As the washing went round and rotated
She sat on the top and gyrated
As the spinner begun
She said, “This is fun”
And finished her laundry elated

Now American football enthrals
There are plays there are tackles and falls
It’s not stagnant or staid
And it’s usually played
By men with oddly shaped balls

A lady called Margaret Prideaux
Was a pretty but lonely young widow
Though she no longer frowned
When the plumber came round
For she really enjoyed what he did, oh!

There was a vamp who did bite
All the ladies took fright
His speed was such
He didn’t move too much
But fell on a spike from a height

I have never been oppressed by a rose
nor feared its thorn...

In your garden my Beloved,
I am but a thought
returning,
a waft of pleasure in your embrace

if you
should fall for the third time,
let the violet crushed
speak no riddles
to a wayward sun,

place an armful of black-eyed susans
in abstraction,
circle its motion
but do not lament the lemon tree,
my Love--
fill the pond with summer lilies,
deep and yellow

I missed my wife today
while she had to be away.
Realised how lonely I’d be
if she wasn’t here with me.

Without her love and smile
life wouldn’t be worthwhile
I missed my wife today.

I missed my children today
seeing them happily at play.
Sunny days and ice creams
bedtime stories before dreams.

They’ve grown and moved on
now my little ones are gone.
I missed my children today.

skin,
the feel of it,
entering the lost domain
of sensation
skin,
the peeling away
of all that would stand in its way
to be empty of plots and twists
skin,
the magic of touch
and being touched
to enter a ritual
unto itself as old as
creation as new as desire
basking like an otter
under the sun,
skin,
how it soothes the caged
heart, fires the breath
and rocks the ages,
breaks up monotony
and serves the pleasure
of kings and queens,

Sorceress, daughter of darkness,
pagan enchantress goddess of doom.
creatures of the midnight take flight
through the Necropolis.

Abandoning Pagan roots
for darker Satanic stirrings
she blends into her cauldron
Hemlock, spiders and bats blood

she draws a circle
with sacred rod in her hand
drawing symbols and sigils
of magical design

If the day
contemplated a year
then,
I have lived lifetimes
in an hour.

if a moment
could have moulded me,
it was this one

when our atoms danced
at first contact,
the static rubbed
at uncomfortable,
I felt the sting that said
‘stand sharp’

I watched the blue
of your eyes
cloud with a storm,
your fingers twitched

as I unfolded my wings,
burnt, torn and scarred,
you raised your hands
and with the balm of your palms

Our land, pitched
Between two extremes
Manifest multiplicities of woes
From abject poverty and squalor
A far divide from the few rich
To politics and religion
Forbid I mention names
Lest wanton violence
Destruction of lives
Threaten our existence
Eroded middle class
Clash of identities
Suffer terrible losses
In class and culture
A nation tossed about
Like water in a canoe

There is an old lush named Booze Hound
When attempting to walk hits the ground
Then pukes and he burps
He goes through the works
causing havoc all the way round 

Upon a barren shore he sits
Longing to be free
From there he sees little bits
Transparent to you and me

A lonely howl of frustration
Is all he has to give
Why, in all of "tarnation"
Won't they let him live?

Time and space mean everything
Never get close enough
Not as close as spaghetti-string
Goshdog, It sure is rough!

There is a land, a paradise of love
He smells it, and howls long notes
If there are Goshdogs up above
He'd have her silken little coat