From the London Quatrains

At Canterbury

My thoughts inspired by music, senses honed,
the chronicle of Man’s sublimest search
is then with weary elegance intoned
by stately, slate-faced princes of the Church.

Theosophical Sunday

The crowd sit restless, waiting to be read.
The medium points at me with mystic signs.
“I see a tin of beans above your head.”
Amazed, I cry, “You’ve guessed my name is Heinz!”

Priests

Two well-upholstered, vintage portly vicars
whose lacy liturgies outdo the Pope,
snicker at tales of nuns in soggy knickers,
then pious, tend us tiny coins of hope.

Verse Workshop

The poet’s pallid brow belies his powers
he wears, thick glasses, corduroy and tweed.
His mind a maze, a tome of ivory flowers;
his heart, a weed that died and did not seed.

At the  Academy

Invited to a Royal Private View
I thought I heard a well-heeled lady fart.
Around the paintings and the poseurs, flew
the smell of nature, imitating art.

On the Piccadilly Tube

Beside me sits a pinstriped city gent.
A fleshy perfume his appearance mocks.
The crowning glory of his urbane scent
exudes from sweat encrusted Argyll socks.

Sarabande

Her nimble fingers dance across the keys,
teasing the tendrils of an old French air
whose ornaments of melancholy ease
drive barren harpsichordists to despair.

London 1988

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