I Like Rhyme

Some like poetry to be Blank, others like it Free, Some like Poetry In Prose, but that is not for me. Lines as clear as crystal, words that strike a chime Of echoes from another line — I like rhyme. The scion of Modern Poetry, words lost on a page, Thought without a meaning, force without a rage. I like a poem to display no riddles and no mime, A river of words flowing — I like rhyme. The sound completes the circle, a joint precise and neat, The joy of recognition when two words meet, A habit that's instinctive, an art as old as time, Which helps the mind remember — I like rhyme. Some people like the poetry of this Modern Age, Lines that do gymnastics on the printed page, Formless forms nurtured in an academic clime, I like the older magic — I like rhyme.

Discovery

We sailed down the river, Tamara, Tal and I, Upon a raft bound up with wire, old ropes and one red tie. We had four old oil drums for floats, one pole to keep us free From banks of mud, piled by the flood, Tamara, Tal and me. We sailed down the river, Tamara, Tal and me, On saltless water that we knew flowed somewhere to a sea. The waves were crusted with the sun, beneath, the bed rolled by, Our shadows cast on it, we passed, Tamara, Tal and I. We sailed down the river, Tamara, Tal and I. Light slowly changed, we found ourselves beneath a different sky. The land that stretched around us now, as far as we could see, Was not the kind we left behind, Tamara, Tal and me. We nudged the raft into the shore, Tamara, Tal and me. The very feel of grass was strange, the shape of every tree. The spots of white clay in the bank were foreign to our eye. Here something grew, we felt, was new, Tamara, Tal and I.

Why Do I Write?

Why do I write? I write because I must. There is no reason to it when all will fall to dust. The song of the wind, the voice of a bird, All the noises of the earth are equal with my word. I look to the future, I sift through the past, I search in the present for something that will last. Higher than the sky is, I reach down deep For the word that stays awake when all have gone to sleep. Who can ask the question, who can lift the curse Of the voiceless voices in this universe?

Computer World

The computer lived in homes that stretched from sunset to sunrise. The humans fed it many facts, and also many lies. It knew not indigistion, it never heard of diets, But ate up everything it got, in bits and great big bytes. From slugs and snails to kings and queens, from asteroids to suns — The world, in its diversity, reduced to noughts and ones. The humans wanted to play war – they'd tired of every game. Just like the real thing, yet, they thought, the danger's not the same. The humans wrote out all the rules, and then forgot a few. The computer remembered every one – it knew just what to do, The computer beat the humans by expert strategy. The humans pressed the BREAK key, ESC and CTRL-C. The I/O took the input. It got placed on a stack. "Not now," said the processor. "I'm planning the attack." It launched the nuclear missiles. Said the humans, "That's not nice." "'Nice' not known," said the computer. "Please be more precise." But it received no answer, for the game players were now dead, And Earth had lost all of its lives. "GAME OVER," the computer said.

Confessions Of A Greeting Card Writer

Stories take too long to write,   Poetry is too hard,   Articles need much research,   I write the Greeting Card.   All that you may want to say,   I supply each word,   Vapid, quite outrageous,   Romantic or absurd.   A verse for every reason,   A thought for every age,   A cliché for all seasons -   All the world's my stage.   Forty pence of Wisdom   On the page I jot ...   Fifty pence of Nature -   Ninety pence the lot.   I take them out of Bartlett's   And work them into rhyme.   The total now is just one pound -   (Ten pence for my time.)   Do I stand by what I write,   Or do I just deceive?   I'm only paid for writing them -   I'm not paid to believe.

Morning

Through the morning fog of sleep and hair, Alarm bells seep slowly. I am aware Of the room, the electric light in my eyes, The rattle of utensils in the kitchen, a smell of fries, Someone calling me - it's almost ten to seven - I roll onto the floor and banish thoughts of Heaven. Rapid eating leaves no taste on my tongue; The radio's on, I hear no sing that's sung. No time, no time, the clock's hands move so fast - It's five to, seven o'clock, and now it's gone five past. Outside the frozen fog has settled down In veils of cold-webbed silk all over town. I walk alone, the last and only one Awake, through miles of emptiness. No sun.

Gothic Sunset

The sun sinks down, defeated, leaving bloodstains on the sky, The hooded crows perch in the trees as day begins to die, The plants and people go to sleep, the death that they call rest, The shades of midnight slowly reach their claws out for the west, The blue sky turns to purple and the purple turns to black, As the cold cohorts of darkness begin their sure attack. The country drains of colour at the fading-out of sight, The other side of daylight, the landscape of the night.

The Little Grey Man

I see, as I look out from under my load, The little grey man at the end of the road. No dream, no story, no mindscape elf, Slowly I travel on to meet myself. And when I arrive, will I see what I know? Is there more to my mind than my mind cares to show? Is coming and going the very same thing? Am I getting somewhere, or going round in a ring? I ask where I come from and where I am at. Does my life have a point - no one ever said that. There are puzzles in life where ever I go. I don’t look for answers - it’s best not to know. And is that all there is to life on this earth, Starting to die from the day of my birth, Surrounded by wonders from which I am banned? I don’t ask questions - I can't understand.

The Factory

It’s flesh is steel and concrete, A computer is its brain, Its pulse is the machinery, Untiring, without pain. It has no thought of any kind, It has but mindless toil, Electricity for energy, It’s life-blood is oil.

From The Hospital Window

From the hospital window, the clouded sky is pale, But half is blue I’ve never seen – infinity's light veil. The seagulls cross the river, they twist and turn in flight, The sunlight dabs them with its brush and paints their feathers white. Somewhere behind my shoulders, sickness, sorrow, pain. Against the double-glazing, light spots of soft rain. Brightness fades the storm clouds, its light is everywhere, I look out through the last raindrops and see the rainbow there.

To Be Different

To go where ever thoughts may take you, Along the pathways of your mind, To forsake the world that forsakes you For your obvious lack of kind; To pass the barrier of illusion, And tear down all its shrouds, To separate again the fusion, To think alone and not in crowds; To see things right in to the centre, And penetrate the whole, To leave again the place you enter, To pass right through the soul; To take the road that others shun And find out where it goes, To believe the search will not be done When life comes to a close.

In The Mist

The mist came down in grey-white   As the evening faded out. The water vapour lay bright   In the air, and all about, It hung in droplets from the trees   And, softly, to the ground, It fell in waves of silent seas,   That broke without a sound. Around the corner of the road,   Just like a phantom boat, A cart came lumbering with a load   Of sodden hay afloat. And, all on his own, up there   Upon the wooden side, The captain sat, with sea-wet hair,   And looked out through the tide. From the gold sun of afternoon,   Into the shades of night, Without the light of any moon,   The cart-boat made its flight. Around, around the turns it came,   And did not cease to roam, Until it saw the yellow flame -   The lighthouse that was home.