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Poem: What Sort Of Guard Dog Are You Then?

What sort Of Guard Dog Are You Then? . . Go buy a guard dog people said ‘Cos it’s not good to live alone, But you won’t even bloody bark Unless I throw your squeaky bone. . When strangers knock, you rush to play, You lick the people in the park, But I was truly […]

Poem: The Clock Of My Life Is Racing.

The Clock Of My Life Is Racing. . . the clock of my life is either standing still or racing so quickly that time is flying . time is racing past at this particular moment because I shall soon be seeing you . .

Poem: Don’t Stop Believing.

Don’t Stop Believing. . . It is not a waste of time To wish upon a falling star Or hope against all the odds. It may be a rabbit’s foot And keeping your fingers crossed, But there is nothing wrong With keeping a candle in the window Or whistling in the dark. . .

Poem: New York Choices.

New York Choices. . . It was a day of change In the New York sunshine. Did she take the necklace With the blue and pink enamelling Or leave it there because of doubts Leading to regrets upon the morrow. Is it not like judging the vagaries Of vicarious feelings, against The strong needs of […]

Poem: Waitress.

Waitress. . . She is always friendly With a welcome ‘How D’you Do’. A bone thin personality, But through pressure of family duty Rather then by dictate of fashion. Careworn and sinewy, with home dyed hair, It is the beauty of her changing eyes Flowing endlessly between grey and blue That sits permanently in my […]

Poem: Not Worth Doing.

Not Worth Doing. . . Don’t feel regret Or wish to replay, It is not worth it. We are all the same Once we reach that point Of looking back. We all wish that We’d had more sex And rounder heels. Now we must sit it out. . .

Poem: The Eyes Have It.

The Eyes Have It. . . How hard to believe The memories of you I have held fast For so very long. To see you today In your old age And recognise you only By your blue eyes. Still with that Direct sexy stare, Still with the same Naughty twinkle. . .

Poem: Don’t Say It.

Don’t Say It. . . Don’t you dare to tell me What I should be doing Or I might finally do The one thing I should do, Which will leave me free of you With far less reasons to feel blue. . .

Poem: The Waiting Game.

The Waiting Game. . . Spontaneity adds ease To the social experience, It is an extended waiting time That leaches away the pleasure. . .

Poem: Bygone Terrace.

Bygone Terrace. . . Each time I pass your garden You have added a new distraction. Sometimes a new bush Or a new and pretty stone. Yesterday I noticed that you Have added a tiny antique table With two delicate metal chairs Painted in a powdery grey. You have even put a crazed jar In […]