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Category: Poem

The Raven

In Elseworld a scholar pored
Over tomes of ancient lore;
Seeking wisdom in their store,
Seeking ways to call and beck,
To call and beck a friend.

Gone without a trace or spoor,
Flew the friend to alien shore.
Called by some portent of yore,
Called to take that lonely trek,
A lonely trek he’d wend.

Untouched bowls of gut and gore,
Like a tidy field of war,
Stood forgotten on the floor;
Stood in wait for hungry peck,
A hungry peck to rend.

“What cruel fate so sudden tore,
You away, my Nevermore?”
Scholar cried, her soul a-sore.
The scholar cried, and bent her neck.
Her feathered neck she’d bend.

With apologies and thanks to E.A. Poe.

My cat torments mice

My cat will torment mice.
It isn’t very nice.
But mousy hate
Will not abate
So my cat torments mice.

When my cat kills a mouse
It squeaks and haunts my house.
Its ghost will stay,
Annoyed, afraid,
And skitter round my house.

Now shades of cats long dead
Are circling round my bed
To chase the mice
Whose cruel demise
Has bound them here instead.

The ghost cats have such fun,
They chase as ghost mice run.
I can’t decide
If mousicide
Was kind or cruelly done.


When I found my superpower,
I couldn’t help but smile.

I smiled when I dug out the costume,
the one I made in case
I ever got a power,
and it still fit.

I smiled when I told my mum,
and she smiled and hugged me,
and told me to do good.

I smiled when I told my friend,
and she smiled with me,
and carried me to town,
using her flying and her superstrength.

Now I walk the tired streets,
and look at people, and smile.
And I tell them:

“You look good today.”
“I like your hat.”
“It will be all right.”
“You can do it.”

And they smile back,
or nod, and feel better.


That is not my superpower.
Anyone can do that.
But they don’t.
They don’t.

My power is to know
who I can smile at,
who I can compliment,
talk to,
look at.

Without fear.

To my love

I do not care who else has had a taste
Of all the pleasures that you offer me;
It matters not. Just this, that you have placed
Your body in my hands, and mine will be.

My fingers softly touch your naked spine,
Caress the curve and feel your supple weight.
I breathe your scent, so fragrant and divine.
My appetite is vast but you will sate

My hunger. How you eagerly unfold,
Invite me to the secrets at your core.
You guide me, let me in, you firmly hold
My heart, my mind, and all I crave is more.

You gave me what I needed, and I took
Such joy in reading you, my favourite book.

This sonnet was written for World Poetry Day 2016.

Every time

Every time
You struggle
To find the words
I listen
Analyse, predict, and guess
I know
What you might say
But listen
Til you haven’t said it

Most single-tweet poems are, like a lot of the single-tweet stories, fire-and-forget. I have an idea, write, post, and that’s it. They don’t usually linger. This one did. [Tweet]

People are

People are people
And girls will be girls
They send goatse to sheeple
Have weapons for toys

Humans are human
With genders galore
They have social acumen
Wear diamonds and pearls

Aliens are alien
And boys will be boys
They blib oozing phtalien
And waft out their spore

Poets are poets
And mix-ups occur
With cliches running through it
Of what people were

Ex Libris Homo

By now, we thought, our cities on the Moon,
Would thrive and outshine those on tired Earth.
Venusian swamps and canal’d Mars would soon
Be settled by our square-jawed men of worth.

By now this Earth would freeze in nuclear frost;
Our cities radiant, mutant-spawning hells.
Or maybe trash and smog polluted most,
And left us coughing acrid nasty smells.

By now the aliens would have found us here,
Enslaved and killed us, treated us like sheep.
Or stopped our wars and rid us of our fear,
And showed us myst’ries both profound and deep.

But when I said it happened, your head shook.
I’ve seen those worlds, I’ve lived those lives.
In books.

(April 23rd is World Book Day (though it is not celebrated on this date in the UK, due to it being the day of St George). Since it’s also the birth- and deathday of William Shakespeare, I thought I’d write a sonnet.)

Dreams of space

We’ve lost our dream to reach the far-flung stars
And yet we cheer each exoplanet found.
We send exploring robots off to Mars
But doubt we’ll see a human Marsward bound.

We’ve come to say ‘not ever’ where ‘not yet’
Was once the answer, followed by ‘one day’.
Our dreams are tempered by the limits set
by Science, that remorseless beast of ‘nay’.

We’ve learned there is so much we cannot do,
So much beyond our might and ken, and yet,
Our poets give us dreams to seek anew,
Of goals we never thought before to set.

Our dreams are smaller, but we’ll see them true,
If possible; that is what humans do.