
Poem 25: 24:00 16-05-2017
The End
Of the day
Of the Sixteenth of May
Of my Birthing Day
Of a Tuesday.
(Though I was born on a Wednesday Morn
In the very merry month of May…)
It actually goes like this:
I was born
On a Wednesday morn
In the very merry month of May
Many years ago.
And, luckily, for me,
I survived the snows
Of Christmas 1962/1963,
That deep and even lay.
And, as a child, I went to school
Once or maybe twice
I didn’t stay
To learn the rules
It wasn’t very nice;
And so I just remained at home
and read a million books;
Of my knowledge they were the fount;
And, as a bonus, to a million I had learned to count;
But, that was ‘many’ years ago
And I haven’t enough fingers, and I haven’t enough toes,
To count all of ‘their’ number
(I’d have to borrow seven more feet or hands
To make the total tally
But, that’s just silly
Mad-as-a-box-of-frogs
And, yes, I am doolally.)
And, now…
I write and write and write
Even though I know it’s wrong
To write so much;
When my words lack even a ‘measure’ of treasure,
And the spaces between them are the only real and certain distinct pleasure.
So, I say, amidst the hype,
“Oh, I’ll eat my cake!
And have it said
That I am not for turning
This writer and so-called ‘poetic typo’
Will have street cred
And not need to still be learning.”
For Britvic 55
Is now my drink
As I write on themes
Upon the brink
And publish books
That are prone to sink
Because my poems sometime overuse a rhyme
(Really, do you think).
And now I’ve reached this great ‘old age’
And mental faculties are set to shrink
Should I start to wear purple
Or a daring shade of pink?
No, I think that I shall remain A hazy shade of Grae
And write upon the nonsense Until the close of play.