here goes...
I started writing poetry this year, at the age of 35... not even a teenage angsty one before that to my name. So far I have shown them to NO-ONE but I can't help thinking this is a good place to start.
gulp<
Comparisons
(with apologies to Burns, Byron et al.)
My love is absolutely nothing like a red red rose
What darling bud or hothouse flower
That blooms and fades within the hour
Could be a patch
Or hope to match
Such fragile beauty in repose?
Such velvet softness,
Such petal smoothness.
He walks in beauty, though.
The delicate angles of his face
Mark out the borders of the place
And as for loveliness
And intemperate temperateness -
I will compare him, if I must
But let?s just say
It?s not looking good for the summer?s day.
His eyes are nothing like the sun
(that much we can agree upon).
But grey and cool,
like coins in a pool,
reflecting the promise of a thousand pleasures.
No other poet's words of love
Could ever be enough
To begin to express
Such perfect sweetness
Beyond all measure.
And sincerity just sounds all wrong
When archness is my mother tongue.
My darling love, this much is true:
My only wish - to look at you
From now until the end of time
Or till my poems no longer rhyme
(Whichever comes first.)