Tag Archives: poet

Upon this very stage …

If I died now…

this very moment…

upon this very stage…

who would finishing reading out this poem?

Would you?

Or would you try to bring me back?

Give me the kiss of life?

Return me to the task in hand?

For, I have been told, that ‘nobody’ could read my poems

the way that I do.

And once I had gone…

would they be forever silent?

NB Funny how some poems just happen. This took about two minutes and very little editing. Bit bleak; but, it’s only a collection of words in a certain order put. Graeme:)

A Poem is Born

A Poem is Born.

Not that anybody notices,

or stakes a claim

to have been My Human

My human …

gives me food.

My human ….

gives me water.

My human …

gives me love …

and protection …

and a place to stay …

and so much more.

If your human

doesn’t give you all these things …

then they darn well oughta!

‘there at the birth’

or to have inspired its name.

No, it casually slipped into the world

without a cry of birthing,

or the taint of original sin.

I chose to call it ‘Arthur’

after the mythical leader of the Britons,

although, I’m not that sure

if it actually has a gender,

or an agenda –

it might be a Brenda,

the mythical leader of kittens,

mittens, and once shy,

twice bittens.

Anyway, a poem was born,

and that is all you need to know.

“Happy Birthday, Arthur / Brenda!”

Worms

This is an old children’s rhyme –

written by some old children back in the day.

And it goes something or nothing like this:

.

‘Nobody loves me,

everybody hates me,

Just because…

I am a poet.’

.

Those were such simple times then;

when a poet could be stoned to silence

for the purveying of their awful rhymes.

I wish…

I wish I was a poet

a-swimming in the sea;

or do I mean a fish –

it’s all gone wrong for me.

Hidden Place

A hole in the wall,

an ‘X’ marks the spot,

you can have them all

for the things I have got;

hidden within

buried down deep;

is a love that I have

that’s forever to keep.

.

Chests full of gold,

silver, or lead,

are all worthy of others,

but, here, in my head,

is a vision to behold

whenever I wish,;

she’s a beautiful ocean,

and I am her fish.

.

Listening hard

to the birds in the trees,

observing the bees,

and the butterfly lees;

are all lovely things

I can soon discard,

when the feelings inside me

make me feel like a poet,

an author, the Bard.

President Oet

I am your President Oet,

and now is the time

for an Oet’s rhyme.

Indoors, where I preside

is my hat—

or something like that;

obeying laws

(like the Law of Gravity,

and Cole’s Law)

I am sure

enough

that I am following

in the footsteps of people with metrical feet,

and Symmetrical Street

is where I live

(at number forty-two)

in my humble-down abode

writing like a daemon

carrying his heavy overload;

making little cents

for tiny American people

and wallowing in the mud

of a poem writ in blood.

Ode to an Elevator (written between floors 7 and Q)

You, you lift me up…

then you bring me back down again…

with a bump!

I suppose it’s all that you can do,

within the confines of your remit,

and your aperture.

But, once, at least,

couldn’t you just transport me

to another, better, dimension,

where nice things happen a propos of nothing?

When is a Haiku…?

When is a Haiku

not a Haiku?

Why, when it’s a Senryu,

of course!

Same structure for both;

but a Senryu is the funny twin;

Haiku the serious one.

Like a River Under Troubled Bridges.

I am not what you might call

a proper poetical type;

ignore the hype,

poetry should be fun,

and I, for one, like what I do,

and do what I like when

I’m in your wardrobe –

sorry, a song sprang to mind –

see? It’s okay to be funny,

as long as you don’t want to be popular,

that is.

This is not a Haiku

This is not a Haiku;

it has too many syllables,

and doesn’t rhyme at all;

then there is the matter of the long fourth line,

and the short fifth.

This is not a Haiku;

and anybody who says it is…

… see above.