By the Book (sic)
Bardly Writ
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Monthly Archives: October 2014
Waiting Room Woes 1
Posted in appointment, doctors, surgery, waitingroom
Tagged #doctors, #hangerfarmpoets, #nervous, #surgery, #waitingroom
Lines Upon a Page (LBN)
I…
…am taking centre stage
(in an LBN – a little black number
which is slightly ‘off the wall’)
Am I on the right lines
As I preside over my court?
I focus upon the passers-by
who are by-passing the others to gaze
solely at my décolletage;
barely pausing at the collage next to me;
before also by-passing the purchasing of a single thing.
When suddenly, I descried someone wearing…
almost
the exact same creation as me!
Imagine my total loss of elation.
Just imagine!
I could have cried.
Now, side by side we stand;
Imperceptible in our differences
almost
but, one of discerning tastes
Must have preferences…
Look at her page lines!
I, am the real
deal.
————————————————————-
This poem was inspired by the two delightful pictures above by the Natural Connections artist Sarah Louise Baker.
For more information, visit:http://www.hampshireartandcraft.org/community–fundraising-events.html
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Saturday 8th November 2014, 6.30 – 8.30pm
An evening of poetry by The TeaPoet Collective responding to an exhibition of paintings and sculpture by artists from The Yard Studios at Rum’s Eg Gallery. The work is on show at Rum’s Eg art and craft gallery in Romsey from 8 October to 9 November. You are invited to look at images of the artwork on the gallery website click here…. or visit the gallery in person and write your own poem. Please send poems to natural@teapoet.org.uk or contact them for more information. The poetry will be presented at this lively and informal event in the first floor Cafe at Rum’s Eg, with a bar and snacks on the night. The event is free but please email teapoets to let them know if you are coming. |
Washian Roulette
Washian Roulette
Spin, spin, spin;
Will I win?
Red or Black?
Lose or win?
Where and when will the whites within
Choose to land?
Round and round
The machine is sound
It will not play me false
It dances back and forwards
Like a modern-day Dickensian waltz
The powders and the liquids
Help to clear my mindings
If it all goes to plan
I shall be pleased with final findings
Spin, spin, spin;
Shall I win?
Or shall the chamber be filled
With a bulletin of promises
That leaves my tears so spilled
Watching and waiting
Waiting and wondering
If all this time I’m waiting for a joining
Or waiting for a sundering.
Spin, spin, spin…
Posted in hangerfarmpoets, poem, Poetry, russianroulette, washingmahine
Tagged #24, #hangerfarmpoets, #russianroulette, #washingmachine, Poem, Poems, Poetry
Hrothgar?
Sven: Shall we go to Hrothgar
They’re having such a feast?
Svix: No, we’ll both be eaten
by Grendel – at the least!
Posted in grendel, hrothgar, poem, Poetry
Tagged #grendel, #grendelsmum, #hrothgar, #marillion, Poem, Poetry
Flower-Me-Not
Flower-Me-Not
Roses, I read , read somewhere,
Are like my love;
Violets are there for when you are blue.
“These are but flowers!”
Are my words to you.
Every Dahlia, when I wake up
I wander in the garden of the world
Unaware of the Daisies to come.
My Tulips taste of the air;
My Irises see the colours;
My Nasturtium smells the fragrances.
Whilst I may not know the make or model of the things that grow;
I can still savour the flowers that ‘you’ know;
And where there’s contempt from a gardener with needs ;
‘I’ can embrace the wild beauty of weeds.
My Vogon Poem
Vogon Poem Generator
Here is my Vogon Poem from the BBC’s Vogon- Poetry Generator Program at
See, see the Dead sky
Marvel at its big Pink depths.
Tell me, ‘I forget his name’ do you
Wonder why the ugly cat ignores you?
Why its foobly stare
makes you feel bed-ready.
I can tell you, it is
Worried by your afgriggflomZ facial growth
That looks like
A new life form.
What’s more, it knows
Your Napples potting shed
Smells of a small, green thing.
Everything under the big Dead sky
Asks why, why do you even bother?
You only charm my overalls.
Posted in douglasadams, h2g2, poem, Poetry, vogon, vogon[poetry
Tagged #douglasadams, #hitchhikers, #vogon, #vogonpoetrygenerator, Poem, Poetry
Poets Die in Hot Cars
Poets die in hot cars; While doggerels lay exhausted in the heat of the midday sun Lacking fluid and needing the shadow Of Autum-te-dum leaves. The sweat of a writer's brow trickles between lashes And splashes of colour lighten up an otherwise dull shade of grey. Old tomes lie, unread, unnoticed and largely unwanted when minute devices carry their weight lightly Politely giving up their words at the press of a button Although some would think of Shakespeare as Lamb dressed up like Milton. Or Brie compared to Stilton. Poems die in a bright non-blaze of apathy Lounging in cupboards and drawers; spouting off about charges and wars When all the people want is a quick laugh Then another Without too much bother "Brother, can you spare the time to read a book?" "A what?" And so it goes Where it will end Nobody knows. The written word is fading and blurred And will be long forgotten When all things have occurred That are happening now. Learning to read? What is the need?
