POETRY by Steadman
Each intimate battle
Is a kind of-
World War
Only a bit more
Personal
Smite not
What got
You into hot
Water
Though, you oughta
Sorta sporta
Big moustache
Like Dali
But twice
As big
Then become an
Arstist- half-pissed
Unless you insist
On shackling
The wrist
You missed
The first
Time around
You have been
Misled
Underfed
Sleeping cold
If I may be so
Bold
Beneath the
Bed
Whoever said
Poetry was
Easy
And generally
Sleezy
Keeping themselves away from wheezy
Wobbly old men
One called Ken
And one who said,
When are you
Going to write
A Haiku??
(Written by an Artist under duress in a state of undress- in a dress.)
*
Sodden beyond the wet of ordinary rain
I paused
Sat down and
Thought-
Got up and
walked along
Again
But that's not enough for the average man
The ones who know better
Do more that they can
They strive in the clutter
They moan and they mutter
Pull themselves up
And out of the gutter
Wrapped in a garment
They won in a raffle
They twist and they turn
Make money to burn
But answer the questions
Most others would baffle
Tipped for the Big Race
They are thoroughbred horses
Caught in the trap
They missed their vocation
But that's not the point
Their bodies are poised
To take on the struggle
And reach a destination
There's another poem
OK
RALPHZX