Roger Weston

Writer

Artist

Poet

RogerWeston

More Poems out of the to be published work
“Progressions”

The Least popular Poet

Passed away today
as he stood alone
on rocky cliff line
waves smashing
uncultured shores
strewn with the seaweed
of lifes flotsam

discarded condoms
with their unwanted seed
dropped
onto desolate barren beaches
blown with winds
as wild and wanton
as those that sowed
their wild oats
for what
for why?

as he crumpled
into his oblivion
only the dull call
of the gullible gull
circling
waiting to winge and wail
over their slim pickings
might have woken
smaller dead beings
crab and seashell
empty
husks similar
to how he would be
come sun up

and the predators
of the shore
had had
their
fill

I Wanted To Go to By Bus

to the beach
today
to see yachts
and feel the sand
squinching squeakily
between my toes
hear
the scream of the gull
and
squawks of children
being scronched
by baby breakers

I wanted to go
by bus
to the beach today
and remember
what sunshine was like
burning my back and neck
to find sand
in my lunch
and seaweed
in my knickers
as I ogle bikini clad
bathers oiling themselves
with the gooey gazes
of macho mutton heads

I wanted to go
to the beach today
in a bus
because that was the only
way that I could
for my train ticket
was destroyed in the wash
and
like me
it was all limp
and I couldn't do a thing
with it

Sailing Ships

Don't have funnels
not at least
as I remember
as I stood on the shore
waiting
for my boat
to come in
only billowing sails
white - sparkling
as mothers sheets were
on the old line

but clothes line sailors
often make mistakes
as they watch
for the mast to peak
over the horizon
at the bottom of the garden
of their life

prows of the ships
went this way
I remember
past apple trees
on into the cave
by the hydrangers
searching out
the treasures
that private pirates
from the beach
down the road
may have hidden

still —
standing on my seashore
watching sailing ships
without funnels
creep over mystical horizons
does not make
the smoke
clear any quicker

it only sometimes
tends to blur more
the visions
of red sunsets once held in awe

Home   The Writer   The Artist   The Poet   About Roger Weston   Contact