Tag Archives: poetry

Poems that rhyme

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I love my two grown nieces,
my man is just divine,
I like prose poetry pieces
but moreso, poems that rhyme.

I love to eat red meat
while quaffing fine red wine,
dark chocolate is a treat
but not like poems that rhyme.

I like to swim butt-nude
at night in summertime;
it elevates my mood
but so do poems that rhyme.

I’ve slept out in the Sinai
dived there in summertime
but nothing could be finer
than dreams of poems that rhyme

I like to read Steve Pinker,
Mark Baker is sublime,
I like a critical thinker
but mostly, poems that rhyme.

I know Lew Carroll’s poems by rote,
Will Shake’s a fave of mine,
ee cummings get my vote,
‘cos he wrote poems that rhyme.

A day at the office

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Under the fluorescent lights,
she takes him
through the details of the report,
but he is undone
by her scent
and thinks, instead,
of them as one, his lips
on hers, silencing
the banality of profit peaks and dips;
of her sensible shoes carelessly
discarded in a tell-tale trail;
of liberating her
chastised fireball hair
into a cascading
mess across his chest;
of her  scent, illicit, on his thighs…
“Do you have any questions?”
He sighs ,
“Sorry, can you repeat that. I was distracted by the cost blowout in the 3rd quarter.”

Under the flourescent lights,
his devil-dark eyes
intoxicate her, the arousing effects
of his easy smile
and casual wearing of perfect clothes,
undiminished In the rude glare,
but, she knows
dreams of them are hopeless; he barely
notices her when they meet;
he isn’t even listening now as she speaks:
“Do you have any questions?”

The Brother

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Ancient Bijin dolls
smile in polite approval
as she paints in the dim light of a Chinese lantern –
a little piece of the Orient in African suburbia.

At 3pm she serves her handmade guests tea,
positioning them in their miniature chairs
so they can admire her handiwork.

Teddy loves its fiery breath,
Polly nods uncontrollably in agreement,
her eyes blinded by the Brother a long time ago,
but Humpty Dumpty is scared of its horns.

At 6pm, on the way back from her bath,
the Brother pounces,
twisting her arm behind her back,
“I have srayed the dragon,” he menaces. Tell on pain of tickring death!”

In her room,
she finds her exhibition guests in contorted poses,
the graffiti spray still wet
across her masterpiece:
NEVER MIND THE BOLLOCKS, HERE’S THE SEX PISTOLS!”

On pain of death or not, this time she will tell.