start of a poem about a beekeeper

in a little wooden hut
in the middle of a wood
lived August
with his little dog
and bees
whenever he would sigh
and think life had passed him by
he’d remember
that they all did
as they pleased

The Buddhist : A Short Fiction As Prose

The Buddhist
on the underground
stopped and
handed me
a carnation
I looked up
and wanted to smile
but
his YOLO hat
caused me
consternation

5-7-5 (take one-hundred-and-sixty-seven : writer’s block)

my mind is a blank
though just five minutes ago
it was full of songs

A Hotel Conference Room Painting

it’s meant to be a horse I think
or something of that kind
I cannot see its front end
nor even its behind
perhaps I note a saddle
or the bridle on its bit
It’s definitely meant as modern art
still I think it’s kind of shit.

Einbahnstrasse, a short fiction as prose

she closed her eyes
and left on a razor blade
red paved roads
signposting the way
to oblivion

5-7-5 (take one-hundred-and-sixty-six : You Only Live Twice?)

the end credit’s roll
and though James Bond will return
real life’s less certain

Rossetti’s Woman (a sketch)

with cream roses fair
she combed her hair
and left life as it found her
pale of skin
no breath within
canvas stretched to clothe her

Frustration

first lines
I have a thousand
to explore
and jump
effortlessly
into a second
but today
a denouement
of any kind
eludes me
completely

5-7-5 (take one-hundred-and-sixty-five : terpsichore)

you are the music
inspiration for my soul
to dance within yours

Real Poets (final version)

real poets dress in ruffled shirts
with frock coats velvet long
I write in my underpants
which seems a little wrong.

real poets they have tragedy
in which each line is wrought
I think I’m quite a happy chap
with nae a darkened thought.

real poets all have fancy names
to hang their words upon
or multiple initials
whilst I have just the one.

real poets puff on opium
to let their minds fly free
or seek fairies in the absinthe
I like a cup of tea.

real poets suffer greatly
and have consumption too
death always hangs around them,
hmm, well I did just have the flu.

real poets finish poems
unless they die before
my words tend to fizzle out
when I haven’t any more