Seeds

 

Persimmon

has no reason or rhyme

well, not at this time

it’s just a word

I wanted to use

I’ve no excuse

what’s real has blurred

the word has slurred

to pershmn

 

Persimmon, puce and poppycock

sit like shags on a wobbly rock

each with a pudding in a cotton sock

and a key to the bishop’s car

 

Make sense of this

you worthless piece

of over-opiated verse

I know the rules

I have the tools

you have your alligator purse

and rhyming dick

shunary, sick

ophantic to the dead

and rotting gods

of odds and sods

where none have trod

for fear of losing

half an empty head

 

You wander through

and wonder who

gave me the right

to write of right

and rhyme with right

not twice, but thrice

then not at all

 

I have a few

new words for you

anachronistic

quite simplistic

trivial and slightly cystic

such a sad and sorry state

when torrents of both love and hate

are trickled into metaphors

much used by Shakespeare and the Doors
who burned and raged in equal parts

though Shakespeare smoked a little less

and had less fun – but I digress

 

Light up

lighten up

sip your sins

from Satan’s cup

seven sins are counted

seven horses mounted

minus the three

that wait near the tree

of knowledge forgotten

the tree that is laden

with persimmon