Tag Archives: me

Occasionally, I am a Poet.

Occasionally, I am a Poet.

Once in a while,

upon a blue moon,

every now.

and then…

I use my pen

to poet stuff

which is sometimes,

if not always,

a little rough,

around the edges;

using as my inspiration,

things found under hedges,

and laying, lying, in the road

less travelled;

which inspirational things,

once unravelled,

become the finest expression

of my poetic oven,

after the ingredients

are blessed by a coven

of witches;

but, what’s a purely poetical man to do,

when his words they seem

to barf at you.

A few thoughts upon my poems

A few thoughts upon my poems

A lot of my poems

don’t really have a raisin d’être;

are not rhyming poems,

have poor, or, at the very least, inconsistent mêtre;

lack any visually pleasing anaesthetics,

and, seemingly, impart little or no peas of wisdom.

Earls, might have rhymed with that,

if I hadn’t used a Malapropism.

Some might say,

‘Your words are like the diamonds that one finds in one’s socks – imaginings of the mind.’

Others wouldn’t.

I am not blind to my failings…

bland to my railings…

or, blonde to my routes.

‘He who laughs last, often missed the point of the joke.’

I do not smoke.

Nor drink of the alcoholic beverage.

I merely think;

it gives me leverage.

(Poem 25 – The Last One) 25 Poems in 24 Hours


Poem 25: 24:00 16-05-2017



The End

Of the day

Of the Sixteenth of May

Of my Birthing Day

Of a Tuesday.

(Though I was born on a Wednesday Morn

In the very merry month of May…)
It actually goes like this:
I was born

On a Wednesday morn

In the very merry month of May

Many years ago.

And, luckily, for me, 

I survived the snows 

Of Christmas 1962/1963,

That deep and even lay.
And, as a child, I went to school

Once or maybe twice

I didn’t stay

To learn the rules

It wasn’t very nice;
And so I just remained at home

and read a million books;

Of my knowledge they were the fount;

And, as a bonus, to a million I had learned to count;
But, that was ‘many’ years ago

And I haven’t enough fingers, and I haven’t enough toes,

To count all of ‘their’ number

(I’d have to borrow seven more feet or hands

To make the total tally

But, that’s just silly

Mad-as-a-box-of-frogs

And, yes, I am doolally.)
And, now…

I write and write and write

Even though I know it’s wrong

To write so much;

When my words lack even a ‘measure’ of treasure,

And the spaces between them are the only real and certain distinct pleasure.

So, I say, amidst the hype,

“Oh, I’ll eat my cake!

And have it said

That I am not for turning

This writer and so-called ‘poetic typo’

Will have street cred

And not need to still be learning.”
For Britvic 55

Is now my drink

As I write on themes

Upon the brink

And publish books

That are prone to sink

Because my poems sometime overuse a rhyme

(Really, do you think).
And now I’ve reached this great ‘old age’

And mental faculties are set to shrink

Should I start to wear purple

Or a daring shade of pink?
No, I think that I shall remain A hazy shade of Grae

And write upon the nonsense Until the close of play.