I (try to) write fun yet thought provoking poetry. Influences are wide-ranging, everything from Betjeman to EE Cummings, Dorothy Parker to Eliot, Keats to Baudelaire.
Why Not Go Naked? Why not go naked, why not go nude? Don't be a prude, so shocked, it's not rude. We were born naked, we'll leave that way too, The worms will have chewed us unclothed once their through. Feel the delightful warm sun on your skin, Getting an all over tan is no sin. Go out in your garden as nature intended, Say 'hi' to the neighbour, they won't be offended. Take a stroll through the woods, sans all, in the buff, Feeling twigs underfoot is such riveting stuff. Open the door in the nude, don't be shy, The caller will smile, oh please give it a try! So girls get those pants off, and men give a shout, Of joy as you walk around with your bits out! Dewsbury Moor The snow fell in Dewsbury Moor overnight, They woke up at lunch to a horrible sight, The snow had flowed through the broken gates, And roads were blocked all across the estates, The giros had still not arrived after ten, So wailing was general within the crack den. The bin bags piled up to the lower window, Obscured by the grime-defying, beautyfying snow. The wind whistled through the boarded up seams, Of windows and roused men from opiate dreams, While weary-eyed women with mascara'd tears, Tend to their children, three in four years. But the memories stay as the snow melts away, How beautiful Dewsbury Moor looked today! Sylvia's Husband - in defence of Ted Hughes He once was a poet of standing they say, But he's best known as Sylvia's husband today, I've heard of him vaguely, you see I'm well read, I think he's called Fred, or Ted, maybe Jed? In his day, long ago, he was almost a star, But now all we know is his wife wrote Bell Jar, He wrote of a hawk, or a crow, so I heard, Or maybe a kestrel? Whatever - a bird, And that was the weakness we know of today, He couldn't turn birds or whiskies away, With his raging cruel tongue and his passion for drink, He drove his poor martyrd wife over the brink, But I've read such beautiful things from his name, And ponder the temporal nature of fame, He is looked down on now, he killed Sylvia Plath, For such a great man, such a sad epitaph.
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
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