I had a master-plan to the grave
when we were young,
when the world was smaller than my fears
I’d send you flowers on paper
that needed neither vase nor tending
and every white expansive Sunday
promised “that” look
as I would write unacademic verse
and you, you would go gently grey
watching me listen
to the seasons begin their change.
© D. Archer. September 2013
One isolated bloom
in an unseasonal sun
defies the depth of nature
ignored by travellers
that aimlessly look
through condensation covered windows
on their overcrowded bus.
Gods gift of colour projected
against the tired and regressed;
concrete slab kerbstones and
sparse, dog fouled grass.
For a moment forgotten
is their cattle class condition
the microwave meal for one; the cat:
the depressing television.
Palm swipes away the mist
but quick drowned in the distance
the solitary spray that illuminates
their own road to perdition.
© D. Archer October 2011
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
I’m rubbish at poetry
show me your tits.
The problem with blogging and telling your closest “friends” that you are pouring your heart out to the whole world is that they insist on writing or quoting their favourite poem for you. The above is but one of many, fuelled by alcohol, funny at the time. It is no Sylvia Plath but it made me laugh.
© Copyright D. Archer October 2011