Paeans - and Aches

over the years

Monday, February 14, 2005

Why i didn’t write you a Valentine

i—who can churn out doggerel
at the least excuse—
sit here bargaining with hell
for words that will amuse

you, hold you, keep you,
not make you run.
Light words, singing true,
hiding, underneath the fun,

what i really want to say
but don’t, even though
it’s that day today,
when it’s okay to go

a little goofy, a bit
romantic, and lose
the acquired habit
of reserve, the ruse

i’ve learned of the stiff
upper lip, no matter what.
And i wonder what if
i let go, and, caught

in the moment, told
you in so many words,
that it’s a cold
world, with no birds

singing, no laughter
when you’re not around;
that this word crafter
hates the sounds

of a world without
you in it, and that it,
beyond a doubt,
isn’t a Bad Habit

to want you near,
to hear your voice
in the night, dear
one, that it’s nice

(to understate it a bit)
to look into your eyes
late into the night, and it’s
even nicer to rise

in the morning to the bliss
of those eyes before me.
And if i were to say all this
Would you then abhor me,

run away from those words?
It’s that fear that makes me say,
Today, i have no words,
i have nothing to say.

Saturday, February 12, 2005


They ask me why i’m grouchy,
Why i’m at the end of my tether;
Am i stressed out, maybe? Or ill?
Somewhat under the weather?

You know, that change of season thing;
A cough, a touch of ’flu?
Nah, it’s just too many cigarettes
And a bad case of you.

Wednesday, February 09, 2005

St Valentine’s day massacre...

…and other bestial tales.

Can i use your heart for my Valentine?
(Signed) Doctor Victor Frankenstein.

Would you mind awfully if should poke a
Little hole in your neck and sip? - B Stoker.

I sit here, holding her hand in mine—
A souvenir from my chopped-up Valentine.

Alas, the hapless porcupine, his heart really bleeds, poor chap.
The quills on his fair valentine turned metaphor into a mishap.

Pity the poor mantis, when he’s in his Valentine’s embrace.
When the lady says Oh God! she’s merely saying grace.

On Valentine’s Day, in the water sport the hippopotami.
It’s the only way to support their entwined anatomy.

Snails are strange creatures; hermaphrodites every one.
On Valentine’s Day, the bastards have twice the fun.

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Sunday, February 06, 2005

SMS haiku (for the girl whose phone doesn’t accept multi-part messages)

Choppng my lyf up:
160 character chunks
4 milady’s eyes.

This landed up in DNA on the 17th June, 2006. epaper

Wednesday, February 02, 2005

Rumination over poetry on a blog, as a deadline goes whooshing by

Who reads poetry?
Other poets, mainly.
(Of varying degrees
Of taste and fame and skill.)

Who reads blogs?
Just bloggers, usually.
(Net-addicted souls
With lots of time to kill.)

So who’s reading this?
Blogging poets only?
(i’d better write ad copy;
Got to pay my internet bill.)