Tag Archives: poet

When the Poet climbed up the Poet Tree.

The Poet climbed the Poet Tree,

he had to,

because it was there;

he wrote a word,

climbed up with it,

taking care

not to reach too high,

too soon,

as the Poet Tree

can reach to the Moon,

and even beyond –

on Mars there’s a pond.

The Poet,

reaching the top

of the Poet Tree,

pinned the word

to a high, thin twig,

then climbed back down

for another word,

that from the ground he’d lovingly dig.

A warning heard,

but ignored,

didn’t stop his next attempt

at reaching the heights –

see the Poet

with his hair unkempt,

and his simile trailing

like a kite tailing in the breeze;

a poet loves the ascent of trees.

Carrying words from the Earth

to the heights,

at anytime of all those innumerable days,

unaccountable nights,

is what a Poet must do;

for what is a word

if left buried in soil,

if it’s not to be heralded

by a Poet Tree toil?

If I didn’t write a poem…

Today, if I didn’t write a poem

would you notice?

Would you say to a friend,

‘Tell you what…’

and describe to them

the feelings inside?

If I didn’t write a poem, today,

would you care?

Would you check your media closely,

to see if you’d missed me there?

If I didn’t, today, write a poem,

would I feel okay?

And even if I had

nothing to say,

shouldn’t I still write a poem,

anyway?

If I didn’t write that poem today,

would ‘you’ still have something to say,

that you could put in a poem

just to fill that gap?

Is that a ‘yes’ I hear you say?

Too hot!

It’s too hot to write poetry,

it’s never too hot,

it’s not that I don’t

want

to write poetry,

but, it’s just that I can’t

today,

as there is a Wednesday

in the month,

maybe

more than one.

And, if I write a poem,

my daily poem,

then the poetry writing

may be done,

and what am I going to do

with the rest of the day

if I can’t

procrastinate

about whether

or whether not

to write a poem

if I have already

written one.

This is not a Haiku

This is not a Haiku,

mainly because it has too many syllables,

doesn’t rhyme,

and has too many lines.

So…?

Just write what you want,

put yourself within the words,

and set your heart free.

(that last bit ‘was’ a Haiku.)

I wrote a poem upon a wall

I wrote a poem

upon a wall

in seventeen syllables

(a haiku)

five feet tall;

the words have now faded,

that I writ;

which doesn’t matter too much,

as my poem was rubbish.

I don’t read my poetry from a scrap of paper.

I don’t read my poems

from a scrap of paper;

and I just don’t possess

a cast-iron alibi,

or an old-boot scraper:

I was there at the time,

when this rhyme was writ;

but I took no efforts

and so my rhyme is rubbish.

I don’t read my words

from the back of a packet;

even though I know that

that is what some call style –

‘Style’, I lack it.

I read my poems

from off the top of my head;

and I’d keep that fact

under my hat,

if it wasn’t for the lack

of tact

that I attract,

or have.

I don’t read my poems,

just to get to the end,

sometimes, I stop in the midst of—

Poetry Buff

Poetry Buff

I’m no Poetry Buff,

I like my poetry rough,

ragged, torn at the edges,

found under hedges,

with all the sophistication

of an inoculation

against the plague;

with rhymes vague,

and metre lax,

give me a poem

that pays no tax

and I’ll be

a happy, poetical chappy.