Each word that forms and thrusts to light,
Each line that buds and flowers.
A symphony of eloquence
Attesting to strange powers.
Each orchestrated utterance
Of whispered views most odd,
Unbidden, they undoubtedly
Must be the voice of God.
And me, a humble vessel,
A blank receptive slate?
But then again it could be simply
Something that I ate.
© Copyright Philip Barton, 2010. All rights reserved
I was quite relaxed
About the lines on my face
And losing the hair on my head.
But I fell apart when told
That by getting old
There’s a chance I’ll end up dead.
© Copyright Philip Barton, 2010. All rights reserved
I tentatively part my lips
Then stretch my mouth out wide
My dentist climbs up on my hips
Then calmly steps inside.
She jabs and hacks and saws and drills
And bangs and burns my teeth.
She biffs and cuts, no ifs or buts
From he who’s underneath.
I twist and sweat from deep injections.
Tears come from my eyes.
Blood spraying out in all directions.
“You’ll be fine”, she lies.
© Copyright Philip Barton, 2010. All rights reserved
A silly sausage sat serene,
Yet ignorant and loud.
His feet were so far off the ground,
His head was in a cloud.
Blank of face and lost in space,
A fervent tv fan.
He stumbled on reality,
And hit life’s frying pan.
Singed, he jumped out quickly,
But rather black and smelly.
So be warned you silly sausages,
It’s dangerous watching telly.
© Copyright Philip Barton, 2010. All rights reserved
Here I stand and bark instructions,
Noble, grand and proud.
It’s not important what I say,
But crucial that it’s loud.
© Copyright Philip Barton, 2010. All rights reserved
I’m rather partial to a coffee
In a china cup.
One little finger in the air
I slowly sip it up.
Delicate and sensitive
Each bean I do adore.
And when the last drop’s finished,
I rage and scream for more.
© Copyright Philip Barton, 2010. All rights reserved
Whence comes this silly ditty man?
What makes him tick and tock?
Who is this tunnel visionary,
This voice of writer’s block?
Whatever is he on about?
Such talk is utter nonsense.
This man of wrath,
This voice of froth,
This prick
Of social conscience.
Should we give him our attention?
Should we counsel? Should we pity?
Beware, your best endeavours
Lest you end up as a ditty.
© Copyright Philip Barton, 2010. All rights reserved
My grandchildren learned to walk
So I bought some balls and tossed ‘em.
We were in the park
Till after dark
And somewhere there I lost ‘em.
© Copyright Philip Barton, 2010. All rights reserved
Beware, young man,
The ample bust,
That splendid, sinful vision.
It lures the weak to lust,
And the chaste to indecision.
© Copyright Philip Barton, 2010. All rights reserved
