The Collected Poems of Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV – Volume Two

Man shall not live by prose alone, so I offer here some bouquets plucked from my garden of the Muses. Perhaps they might inspire you to attempt your own meagre efforts at the high art of poetry. Do not be discouraged if what you dribble onto the page is vastly less illustrious than my own pure poems. It is not given to all of us to be the Chosen One of Erato…

Biker Biker

Biker, biker roaring past
In the street, night before last
What the hell possess-ed thee
To wake me up at half-past three?

On what distant motorway
Did you begin your ride that day?
On what tarmac didst you roll
From whence came you my sleep to troll?

And what hard shoulder fast depart
Could twist your manifold apart?
So that the popping of the sound
Could so reverberate around?

What did hammer your bike chain
To make it thunder in the rain?
What did make you choose my road
To burden with your heavy load?

When the stars – or sparks more like,
Flew from the tailpipe of your bike,
Did you wonder what fell fate
Left you back-firing by my gate?

Biker, biker roaring past
In the street, night before last
What the hell possess-ed thee
To blast me up at half-past three?

Rubaiyat Sonnet

Alas the Muse must vanish with the light
And close the manuscript of youthful fire
Why must I have so many thoughts in flight?
Why will not my Muse simply me inspire?
For every night a glass I have turned down
On this inverted bowl I call my desk
And bent my head for the laureates crown
To birth another written arabesque
But whence the bird forth from the branch hath flown?
How is’t Her brightness hence from me doth go?
Now here, abandoned, weeping, I do groan,
To ask why my Muse doth despise me so?

O Muse!

Oh Muse
How thou despitest me
With thine honeyed tongue in another’s ear
Oh Muse
How thou despiseth me
Wandering fingertips drawing another near
Oh Muse
What has thy servant done
That thou takes flight into the setting sun
Oh Muse
Oh harlot dancing veiled alone
If I thee beg on bended knee wilt come home
Oh Muse
How thou mistreateth me
Who but thy every torment loves
Oh Muse
How thou defeatest me
Thy servant and the tenderest of doves
Oh Muse
Oh fickle Muse!

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

You can find more of IVy’s profound thoughts in How To Start Writing A Book courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.