I haven't any motives to bind me
I'm on a greasy pole
unable to encounter the top
Conscience is for somber occasions
A dream is a foolscap
Yesterday was a brown envelope day
Waiting for Mr Goodbar
My conversations have run dry
I lost my credentials
Now we are stubbornly erstwhile
Aquarium realms
of anointed fools
masquerade as sensibility
Typecast foolscap
tired typewriters ribbons
don't have a prolonged head
Between the streets
where the drunkard
spins his tales
A strange panacea
scattered snakes
launch ta ta tee
Oh sang the Sea goat
his change as constant as the tide
strangely sympathising
the endless wave
Simple Simon was not really his name,
A nom de plume, of poetic fame.
Each poem he composed, he carved backwards on wood,
Then printed on foolscap as fast as he could.
For halfpennyworth, he sold every one,
As all of his poems, were written for fun.
Where Simple Simon was doing no harm,
For each misfortune, was bedevilled with charm.
But Simple Simon did not go anywhere,
Or tried to snare an elusive wild hare.
Nor rode on an ass, for he already knew,
That the hare was jugged, in an earthenware stew.
1 / 23 / 2022.
If I knew I'd live forever
I'd never send a poem out.
No poem ever comes with
ten fingers and ten toes
so I’d keep revising, add
what's missing, remove
what shouldn’t be there
and put in the right fillip.
One can only write
while the sun streams in
because too soon
the moon comes out
and in the dark
one can’t fix a thing.
Once you’re dead
your poems live on,
warts and all, naked
on a sheet of foolscap
or afloat in cyberspace
for all to read and fault.
It’s Judgment Day.
Donal Mahoney
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