Poems

Coffee Morning

Here it is not loaves and fishes
It is not water into wine
It is just coffee and cake
They’re here to help you pass the time
For the tourists just popping-in
Regulars in usual seat
A welcoming environment
To take the weight from of your feet
To admire the Gothic arch
And the hidden carved corbels quaint
Sitting here beneath the glazed gaze
Of bishops, martyrs and saints
The niches bereft of figures
Old high stone walls all painted white
And some windows with just plain glass
To let in more thin winter light
There’re tiles and grave slabs to polish
Always fresh flowers to arrange
The long centuries come and go
Some tasks through do not change
Urn with hot water a-bubbling
Soft sponge instead of daily bread
More crockery to be washed up
Still chance for hungry to be fed

Copyright Pete Cox April 3rd 2012

FONT

This stone cup that holds liquid sacrament
A little bit of ancient Jordan’s shore
And metal ewer from which blessings pour
A reason for family merriment
Many generations the font has known
Many godparents have promises made
Before the little children grow and played
So youngsters aged, have children of their own
And so once more from the waters have come
Service performed, hymns sung and prayers said
An artist or martyr, who knows their fate
Washed free of sin, free as when we began
So along life’s path this person is lead
Be it troubled, rough, or broad, smooth and straight

Copyright Pete Cox May 30th 2012

What sort of Fish would a Poet be?

I wondered what sort of fish would a poet be
Would he mope so lonely in the dark of the sea
Scribbling by thin light of his luminescent glow
As he swam solitary full fathoms below
Would beatnik fish have an actual turtleneck
With hip catfish swimming around some ancient wreck
Would it enjoy the shallows or maybe rock pool
Hanging around the weed trying to look so cool
Romantic Georgian flounder reclining on rock
While the Robbie Burns salmon swam about a loch
Would deep dub dab groove beneath Caribbean waves
Before the anemones organise a rave
For what sort of scale, tail, gill or fin might I wish
Oh, if I could choose, what would be a poet’s fish?

copyright July 2012 Pete Cox

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