Tag Archives: poet

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.

Is it over yet? #NationalPoetryDay2020, #ShareAPoem,

Is it over yet?

Have you done?

Have all you poets

finished rhyming scone with gone,

or scone with bone?

Has there been an outpouring of rhythms and rhymes,

(excessive at times)

and a plethora of similes and metaphors,

newly minted, never heard befores?

Also, have you poets taken liberties

with your language?

I bet you have.

It’s what you do.

I ask again…

Have you done?

Yes?

Good. I’m off to eat a toasted scun.

On this Day, Write a Poem, I shall. #NationalPoetryDay, #ShareAPoem, #2

On this day,

of all days,

I feel that I should

write a poem.

Nothing special,

of course,

just a run of the mill,

bog-standard,

tuppenny ha’penny one,

that will fill the gap

that would be there

if I didn’t.

And, if I didn’t

write a poem,

to fill that gap,

then I wouldn’t be able

to call myself a…

taxi.

Or, a poet.

G:)

I don’t wanna be a poet no more.

I don’t wanna be a poet no more,

I ain’t ever worked out

what a poet was,

and what a poem was for,

I ain’t got the time

to rustle up a rhyme,

and a poet’s life

is not one I adore.

I don’t wanna be a poet

no more.

I wanna be a poet

I wanna be a poet

just like my daddy wasn’t,

and write some beautiful poems;

but, like him, I’m not very good

at rhyming.

I want to be a poet

I want to be a poet

I want to make the grade

I want to write a rhyme

that will never, ever fade…

never ever fade…

never ever fade…

never…

ever…

fade…

Two thirds of a Hai / ku, could that be a Diku?

With just a first line

and a second, but no third.

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?