She read a poem
Out loud to me
On a quiet afternoon
That touched me,
Awakened me,
Stirred my soul
And my dulled senses
As she read
It flowed over me
Like scented honey
Each word a caress
Each syllable a kiss
A soothing balm
Of evocative beauty
Whose feeling,
In metrical form
Left me unshackled
Releasing me, from
My contented taupe
Free to soar
On poetic wings
The poet dips his quill
In the inkwell of the
muse
The resulting flowing
words
Are the fruit of
thought
Gathered on the page
In a Poetic harvest
My poems have been called
On a good day, ribald
More often
artistically bald
Humourous? So-called
Wit to scathe and
scald
Tastelessness unrivalled
Not written but
scrawled
Or just plain tired
and auld
But I say with joy
untold
Prepare again to be
appalled
Great poets, wordsmiths of yore
Prose and rhyme did
write
Of matters that went
before
Viewing them in poetic
light
Beware a poet who reads
His
rhymes, verse or sonnets
In
a public place as they may
Have
some other nasty habits
One day with her
nephew or niece
Dame Peggy Ashcroft was travelling
In Royal Berkshire on British railways
When they came to a halt just outside
For quite a while they were stationary
The train motionless on the silent rail
When looking out the steamy windows
Through the trees they could see Reading gaol
“Oscar Wilde was once in that prison”
“Really what did he do to get in there?”
Dame Peggy tried to put it delicately
She said “Well um uh he didn’t really fit in dear”
