Lines in the Little Bedroom

Earth bounds in circles round the sun.
Breath goes in and out like a tide.
Death sells records to the young and impressionable.
Youth is wasted on the young they say.
Teeth are meant for chewing meat.
Truth probably hurts less than cliché now.
Birth hurts like trauma for all concerned.
Dearth means a scarcity or lack of something.
Darth as in Vader is Luke Skywalker’s father.
North is the rest of The Lakes, then Scotland.
Mirth is my feeling to be released.
Moth wears an off-white wedding dress.
Worth waits for ladies to cross the road.
Bath is not where Jim Morrison died.
Light changes the key in the bathroom.
Beth killed herself in the bath, a tragedy.
South is where I originate but not reside.
Mouth to mouth means resuscitation.
Math is American slang for mathematics.
Sloth is my frame as opposed to cowardice.
Broth is good to heat and eat in winter. 
Wrath is another one of the Seven Deadly Sins.
Path through the grass leads to the greenhouse.
Plath is a poetess of egoism therefore minor.
Plinth is a platform supporting a statue.
Month is a disciple of Jesus Christ.
Wraith is a flame-point demon, screaming, lithe.
Faith is the right to approval by the supernatural.
Froth is the river at the broken-green-beer-bottle-corners. 
Fourth in the Premier League are Newcastle United.
Water should come free from the Tap.
Myth is made by any re-namer of reality.
With me is the opposite of without me.
Vermouth is generally drunk with gin.
Absinth makes the heart grow stronger, actually.
Cloth is laid down on the kitchen table.
Labyrinth, I think the inner ear is a labyrinth, yes.
“Mammoth” could describe the great, hulking universe.
Growth begins in Spring with gilly flowers.
Pith is the essence and gist of something.
Strength becomes less important when you’re wise.
Underneath the bridge the Pooh-sticks went.
Wordsmith after wordsmith walked on the wall.
They deem it I am the butt of the joke.
Wreath after wreath is a roundabout-picnic. 
Both of our heads are left with tonsures.
Loath to control things, I let them go.

John F.B. Tucker


If you have any thoughts about these poems,  John F.B. Tucker would be pleased to hear them