MY POEms

  
CARNIVORE
 
I stabbed a parsnip, hard as stone,
Its honey coat was badly singed,
The carrot too was underdone,
Hairs sticking out just like a fringe.
 
A swamp of cabbage cooked with seeds,
A thousand peas piled on the edge,
Were not amongst my daily needs,
I’m really not a fan of veg.
 
Give me some meat, that’s what I like,
That daily workout for my jaw,
The protein boost is my delight,
Can’t help being a carnivore.

Hunger

A bowl is just a naked hole that someone filled with water.
That fish in there seems very calm about impending slaughter.
‘He’s a pet, like you,’ they said, ‘he can’t defend himself.’
Frowning, they slid the fated bowl upon a higher shelf.

They told me lies, ’See! he’s so cute!’ I see how he defies.
He’s a doomed and ugly fruit, a scaly orange snack surprise.
Will his juice be tart and sweet, make up for what I lack?
For sure, once I’ve dealt with him, he’ll not be coming back.
GRAVY

What is this brown and wondrous thing,
We like to drown our dinner in?
Made from the dripping off the joint,
Somehow I just can’t see the point.
The meat has flavour of its own,
My vegetables are all home-grown,
A healthy meal within itself,
Why use that powder on the shelf?

A shining slick conceals the plate,
My Yorkshire in the hand of fate,
I pop it quickly on the side,
Peer down, I'm trying to decide,
What to eat first, what tastes the best?
What’s  the quickest I can digest?
Before the viscous gravy cools,
Congealing into muddy pools.

I cut up my meat, stuff my face,
Behaving like a right disgrace,
To eat my meal while it’s still hot,
A race to beat the gravy clot,
I enjoy the savoury flavour,
Can’t think why it’s in disfavour,
For reasons that I can’t define,
It makes a British meal divine.   

WHITE HORSES
 
Manes flying out, they
charge the shore,
In curling ranks of flying
spume,
Bringing in the ocean’s
roar,
Along with that distinct
perfume.
 
I feel as one with
Nature’s force,
Battered by the
wind-whipped sand,
I stand there counting
every horse,
Not one of them at my
command.
 
I watch their slender legs
dispel,
In swathes of misty, salty
foam,
Where do they go, when
there’s no swell,
What magic place do they
call home?
 
I paddle in, I can’t
resist,
To feel their ghosts nip
at my skin,
What utter bliss, to feel
their kiss,
My spirit soars to join
their kin.
 

White Horses