Tag Archives: poet

My Vegan Poem

My Vegan Poem

My Vegan Poem

contains no owls

or cormorants;

but, it does contain vowels

and consonants –

it would look rather silly

with owls and cormorants in,

wouldn’t it?

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My NPD Poem Effort

My NPD Poem Effort- ‘On National Poetry Day’

On National Poetry Day

I hope to be able

to read my best…

poem;

better than the rest…

poem;

that I wrote a while ago.

It needs a bit of work,

which I shall not shirk.

I know, that it will be difficult –

if not impossible –

to better the best;

but, I do believe

that the best can be bested;

at the least, I shall be tested – maybe arrested – probably not –

then, if I do get my my muse truly interested,

I can be sure that the time invested

in decomposing

then recomposing my rhyme

will be worth the effort.

But, you know me…

The Stone Troll – JRR Tolkien

J R R Tolkien

(Poem #370) The Stone Troll

Troll sat alone on his seat of stone,

And munched and mumbled a bare old bone;

For many a year he had gnawed it near,

For meat was hard to come by.

Done by! Gum by!

In a cave in the hills he dwelt alone,

And meat was hard to come by.

Up came Tom with his big boots on.

Said he to Troll: ‘Pray, what is yon?

For it looks like the shin o’ my nuncle Tim.

As should be a-lyin’ in the graveyard.

Caveyard! Paveyard!

This many a year has Tim been gone,

And I thought he were lyin’ in the graveyard.’

‘My lad,’ said Troll, ‘this bone I stole.

But what be bones that lie in a hole?

Thy nuncle was dead as a lump o’ lead,

Afore I found his shinbone.

Tinbone! Skinbone!

He can spare a share for a poor old troll,

For he don’t need his shinbone.’

Said Tom: ‘I don’t see why the likes o’ thee

Without axin’ leave should go makin’ free

With the shank or the shin o’ my father’s kin;

So hand the old bone over!

Rover! Trover!

Though dead he be, it belongs to he;

So hand the old bone over!’

‘For a couple o’ pins,’ says Troll, and grins,

‘I’ll eat thee too, and gnaw thy shins.

A bit o’ fresh meat will go down sweet!

I’ll try my teeth on thee now.

Hee now! See now!

I’m tired o’ gnawing old bones and skins;

I’ve a mind to dine on thee now.’

But just as he thought his dinner was caught,

He found his hands had hold of naught.

Before he could mind, Tom slipped behind

And gave him the boot to larn him.

Warn him! Darn him!

A bump o’ the boot on the seat, Tom thought,

Would be the way to larn him.

But harder than stone is the flesh and bone

Of a troll that sits in the hills alone.

As well set your boot to the mountain’s root,

For the seat of a troll don’t feel it.

Peel it! Heal it!

Old Troll laughed, when he heard Tom groan,

And he knew his toes could feel it.

Tom’s leg is game, since home he came,

And his bootless foot is lasting lame;

But Troll don’t care, and he’s still there

With the bone he boned from its owner.

Doner! Boner!

Troll’s old seat is still the same,

And the bone he boned from its owner!

— J R R Tolkien

“What do you mean by ‘just’ a Haiku?”

“What do you mean by ‘just’ a Haiku?”

When poetry fails

to ignite up my senses

will a haiku do?

Not a Daffodil in Sight

Not a Daffodil in Sight

‘I wandered lonely,

as only a super-heated Martian space-cloud can;

Along with my fifty-seven thousand cloned ‘equivalents’;

I am certainly a lonely, little green Martian man.

Beside the molten lava lake;

beneath the erupting volcanoes of Sector 2,

I could see the home planet communication tendrils,

fluttering and dancing

In the cyber-cyclonic deep space breeze.’

“How do you tell?”

How do you tell?”

How can you know a person is a poet?

Perhaps there is a way,

but, soft, by what yonder light is that,

I do not know it.

I may be considered a ‘comedy’ poet.

I may be considered a ‘comedy’ poet.

I may be considered a ‘comedy’ poet,

with a quirky style;

because, I am

not

an all-know-it;

and I try to write poems

that make people smile,

or laugh.

Giraffe.

The day of the giraffe tea party had finally arrived,

‘all’ the giraffes were gathered

in the Village Hall;

the veritably hardened of the drinkers

had gathered in the corner by the largest urns,

and they were necking down hot lapsang souchong by the bucketful

and quoting Robbie Burns.

But, some matters ‘are’ serious;

some issues are contentious,

or hot –

potatoes, for example, are not.

Unless you consider Climate Change a hot potato;

or global warming; insensitive intensive farming;

these issues are alarming.

The truth be told,

I am just one poet

doing what he does,

in his own silly way;

but that doesn’t mean I don’t care

about the serious things.