'nobody but a blockhead ever wrote except for money'   Samuel Johnson

OK so I'm a blockhead.

What makes a piece of writing a poem ?

If there isn't any rhyme or at least repeating rhythm

it's just pretentious shredded prose and not a proper poem.

Conclave

Why this conclave business ? Instead

why doesn't God from Heaven above

send down to settle on one man's head

his holy messenger pure white dove ?

Oh, sorry, of course. Poop.

Death of Pope Francis

It's not so sad when an old person dies

after a long fulfilling life.

What's sad is when a young person dies

without the full experience of life.

Some sail the ocean, voyaging wide

daring danger with youthfull pride

run with the wind or drift with the tide.

Adventure is the fuel.

Some plunge the ocean, diving deep

beyond safe light where creatures creep

unknown to men who aim to keep

discovery as their rule.

Some travel wide and deep as well

heroes indeed as legends tell,

who enter heaven via hell,

their fame bright as a jewel.

Others are timid and stay at home

content to fester instead of roam

preferring shallows to ocean foam -

who's for a dip in the pool ?

The times they are a'changing

Whatever happened to those manly handshakes?

Metamorphosed into high fives, fist bumps.

But now mutated into male embraces - cheek bumps.

She wants

to be diaphonous as her dress,

an insubstantial spirit free

from all the disagreeable stress

of functioning biology;

to banish farts and faeces, sweat

and menstrual liquidity

but what I want is warmth in bed

her smoothness and solidity.

She hopes her pungent perfumes quell

all hint of animality

but I prefer the ranker smell

of female sexuality.

Despite our differences I learn

to treat her dreams with gravity

and she endeavours in her turn

to live with my depravity.