A Venus Key
She has the key to my heart –
But just what does that mean ?
That my love is locked in a box, apart,
Unused, still mint, pristine ?
Or that my spring needs winding up,
Made taut and tense, and set to start ?
Or that my keyhole’s cup can sense
The subtle slide and gentle shove
From her cunning iron dart ?
From the only key that’s smart enough
To skeletise my love
With a twist of her art ?
‘Skeletise’ as in a skeleton key.
Spearleeks
The only way to dine on garlic
Ev’ry day or two,
Is to only visit friends who dine on garlic
Just like you.
So lace that bolognese another clove,
And stir it in that fry,
And then be sure to bring your friends around your stove
To have a try.
And don’t be so afraid to say très bon
When sharing peppy dips –
And don’t be shy to relish it when tasted on
Another’s lips.
Dancing Gnats
Time is short, perhaps a month or two,
Since they were just an egg –
But now the gnats must boogaloo,
To swarm a wing and shake a leg.
They gather round a random patch of air
Just as the eve’ning falls –
And jink and jive until they pair,
Attending countless black-fly balls.
If love is on the cards for them tonight,
It leaves them out of breath –
Exhausted from their swaggered flight,
Too soon they’ve danced themselves to death.
Confession of a Faithful Husband
I do love my wife, I don’t hide my ring –
But the thing is, she’s not here.
I get so lonely on endless business trips,
So short of cheer.
Then Rachel from the presentation
Pops into the bar,
And the smiles come all-so-easily
On the verge of gone-too-far.
But I, it seems, with my guilty conscience,
Cannot just kick back,
And seize the moment, live the day,
With Zoë in the sack.
I reckon I could have been that hound,
I could have learned to lie –
My wife would never even suss,
If I’d grow the balls to try.
Somewhere in his hotel room tonight,
There’s another me
Who’s shares his bed with maybe Jane from Sales,
And with liberty.
I hate him, and I hate how I envy,
While chatting with a girl in red,
And I try not to give-off some signal of all
That I wish we were doing instead.
I do love our wife, I remind myself,
As I think how he’s not alone.
We’d both spent a hour in the bar with Kaz,
As we muted our mobile phone,
With plenty of eye-to-eye, and gin,
And far too at-our-ease –
But where he fulfilled his promise to Kaz,
I proved to be just a tease.
Hampstead Heartaches
Even the rich deserve to love,
They have it hard enough, we feel –
Having to live with all that guilt,
While all their wealth is jerry-built.
How can they hope to show their stuff,
Unless they give it up for real ?
To work a job and earn a crust
In hope they one day earn our trust.
Even the rich deserve to love,
To prove they’re more than privilege.
We shouldn’t judge the state they’re in,
Or hate them for their perfect skin.
I really hope they care enough
To share their fortune round a smidge –
To favour ev’ry love-struck son,
In hope we all can be the One.
To Have & To Hold-Off
When I was nine, they told me,
I would marry,
Some day, long away.
I wondered who she’d be,
Whom I would marry –
Would I get a say ?
I knew I’d have to wait,
And so I waited –
But was led astray.
I thought my future fate
Was overrated –
I would rather play.
When I was seventeen, I learned
That I could marry
There and then.
I was of age, the right was earned,
To marry
Sue or Imogen.
Not that I knew of Sue,
Or Jane, or Kate,
Or any girl like that –
I had exams to do,
They’d have to wait,
I hadn’t time to chat.
When I was twenty-two, I felt
No hurry,
I had long enough –
I played my hand as dealt,
With not a worry
’Bout that marriage stuff.
I never doubted I
Would still succumb
To walking down the aisle.
But not today, I’d sigh,
Though not so glum –
Best put it off a while.
When I was thirty-three, my oldest friend
Got married
Out the blue.
I wondered if this were my end ?,
And tarried
On the best man’s pew.
Should I be busy scouting out
A wife ?,
Had I now come to this ?
Was I now forced, despite my pout,
To share my life
With wedded bliss ?
When I was forty-four,
And still not married,
I was short of time…
I could delay no more,
For all I parried,
Burning through my prime.
I had to face the fact
It’s now or never –
I was flabbergasted !
Had to get my act
Quick up-together,
While the music lasted…
But now I’m fifty-five,
And still unmarried,
Yet am quite content –
I found that I can thrive
When left unharried
By the Big Event.
No more anticipating
To propose,
And life is no less good.
I am no longer waiting –
But who knows,
One day, I guess I could…
Amateur Amore
Adults, parents, they all say the same –
That my love is just puppies, is all.
This is my first crush, my first move in the game,
And to fall in love just means I’m gonna fall.
Sixteen, they say, that’s nothing,
This is just a beta test –
This girl, this guy, is yesterday tomorrow.
They say, don’t talk of loving
When I’m lonely and obsessed –
It’s only right I have to suffer sorrow.
Neophyte, dilettante, call me what you will,
But just don’t tell me I’m practicing a skill !
Adults, parents, they’re quick to exclaim
That my love is a see-saw, you know ?
They won’t meet my steady, won’t even learn their name,
When they soon need to forget old so-and-so.
Sixteen, they say, is nothing,
This is just experience –
A chance for some rite-of-passage fun.
Well, I may be new to loving,
But it’s still my present tense –
And I have to think that this one is the one.
Fledgling, tenderfoot, call me ingenue,
But I’ll break my heart myself, no thanks to you !
Missing Those Kissing Toes
The tinsel has been strung all week,
The holly wreathed around the door,
The cards bedeck the mantlepiece,
The tree is lit-up like a store.
But if we came inside to peek
On where to kiss – no go, it seems…
The mistletoe has yet to lease
It’s tenure on the ceiling beams.
The trouble is, our hostess speaks,
It dries out quickly in the warm –
And pleasures in the kiss decrease,
She finds, when beauties don’t conform.
For who can peck on rosy cheeks
Beneath such yellow-wilted leaves ?
And so, the gooser of the geese
Won’t dangle down till Christmas Eve.
“It isn’t really quaint and meek,
You know, but a toxic parasite.”
So says my clued-up, teenage niece –
“Infact, just like this kissing blight:
Demanding favours, beak-to-beak,
And women feeling bound to please.
From Pagan Briton, Ancient Greece –
Let’s leave tradition on the trees.”
But we don’t need to be so bleak,
My love, with New Year looming big !
Let’s open up our Winter fleece
And warm our lips beneath the sprig.
But if we came inside to seek
A spot to kiss, we’re out of luck –
The mistletoe, by cruel caprice,
Has not a berry left to pluck…
Pigeon Season
The crossbills start their laying
While the New Year snows remain,
And the pigeons too are playing
At the family game again.
Then come the February frost,
And come the raven chicks,
While pigeons think it worth the cost
To gather-in the sticks.
Buzzards wait the Winter out,
And wait till March has shone,
And pigeons likewise have no doubt
On when to get it on.
The starlings flock at Eastertide
With Spring in paradise,
While pigeons think an April bride
Is ev’ry bit as nice.
The cuckoos drop their eggs in May
In other people’s nests,
Yet pigeons have no fear to lay
From unexpected guests.
The seagulls spend the Solstice broody
While the days are long,
And pigeons keep their Summers moody,
Purring out their song.
The mallards stretch their mating-season
Through the long July,
While pigeons also see no reason
Not to bat the eye.
There’s yellowhammers indiscreet
Through August, still not done,
While pigeons love to raise some heat
Beneath the Summer sun.
September – all the birds have fledged,
And some have flown away,
Yet pigeons lay on, it’s alleged,
Through Autumn, come what may !
October, keeping on the job,
There’s always some around,
Still popping out the latest squab
To peck the frozen ground.
The pigeons even hatch them
Through the long and gloomy nights,
When only chickens match them
(Under artificial lights).
Till last, the Christmas fable,
Which has surely missed a trick,
With cooing in the stable
At the birth of this month’s chick.
Floriography
I wanted to speak the language of flowers,
Just like my heroines of old.
But how can the secrets of petals be ours
When meeting in Winter’s cold ?
I guess there’s holly and mistletoe,
And snowdrops still to come, perhaps ?
But love, I fear, has yet to grow,
And plenty of time to lapse…
I wanted to win you with floral wooing,
Now that Spring has raised his head –
But tulips are for financial ruin,
And lilies are for the dead.
I guess there’s always the dandelion,
Though who sees the beauty beneath the weed ?
Our love, I fear, is swiftly dying,
Like daffodils gone to seed.
I wanted to cast such blossoming spells,
With Summer so rampant and velveteen –
But buttonhole-sunflowers smother lapels,
And roses come purple and green.
I guess there’s just too much to choose –
Exotic, or native ? We cannot be both.
So love, I fear, is swamped for a muse,
And trapped in the undergrowth.
I wanted to breathe the tongue of the blooms,
But who remembers the code these days ?
And now that Autumn is blowing our rooms,
It feels too late for bouquets.
I guess, though, dahlias could be for darlings ?
And conkers for fun, and pumpkins for screams ?
For love, I feel, will still find it charming,
Whatever it thinks it all means.
Leaving Inktober behind, there is just time for a seasonal bouquet before things get spook-ay...
Rhyming Couplets 