So varied are the hues of poetic pen,
With a multitude of exploding coloured ink,
In endless shades to choose from now, and then,
To set the writing mood, into which we sink.

Should I decide upon a nature write,
I must select just one of many greens,
To paint a woodland oil, in verse tonight,
Of lush green branches shading flowered scenes.

Humorous poems are best presented yellow,
The verses to be sunny, smiling bright,
This Irish poet not e'er a dour fellow,
To try extract a laugh from you, he might.

To pen dark verse, one must use darkest black,
Printed on a page of sombre grey,
The mood is set, no chance of stepping back,
The reader with sad tears, may have to pay.

Poems to my Love, are always delicate pink,
Verse from the heart, her eye to see words beat,
Fond lines penned madly now in perfumed ink,
Extracted from rose petals, for a treat.

Erotic verse scribed in pulsating red,
Throbbing, bulging blood to end in balm,
My pen grows hotter with every word that's said,
Eventually burns to flames within my palm.

Finally if you poets e'er grace my home,
Feel free to take a seat, and ease your pains,
Relax at my bureau and pen a poem,
For it's ink not blood that flows inside our veins !