Would you like a poem? What would it say?

That the waves in your hair make reason sway?

And your smiling eyes drive sense away?

And is that all?

Should you have a poem, what would it mean?

Me far too eager, much too keen,

my feelings tangled like never been?

But if feelings pall?

When you get your poem, what will it do?

Probably not endear me to you.

Nor to your feelings give any clue.

Best have no poem at all

Interlude

"Why does my shit stink?" he asked politely.

"Don't swear." she said, "The word to use is faeces."

"Oh" he hesitated "Or poo perhaps?"

"Too childish, dear, although appropriate.

You're old enough to use more adult words.

But it's a sensible question nonetheless.

I presume it's all to do with your evolution.

It smells so bad so that you don't ingest it.

So that you're very careful to avoid it."

"What does 'ingest' mean?"  "Well, eat,

or somehow get it in your mouth." she said.

"I see. So people whose shit didn't stink -

sorry, faeces, would sometimes ingest it

and get ill and die and fail to breed."

"Yes, something like that. Perhaps." she added.

"And now get back to that evolution homework

that you're avoiding, by going to the toilet."

"And we're evolved from all the stinky people

and all the nice-smelling ones just went extinct."

"I hope you washed your hands. Goodbye."

Spider

One day I noticed a spider in the kitchen

crawling along the tiled window sill.

Now I value spiders as predators on the flies

which often infest my indoor flower plants

and I watched with interest to see what it was doing.

But I couldn't tell where it was going or why.

It halted when it came level with the sink

and turned to face over the edge of the sill.

Motionless it seemed to be peering down

as if on a cliff above the rocks below.

Still it didn't move. Taking time to think?

Decide? Oh, my god, a suicide?

Surely there's some pleasure still to come

in life. Family somewhere? Friends? Or none !

Don't do it. You're so tiny. You'll never survive.

Or is that part of the problem? An inferiority . . .

And then it jumped. But horizontally !

Across the gap between the sill and the cloth

draped over the tall vertical water faucet.

Before it vanished in the fabric, I swear its jaws

moved. I think it said "Up yours".

Cameras could capture it;

even painting probably so;

memory re-imagine it;

words unforunately no.

Another blue sky summer sunset

sifting down to ochre glow

like winter sitting room coal fire

bedtime dying long ago.

Tweets 19

Pleasure is the here and now;

satisfaction for the future.

My constant companion in old age,

girl not boy, little joy.

Fart or faeces ?

Hard to tell

sometimes. Toilet !

(just as well).

I think there's little left in life to see.

I'm only killing time till time kills me.

Novels help to pass the time

for both readers and writers.

THE CONSOLATIONS OF OLD AGE

                  don't  exist

THAT'S MUSIC - OUT OF THIS WORLD

Special offer for one lifetime only.

The only funeral company to offer

bingo in Heaven.

Politicians are part of the narcissus genus

Poetry - so many write it but so few read it.

THE  TRAVELLING  GASTROPODS

Their relatives must go home every day

but they venture further with their campervans -

snails.

Cars are a bit like people -

the body work is sleek or battered

but the driver isn't clear.

With acknowledgement to Robert Burns

If the camera doen't lie,

then the mirror certainly does

which just confuses when we try

to see ourselves as others see us .

To my wife

When I certainly also die

I will have eternity

to patiently, carefully search for you

floating somewhere among the stars.