davidgoulding84@interpoems.com

WHEN DAFFODILS DIE

when daffodils die

                   next winter is seen

          when crocuses cry

                   grey suffocates green

          when snowdrops flop

                   swallows pass through

          when bluebells drop

                   snowstorms ensue

          as each spring ends

                   Christmas is near

          summer only pretends

                   autumn will not appear

          as first youth is lost

                   old age can be seen

          your prime is a ghost

                   middle age a has-been

author's note: yes it's on the introduction page as well, but will be replaced in time

HABIT

         The rigid spine

The need to analytically define

                   each single leaf and vein.

The miserly word

The urge to painfully record

                   each quiver of the brain.

The balanced thought

The trial by reason taught

       by veiling every indiscriminate  

                                         discrimination.

The scripted role

The unimpeachable part and whole:

          the heart and soul of recitation.

But please, sometimes,

             often,

                   try and recklessly fly

To blast the cobwebs from my

          soporific lime-scaled mind.

In blind darkness, leap

          and penetrate my deep

Time-layered and encrusted sleep:

          peel back my rind.

Unbalance me

            a little,

then, after freeing,

calm and pacify

          a less complacent being.