Tag Archives: poet

Recycled Poet

Made from life events

and numerous poems read,

alloyed with quirky.

What’s a poem without a reader?


Oh, so you are reading this…


That is good,

it means it was all worthwhile.


Take solace in your achievement,

while I smile at mine.

“Not all poems are read;

does that mean that they are not poems?”

Is what a lonely writer once said.

Time for a rhyme

Have you got time

for a rhyme?


Okay, this will have to be



(“Call the Poetry Hearse

because trad poetry is dead!”)

I said

it would happen

and it did;

it has been found out,

wherever it had been hid.

Now there is nothing

but opening doors

that once were shut,

and gentle tides

on foreign shores;

all metaphors

and similar things

that no longer conform

to the old poetry laws.

Please comment upon these words

in syllables of no more than two thirds.

Poets and Pans

Who is in the kitchen

clattering poets with pans?

A critic of the written rhyme,

or avid poetry fans?


The poet receives a telling blow,

‘You’re shallow, and quite boring;

you have no skills at all!’


Not a thing a poet wants to know,

then he escapes into the hall.


‘I’ll have you know…

my rhymes are so—


that my muse you cannot quell!’


‘You can stick your rhymes,

those awful crimes,

in some forsaken well!


The poet ran,

as poets can ,

away, and far, and over the hills;

and wherever it is he now works in a bar,

the customers’ drinks he spills.

A Poem for much later

This is a poem for later;

so, please don’t read it now,

it’s still hot from the Poetry Oven,

and has to cool somehow.


I’d leave it in the garden,

but the birds will peck it’s face;

and I could pop it into orbit,

it’s cold in outer space.


In the freezer there’s no room,

and frozen words are naff;

they thaw out and lose all shape,

like a circular giraffe.


No, they can cool quite slowly

at room temperature

(minus 1!)

and the poem should be ready for reading

by August when there’s sun.

mis Genver

mis Genver

to start the new year

(an nowydh bledhen)

y’n Kernewek, my a scrifa,

y’n Kernow, I write.

Skrifer ov vy.

Prydydh ov vy.



mis = month

mis Genver = January

Genver = Venus

an nowydh bledhen = the new year

y’n Kernewek = in Cornish

y’n Kernow = in Cornwall

Skrifer ov vy = I am a writer

Prydydh ov vy = I am a poet

Meurastahwi! = Thank you!

Poetry is a six-letter word


is a six-letter word,

Poet, has but four;

which is why

you rarely hear


any more.

I wrote a poem

I wrote a poem

and don’t you know it

because I am a passable poet;

you’d pass me in the street

without any recognition,

not realising that I

suffer from a poem-writing condition.


My words are known all around the world,

as others use these same words a lot

it’s only the new ones that I create,

that people find so hard to spot.

A poem (for you)

A poem is nice,

a poem is twee,

a poem for you,

a poem from me –


it is written,

this is the one,

how happy are you,

now that it’s done?

It was on a New Year’s Day

It was on a New Year’s Day

that I wrote this.

I should, perhaps,

have been doing something

more productive

with my time.

But, a poet must rhyme,

and being one

I needed to get this

out of my system.

I hope

that I haven’t

inconvenienced you?

Happy New Year

one and all.