The Book of Prof. F

Neither heaven nor earth or the powers unseen
can protect our brains from Its varied spleen
Once It assails our class with Its bag
Dear heavens - how time lags!
We poor mortals do succumb
to speeches that leave us dumb
Say, what charm, spell or plea to God
Can stay this Mephistophelian overlord?

The Lone Scholar

In a silent classroom
before a lecture was made
A sole occupant was busy within
The board clean, duster laid

Her pen lay not on paper
though it swished craftily by
Her thoughts had no expression
Even birds can sing in the sky

Occupation replaced education
a broom superseeded the pen
Quickly she finished her business
Before lectures could resume

A Bottle of Memories

Conjured up still
that memory of old
more precious than beaten gold
Stored like fragrence
hidden within
a little bottle
with a golden rim

Youth can fade
time can fly
happiness skitter away
a playful butterfly
But the bottle
will lie there still
prism shaped
with a golden rim

Emotions buried
past forgot
future distant
present nought
Memories stored
like Elixer of old
within a bottle
with a rim of gold

Wine in the cellar
eternal wait
a time to remeber
a time of debate
Open the bottle
let the scent spill
fragrence of memory
pent up within...

Ontop the dresser, the bottle reposed
A tiny glass prism with a golden rim.

Tea with Spectacles

Light as...
a veil drawn over a window
A mist that follows the rain
A fog destroying directions
filming over glass panes.

No notion of what comes after
Or sentences that follow close
No sight momentarily
with each steam laden dose.

Slowly, the words break-through
Parting vapours fade
Leaving the lenses clear
to resume the neglected page.