An old dog fox was at the grassy edge When I sat down upon the back door step To smoke my last cigarette of the night. 'Stay on the grass. Keep off the flower beds' I commanded both by voice and gesture.
He sourly acknowledged the boundaries, Asserting his territorial rights By lifting his leg on as much green As he, erratically, could cover.
It was a strain- the urinary flow Was thin and shallowly intermittent. 'You've got prostate problems- they come with age' I laughed. With annoyance and defiance ...
The intimacy of lovers may rest On their shared ideals, tastes and interests. The sexual may complete a spectrum That still can shine with one faded colour. Erotic closeness of opposites thrills Like a tightrope walker without a net.
'You ready now?- with a slight twist of her head Towards the bedroom as carelessly As switching on a household appliance. It was a warm and sunny afternoon, So perfect for a love making enhanced By what all five senses could bring.
What is true nature in those places and Sometimes whole countries where it has endured Control, transformation and destruction By millenia of human intervention?
Is nature still nature when altered By manipulation of people like Their turning of wild wolves into tame dogs?
The saddest yet eerily serene sights Are of human slash, burn and abandon. Three great power stations in a line Each three miles apart in a mimicry Of medieval cathedrals and castles Which overlooked the ancient landscape.
Green, the colour, has a hard time of it. Little more than green shoots and green light are Conceded as analogous praise- for Green The political movement gets its aims Absorbed by other parties and 'a green And pleasant land' sounds middlish and tame.
Contrast 'the green-eyed monster' of jealousy, Know nothing ineptitude incapable Of tying its own shoelaces. Unripe fruit And extreme signs of infection in pus. Even painters dismiss it as a mixture Of yellow and blue yet it is as much A part, as they, of the rainbow spectrum. ...
Mid-seventies, humble Ph.D. student, Determined to collect every piece Of evidence germane to my research, I took the train from London which ended In an empty, misty estuary At the edge of nowhere to a city, Isolated, without satellites and Losing its economic vocation.
The university library held The aberrant, sought-after document, Though the basis of that information Was far from convincing. Libraries then Were but putative treasure islands whose Wealth was rarely catalogued in full.
Baby murderers-we all are' was said In threat, irony and in self-disgust. The vultures slunk away. What could they make Of ten women drinking furiously While only picking at food rich in price? Some fun, all expenses paid? Not likely.
Girls night out and me, the sober chauffeur, Pondering how to get these ten women Of all shapes and sizes into my car.
Alcohol to bury desperation. Not with their workshy, parasite partners Or adult children. Or even their own Gambling or escapist holidays. They were quite...
The foul destroyer of love is deceit. The lies, the hides, the smiles that break the trust All founded on that despicable conceit That treachery is but natural lust. So easy for a man to be taken By eyes, by mouth and by body posture. No thoughts of love let desire be shaken For libido of itself is so sure. No calculation of hurt is made Only those rash moments of want do count When he from sure constancy has strayed And fails the fatal allure to surmount. Every...