These are mostly poems I've written myself, except for a couple that I really, really want to know the full versions of - if you can help, please send me an email! I haven't written much poetry for years, so most of these are pretty old. Still, you never know when inspiration strikes.

A pearl is, to the oyster, just an irritant, a pain,
A shell of useless matter round a little itchy grain.
A poem, to the poet, is a similar device -
A balm for wounded feelings, much too dear at half the price.

I hate ties,
They're offensive to my eyes,
A floppy noose tied in a Windsor knot.
I hate ties,
And if the world were wise,
The guy who first produced them would be shot.
I hate ties!
I'm telling you no lies,
I'm offended and degraded by the things.
I hate ties,
And till the last pig flies,
I'll refuse to wear the ghastly bits of string.

Questions come and questions go,
Understanding seems so slow;
On and on throughout the day,
Trying to learn a different way,
And never seeming to succeed:
But still you try, because you need
(Like Icarus) to fly so high;
Eventually, above the sky.

How shall we poor human souls,
Each living our allotted rôles
In humdrum life from day to day,
Never leaving Earth's dull clay,
Lift up our hearts to reach the stars?
(Even just the Moon or Mars?)
In books! There lies all joy and fame.
(Need I write the author's name?)

Young Ethelred was only three
Or somewhere thereabouts, when he
Began to show in diverse ways
The early stages of the craze
For learning the particulars
Of motor-bikes and motor-cars.
He started with a little book
To enter numbers which he took,
And though his mother often said,
"Oh, do be careful, Ethelred!
Oh dear, oh dear, what shall I do
If anything runs over you?"
(Which Ethelred could hardly know,
And sometimes crossly told her so.)
He guessed the make (and got it right)
Of every car that came in sight.
He knew as well its m.p.g,
Its m.p.h and £.s.d,
What gears it had, what brakes, and what -
In short, he knew an awful lot.
.
.
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