Titania Comes to her Senses

Oo-er! Yuk! Did I make love to that?

Just look at it! That donkey’s head,

that dripping snout! Thank God his battery’s flat

and he’s flat out.

I don’t know why I took him to my bed.

Lust in, wits flown last night, that cat

was grey. This morning’s ass-head? Like the dead,

it’s bottomed out.

Mistaken Identity

There is a green hill near to hand

 Outside the garden gate,

Where God's Own Son is nailed up.

 Looks like he's met his fate.

He may not know, seems past it now,

 That he is on the rood,

Sold down the river Jordan by

 That fraud, his best mate, Jude.

But, lifting up his head he spies

 Jude swinging from a tree.

"You arrogant fool," he cries. "Get down

 And stop upstaging me.

So clearly, clearly do I see

 What it is you've done.

You've tried to make Him think that I
 Am not My Father's Son."

Summering on the West Coast

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may?

Too right! If you live in Glasgow,

there are two fine minutes in every day

before the sun’s gone go-slow.

Might as well be on Skid Row

as be stuck in this miserable town

where gutters and drains overflow

when the clouds are chucking it down.

Time to Write: Welcome

I've written poetry for decades, had some published in British poetry magazines, but don't want to go the route of books, chap books or prizes. I'm interested in both metrical verse and free verse depending on what best suits the content of the poem itself. Themes vary: much depends on what images, language and events coalesce around me before I start typing. Writing's enjoyable, but it's also hard work, constant redrafting often being necessary. Not that I mind as long as the poem is as good as it can be by the end of the process.

I hope you enjoy them.