A short poem from my collection 'Iron Fist in Velvet Glove'.

Poets will recognise this as a triolet.

The Chapel

The Drinker's Creed

My partner paints.
Her studio is less bespattered,
More subsumed under lines and swirls of
Composition. Eschewing the canvass' limits
Pictures, portraits, merge and mingle
Over walls and floor.
Free expression - why have rules on creativity? Breaking
Borders is Art's most powerful ambition.

A motto learnt at mother's knee, no doubt -
A pianist, but self-proclaimed, self-taught;
Plays 'Pieces', not sonatas, not concertos for
Who needs Form?
But on occasion, our three-year old
Lifts the lid
To perform
And I barely hush from calling to my partner:
'Your mother's back.'

For in this trio what remains
To me but life in verse,
As ink, not paint, flows in my veins,
For in this trio what remains?
I'll glad submit to prosedy's chains
And not deride them for a curse.
For in this trio what remains
To me but life in verse?


Bernard Stacey