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Spoilt For Choice
I want to write a poem but I have no way of knowing
If it’s coming or it’s going; how it starts or how it ends
Should I try to make it funny; sickly sweet or bright and sunny
Write of sex and lust or money, or about the latest trends
It could be environmental or of something detrimental
Something medical or dental; something set in outer space
About dying; about living; about taking; about giving
About hands upon my body or the sun upon my face
Perhaps I’ll write of you and me, or maybe civil liberty
A holiday, a prison cell, the sounding of a distant bell
Of certain fate - a precondition, or a man with no ambition
The tolling of one’s own death knell and of one final truth to tell
Theres food, there’s wine, there’s coffee, tea… or how about some levity
Perhaps some words to make you smile, a bucket kicked once in a while
Or words of much significance, penned with a nervous reticence
Or words with which I might beguile; I haven’t done that in a while
Yet presidents and queens and kings and life on Earth - and all it brings
An old stray dog, a mangy cat, my muse - a tune that’s sounding flat
It seems I’ve failed to quell my need to write some lines for you to read
But when I read these verses back, I find I’ve done… precisely that!
Copyright ©
Terry Flood
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