MY COLOUR-FULL RAG-TAG BAG.
Right from the start. I sensed there was art.
In my colour-full rag-tag-bag.
I've so often said. The cherries stay red.
In my colour-full rag-tag-bag.
And to my delight. All nuts stay white.
In my colour-full rag-tag-bag.
There in my sack. The currants stay black
In my colour-full rag-tag-bag.
I tell you my fellow. The sweetcorn stays yellow.
In my colour-full rag-tag-bag.
Blueberries too. Will keep their dark hue.
In my colour-full rag-tag-bag.
Those carrots stand out. Bright orange they shout.
In my colour-full rag-tag-bag.
I perplex and frown As I ponder the brown
In my colour-full rag-tag-bag.
A vortex soup of colours blend. A pot of gold at rainbows end.
In my colour-full rag-tag-bag.
Were I an artist like Matisse. I would paint a masterpiece.
From my colour-full rag-tag-bag.
But I am just a simple poet. Rhyming words is how I show it.
From my colour-full rag-tag bag.
I use the rhythms and the rhymes. To tell of smell and raw enzymes.
From my colour-full rag-tag-bag.
The subject matter won’t get worse. By placing it within a verse.
The ostomate as graduand. Will be the one to understand.
My colour-full rag-tag-bag. B. Withers 2011
