Tag Archives: poet

A cloud about poems

Poetry is all well and good,

when all is said and done,

and where there’s muck there’s brass,,

and words don’t come easy,


Every poem has a silver lining,

and blue-sky thinking

can often provide

the basis for an airy poem.

When the sky is limiting,

and the birds fly through,

just to peck holes in your construction,

who is to say that a rhyme is a crime?

Who? said the owl of Oswestry.

It has come to my attention…

I thought that AIW would mention


It has come to my attention,


when I sit down

to try and write a poem,

I end up writing one like this one.

This also happens

when I stand up

to try and write a poem.

Maybe I shouldn’t sit down

or stand up

or write poetry.

Has this sort of thing

come to your attention?

Asking for an imaginary friend –

which, as a poet,

I do have.

My own unique voice

I write these things

as I think of them,

and they appear when they will.

Still, I wouldn’t want to be

like every other poet,

writing poetry in the traditional style

while the chance to dance

with the words is there;

care I have that I dare


to write poetry cold

unless I also write poetry hot.

So, what’s another poem to you?

I don’t do ‘real’,



It’s not for me –

it might not be be for you.

Anyway, I just say

what comes to mind,

and find that




poetry voice.

It’s your choice

as to whether you read it,

heed it,

feed it to the hungry poetry fishes,

whose wishes are

to consume words dangling

upon the lines that I lower their way,

or cast adrift

in their general direction –

a selection of which

are just like those written above;

or would you rather I wrote

a sonnet of love?

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!”


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


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.