Poets like potatoes,
and potatoes like poets;
what is more,
a poet can be found in potatoes,
but not in a potato;
a potato, it should be said,
cannot be found in a poet.
It’s all just letters and words,
don’t you think?
Rosa was a stand-up.
Her rise to stardom was meteoric.
Her fall from grace catastrophic;
one minute she was riding the heights,
the next, she was plumbing…
plumbing the depths, that is.
After 9 months of plain sailing,
the master and his attendant crew entered the area of storms.
In that vast place,
their tiny wooden craft was sea-tossed,
and thrown from wave peak to wave trough innumerable times.
When, eventually, the craft had miraculously reached beyond,
they found themselves becalmed upon a mirrored ocean,
where there was not even a breeze.
Like the ship of the Ancient Mariner,
there was grave concern amongst the sailors;
and the relief felt from passing through the storm
was replaced by a dread of another kind.
Water rations grew scant, food was turning away from being edible, and all seemed about to be lost.
Until the master’s wife gave birth; which was a bit of a surprise, as no one had known she was pregnant.
“It is a buoy, your grace!”
“I am not, ‘your grace’, I am just the master of this vessel; but, I think that Grace will be a good name for our child.”
“It’s a buoy! You can’t call him Grace.”
“We can call him what we wish – Grace is a name that shall befit his style and grace.
And so it was that Grace was named, and grew to be the son that his father, Muriel, had always wanted.
It’s hard, sometimes,
to craft the rhymes,
that make the words sing;
and, often, if I do write,
what I write is poor,
and lame, and not the same,
as what I write when I’m in the zone.
But, still, I will put my words together,
untether the process of creation,
and, perhaps, by writing,
I might start inviting inspiration.
Or, I can always wait,
for the seminal state
to return.
I may earn nothing
from what I do,
but worth is in the eye
of the beholder:
that is something you learn,
as you grow older.
There is always worth in words.
Once upon a time…
some seventeen syllables
had an adventure…
They set out one day
to see if they could find them
a land, to unwind.
Once up on a time
some se ven teen syll a bles
had an ad vent ure
They travelled quite far;
until, one fine morn, they found…
Land of Confusion
a bles some vent had
ven an ure a se syll up
ad teen on time Once.
They travelled on.
Up and down they went,
until they reached a place called…
Land of Alphabets
a a ad an bles
had on Once se some syll teen
up ure time ven vent
They left that place, too.
Until, finally,
they crossed a deep valley to…
Land of Completion.
Once upon a time…
some seventeen syllables
had an adventure…
They had all got back
where it was good to be – home,
and happy again.
Once upon a time…
some seventeen syllables
had an adventure…
Don’t you just hate it,
when the title of a poem
promises so much,
offers so much,
and, then,
gives you so little?
‘Twas gone Christmas Day,
and there were, all through the house,
left-over tidings.
I wanted to write
A Haiku for Christmas Day;
but, there weren’t enough–
Christmas Day Haiku Tanka
I wanted to write
A Haiku for Christmas Day;
but, there weren’t enough–
syllables; so, change of plan
i wrote a Tanka instead.
Posted in #Poetry, #Poem, #Poet,, Poetry
I wanted to write
A Haiku for Christmas Day;
but, there weren’t enough–
PS Have a great day wherever and whatever you are. G:) ❤️
Posted in Poetry
Graeme Sandford 