Month: March 2024

I sip from rose, jasmine, bluebell
I flit from field to wood
Unfinicky, I like it all well
Nectar or fruit, it’s all food.

Astrology, quantum physics,
Music or poetry,
Philology or statistics,
Brain science or podiatry,

All fine, all good, all nice to eat.
A cow I am, I browse.
Each leaf is savoury and sweet,
And full of sap and juice. 

I don’t dig deep, I scratch the surface
For chance of striking gold
or better, water in just one place
is low, so explore, be bold. 

Be like the cow, and sample feed
From all the fields and move
On, fresher pastures wait, no need
To linger, stuck in a grove. 

I fall in love but never wed.
I pick a book on art,
or take a physics tome to bed,
And then I coolly part. 

I am a bachelor of science
Or of humanities.
I play the field with clear conscience,
And so I keep my peace. 

Perhaps history is a bore,
Or linguistics too dry. 
But less I know, I like the more,
Their faults not mine to pry. 

I read, forget, I read again.
A biological tidbit
Is lost, makes room for a fine quatrain,
But not if it strains my wit.

It’s true, I don’t drink deep, but taste
I shall the Pierian spring,
For life is brief, no time to waste,
Take the joy each day may bring.
 
Postscript: be that as it may, one needs
Home ground, stronghold, one’s own,
Some comfortable field that feeds
Sweet fruit from seeds long sown. 

You little whirlwind, gale force blast, tempest.
From room to room you pass, you perfect pest
And leave behind a vast and horrific mess.
Your toys are strewn, all blown apart, headless
Barbies and Kens, a truck, a soldier lame,
a plane, a stuffed cat, all victims of your game.
The telly’s broken, the dog is wet, the fish tank
Is cracked, mud, how mud? you nature’s prank
The garden soil's indoors. But now you sleep,
An angel’s rest, soft breath, lips fluted, deep,
No dreams, no plan or thought of mischief, regret. 
You stir, little fingers twitch, but no, all’s quiet,
You slumber on, now’s time to clean, to make
All fit to wreck, sweetheart, for when you wake.