sparksand it matters a lotas each letter leaves marksand the airwaves run hot.I pretend that I couldn’treally care what they saybut I know that I…
climbed up the downpipe with his legsand stole the poem about sex.He took the page and made a flyerand climbed some more to get still higher,then launched the thing into the breezehelped on its way by a good sneeze.The poem landed in the streetwhere it was trampled by two feet,an aging teacher from the schoolwho’d…
