Tag Archives: poet

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


an all-know-it;

and I try to write poems

that make people smile,

or laugh.


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.


“Post a Poet, Today!”

“Post a Poet, Today!”

Post a Poet, Today;

you can help him to get him on his way;

stick said Poet in an envelope,

add a name, address;

then just pop on a first-class stamp,

and post him, to Inverness;

or wherever you hope to send him –

you can ask him if you like;

but, I’m sure he’ll show no interest;

he just wants to travel –

as words in his mind unravel –

aboard a train, in an aircraft’s hold, upon a Postie’s bike;

and garner skills and words;

that he wouldn’t find in his own back yard;

and, ‘An accent always adds an air

of learning.

as was once said by an alliterative Bard.

Send him ‘second class’, if you wish;

he will not mind, he is a waxing-lyrical sort of writing type;

a strange concoction, one weird fish;

Poet’s aren’t normal – ignore all that hype, discard all the waspishness;

for one who rhymes all manner of things;

is decidedly over-ripe – yes?

And if his voice still with poetry sings;

give his brain a little wipe;

or the dust that clings

to his muse may cause,

an over-heating

of Boyle’s Laws;

and may, in essence,

exacerbate whatever flaws that lie within –

if not, he will take it upon the chin.

Parcel Post may be the thing,

wherein to dispatch the conscience of the rhyming king;

wrap him in the finest coat

of paper, bubble-wrap, and string,

and note the destination, reference code,

so that you can follow the Poet’s route,

as he travels train lines, air, and dusty road.

Post your Poet, today –

a little impetus should see him on his way.

The Whistle

The Whistle

“I’ve got a whistle

and I want to blow it;

it is the whistle

of the unknown poet;

it’s dull and tarnished,

and it hasn’t got a pea;

but if I blow it well enough,

it will sound a rhyme for me.”

Auditioning For The Post Of Poet

Auditioning For The Post Of Poet

“Hit me with your best poem – fire away!”

Well, what could I say?




Not a great start,

I have to admit;

but, soon I warmed up –

just a little bit.

“This is my best poem;

because it is short

and it is fun,

It is called ‘Recycle Poets’,

and I shall start upon the count of…


‘Recycle poets!

They’re biodegradable;

bury one and see.’

It’s a Haiku,

or a Senryu –

if you think it’s funny;

it cost me lots of thinking,

and has brought in little money.

I have other poems that are not quite as short;

less funny;

and with typos fraught;

they are mainly about gulls

and that sort of thing.

Okay, don’t call you,

you’ll call me…

but, if there is even the slightest possibility

of an opening

in your department

of mirth…

I would be ever so grateful

and it would mean the world –

or even the Earth.”



I wandered ,

meandered about aimlessly,

on my own,

by myself,

in the sky,

in my mind .

Then I wrote about it

in a Poetic sort of way;

writing down what I could not bring myself to say;

then, like a cloud,

I floated away.



I am a poet,

and I suffer from OCDVD

it’s not just me;

but, others, too,

must, at some time,

have been plagued

by the need for

an Orange County rhyme.

t a houseman (#24) presents… his poem: lay down your arms

lay down your arms!

lay down your legs!


a dog begs;

and is moved on by a policeman;

and a brisk busker basks

in the glory of a note.