Gerald

FINAL CURTAIN

A theatre in Copenhagen
is the setting for this tale
List' to this tale and then
Learn its meaning without fail

A new comedy true to life
the clown dressed as a Bishop
a whore his faithful wife
and the laughter could not stop

Twas halfway through the second show
a better show there'd not been
in Denmark they do trow
Twas last that many have seen

Next day the show they did not hold
for backstage a fire broke
The clown the public told
They died laughing at his joke

LITTLE BOY, NOT LOST

Little boy, on the seashore,
little boy, digging a hole in the sand,
do you know about more
than what is in your hand ?

Little boy, digging a hole,
little boy, running to the sea,
do you know your goal
is something that can never be ?

Little boy, filling your bucket,
little boy, running to and fro,
have you seen the big wide net
which will not let you go ?

Little boy, trying to entrap the sea
in one small hole in the ground,
what is it you can see ?
Where is it you are bound ?

Oh, little boy, my little boy,
how foolish, yet how wise,
to treat the ocean as your toy
and never listen to its cries.

Little boy, you cannot trap the ocean,
for it will leak away unseen,
and then, little boy, and then,
only you will ever know it's been.

                    MUSAPHOBIA

              I heard a new word today.
              It has two meanings
              apparantly;
              - quite distinct - I am assured.
              Musaphobia: dislike of mice
                                  or poetry.

              I've often been asked
              whether I were man
                        or mouse.

              I can answer that now
              for there is a likeness there -
              the seeming insignificant
              which none-the-less
              can frighten the mighty ELEPHANT,
              or make women
                  stand on              their skirts.
                          chairs &  lift

              Yes the poem does have affinity with
                  the mouse.

THE SILENCE OF THE TOCOME

The silence of the world is all around
yet the sound
comes back in voices not yet known.
Throw the silver-white stone
into the water of life's destiny.
It will be
in the countless years to come
a reminder to some
of these years then gone
and one
not gold nor lead nor other metal pick
but age of plastic
the plastic substitute.
The tree's root,
the flower's stem,
from them
comes the waking dawn
tomorrow's silent morn.

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Poems Copyright © Gerald England