Category Archives: poet

“Poet Creates Poem!”


“So what!” said a man from Aldershot.
“Big deal!” a woman – actually from Deal.
“That’s not news!” cried a town cryer, from Barry-le-Bews.
“Whatever!” a full conversation with a lady from Micheldever.
“Go away!” said an old gent from the New Forest, Sway.
“Great!” said the public in a roar, in a parallel universe, near here, somewhere,  some time, I’m sure.

I Must Feed the Inner Poet in Me

inner poet

I must feed the inner poet in me
Or he will fade and die
And I will lose him for all times
There will be no more whimsical rhymes

I must feed him the choicest words and phrases

That he can use to build his poems as he goes through phases

Of creating nonsense verse and haiku

Limerick and the mighty narrative poems that take an hour or two

To waffle through.

I must feed him; him in his horn-rimmed poet’s glasses and button-down clothing

Even though he is held up like this to the fear and loathing

As in Las Vegas; Staying in Las Vegas on a poet’s wages;

Which are said to be as thin As sin

I have to feed the poet inside of me

With the fuel for his rickety-finickity poetry vehicle

Or he will break down

And cry

He will cry out:

“Oh! Muse, thou hast forsaken me?”
(For he often speaks anachronistically)
“Thou hast left me in my hour of need,

Left me barren and parched

With just an orange to eat from.”

I have to feed said poet with the twists and turns of humanity’s foibles.
So, that like a cat he can cough them up at inopportune moments in PDA (public displays of affliction);

Where, with conviction, he will arrest the minds and the hearts of a willing audience.

I told you he was hungry
Now he’s having delusions
But, I am under no illusions
I know that I will continue to feed the poet that is within me

For I am not a poet without him.

Because ‘I’ am a poetry Pro

Tardy Poet

I've got a poem to write
I should do it now
Perhaps I'll do it later
But I will do it
Because, 'I' am a poetry pro

But, first I must
Finish this rhyme from yesterday
In time for...
...last week's poetry slam,!
Oh! Damn! 
I will have to read it at the next one
It will be fine 
nobody will know that I missed the 
Dead line.
Because, 'I' am a poetry pro

It's what I do
Eventually, in the future, 
if you are lucky,
and very patient with me
'I' will write a poem for you
If you're not in a rush.
I just need to find a rhyme for
'Cunctator!' first
No 'I' don't think it's rude - 
It's just a word - not at all crude - 
It' means: someone who doesn't...'
And I know that, because...
'I' am a poetry pro


What is that you say?

You think that I should just...


I shall take on board that excellent advice from you
Because, not only am 'I' a poetry pro
I also know

That 'I' am a poetry pro-


Poets Die in Hot Cars

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?