Wild

He runs along the verge, his tail hung down,
His fur reflecting red beneath the moon,
Home neither in the country nor the town.
He hurries lest the day should come too soon.
Light steals all prospects of a hearty meal;
A tender pullet or a careless hare.
He begs the wind such off’rings to reveal.
That he might snatch and carry to his lair.
Yet, many days his belly only sees
The stretching hours of starving fretful rest,
With nothing that his hunger would appease.
These are the times that form the wild thing’s test.
Unending seem the nights for such as he;
Such is the price to pay for being free.

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Twitter Sonnet

In place of speech, I sit me down to write

A burst of words to send upon their way,

Across the wires and waves, unto the sight

Of others who have like for like to say.

A pun or two, a hashtag, if you will,

A pithy statement on the news just read.

In jest alone, intending no great ill,

Not wishing harm upon another’s head.

But nought will dredge itself up from the gloom

No words full fit to grace the shimm’ring screen.

So, sit I here ‘til darkness fills the room,

Reflecting on the lines that might have been.

My plans have come to nought and are defeated

For on this night, I shall not be retweeted.

Toast

Sometimes I find I crave a piece of bread

Yet tempted not am I by pallid slice.

I feel I’d rather make some toast instead

To add some warmth and crunch would be so nice.

 

But what to spread upon this humble feast?

That will enhance, not seek to hide, the taste!

A smear of butter at the very least

To leave it unadorned would be a waste.

 

But if such bread I use as has full grain

I may not wish to mar the sweetest seed!

To add a flavour would bestow no gain

Perhaps this toast would have all I could need!

 

So common sense suggests the thing to do

Is not to make one piece of toast, but two!

 

This is a sonnet about toast for That Poetry Bloke who taught me the meaning of a ‘volta’ then reminded me when I forgot!

A Sonnet for the Journey

Life holds its sway but only in the hour

But after, what will be we cannot know.

For now our thoughts and actions are in flower

Until our time is done and we must go.

 

So, on the road we place our weary feet

And step on step play out the things we must.

Though we may never leave this lonely street

Until we give such matters up to dust.

 

Yet while we still must travel in the light

Our minds are primed to focus on this main.

To dwell not on our future’s arid plight,

Until we own the madness, to stay sane.

 

We judge our life not by the likely cost,

Since by that act its value would be lost.

Happy Birthday, Shakespeare

Had I but half the talent of the bard

My days I’d ever pass with pen and page.

To tear my thoughts from writing would be hard

A moment spent elsewise would seem an age.

 

This man had such a gift as seldom seen

In present times or in a bygone day.

Bequeathing joy, where’er his words hath been,

Ensuring that his fame will ever stay.

 

Rememb’ring, then, his day of birth and death,

We raise a glass in honour of his name.

With praise and admiration on each breath,

All those of likemind fondly will proclaim,

‘Hear thou, O bard, who long hath ceased to be,

That on this day, the world shalt honour thee!’

In praise of bees and beekeepers

If Earth should ever chance to lose the bee

There’d be such trouble as your nightmares bring.

For many of the plants we now can see

Could not exist.  Think how that blow would sting.

 

So we should cherish those who keep the hive

Beneath their nets in beeyards day on day.

In truth these people keep our hopes alive

There is no praise too lofty we could say.

 

They risk a thousand stings to tend the queen,

Her buzzing army and her workers too.

So they can carry pollen in between

The plants that will give food for me and you.

 

While tiny beasts give of their precious time

To make the honey that tastes so sublime.

Ode to a supermarket

Your aisles are filled with everything I need

Such wonders as I’d only hope to dream

A loaf adorned with every kind of seed

A cake made tempting with a swirl of cream.

 

I lose myself in calculating price

Between the multipacks and jumbo size.

With offers tempting me to purchase twice

As many as I’d meant to of your pies.

 

Yet sometimes I must curse the ones who change

The layout of the shop so I must stray

Down aisles where I encounter some new range

And buy much more than I had planned that day.

 

And if one day a fortune I should win

I’d never more root through the bargain bin.