Polka Dots by-words

You’ll never see a puckered brow

Entwined with polka dots.

For polka dots would not allow

Themselves to tie such knots.


You’ll never see them tangled so;

They only ever smile.

That’s all they ever care to show,

Woven deeply in their style.

Above the Bread-Binby-words:

           Above The Bread Bin

Her breasts stick out like bread loaves in a bin

Of wicker-weave that’s buckled under wear:

The kind we keep, inadequate to store

Supplies, but for the look it has; and though

We know it has no hope to hold its fill,

We keep in spite of it, until it’s clear

The buxom bend has gone too far – and then,

Just as it’s too late to catch the over-flow,

We shift the weight and almost over-throw

In vain attempt to keep them off the floor.


by Gavin W. Smith (by-words)

We must grow, you and I,

As one into an open sky.

Where bird-song can be heard

And white clouds pout, and roll on by.


And we, without a word,


Can share a thought with gentle sighs:

The passing of a bird

Is proof that you and I

Were meant to grow side-by-side.

Oh, Chastity!


“Oh, lay me down this once,” she said to me;

And oh, how duly I would oblige her!

Were it not for the grains of conscience

Scattered in the balm of my desire.


A tactless blend if ever there was one,

As the sensuous mood is rendered coarse.

Unpalatable to sense or notion;

Impervious to persuasion or force.


Dilemma, oh moral dilemma!

Whether wilful uttered words can undo

That silent-spoken mantra of the soul.

Where passion and the rational collide,

                        How does one decide?


Treading Water

by Gavin w Smith


The poem has a flow all of its own

That you, with fingers running light, must find.

It is there – follow or be swept away!


Do not turn to fight the current, but swim.

Do not dive too deep – or too long if you do.

You will miss the scenery as it passes


And drown; never having learned to tread

From those who make it flow and know that water

Is at once the stuff of life and death.

The Apple-Tree

by Gavin w Smith


I loved her for her fruit and fruitfulness.

How she blossomed at my fingertips

That tickled her chin and teased

The hotness from her breast.

She ripened and I let her bend the bough

Near breaking point,

                                    That aching point,

That yearns to throw up its arms

And let the apple drop and strike the earth

With a bruising thud.

Only to pluck it before it falls

With a gentle twisting motion,

Pulling it a little further down

Before it breaks away

And sends the bough-arms shuddering

With a force that ripples through every limb,

And every fruit not as yet borne.