I am so weary of the constant repetition
By the shallow and disreputable folk
Who claim to be our leaders,
Yet unremittingly by tactless talk
Betray the very principles
With which they sought to gain
Our credulous support,
And treat with reprehensible disdain
And superficial jargon
And empty-headed vows
Those principles that leaders of a bygone age
Did fervently espouse.
Where are they now?
Where have they gone?
Please reappear! Come back!
Those rare folk that we could depend upon.

I can sympathize with pain but not with pleasure.
There are those who prefer suffering to sympathy;
Who would exchange solace for sensuality.
It is not my wish to offer them a choice

I seek to bring you comfort;
To bring you to a resting place.
But will I bring solace to myself?
Will I find a refuge?

And if not me, then who?
And if not here, then where?
And if not now, then when?
This is no recipe for scant solace.

This is a mystery that has  me baffled ,
The answer's one I simply cannot see:
If I would be like someone else,
Who would be like me?

I have neither time nor patience
for anyone who lacks the strength of character
to admit blame when they know they are wrong.

Personally I would always
confess my faults immediately,
if I had any!

She played on the strings of my heart.
Was it a melody?
Did it harmonise?
Was it sensual or sensuous?
Who can say; but at the end of the day
It was naught but a vast discord.

A poem is a form of expression
which patterns a thought
to naked emotion,
and then clothes it with words.

My five syllables
Are followed by seven more.
Is this a haiku?