Tag Archives: #poetry. #poem

The darkling thrush (with a nod to Hardy)

I read a poem about a darkling thrush,

I read it quickly – I was in a rush;

I read it the once, then I read it the twice,

I very nearly read it the thrice;

but, what, I ask, is a darkling thrush?

Does it exist? I suppose it must;

because Hardy wrote about one once,

and knowing that

makes me no dunce;

but, what, I here will ask again,

is a darkling thrush?

The Snow Leopard

Hidden, out of sight,

out of mind,

you might find

a Snow Leopard;

or the feline

might evade your eyes;

the surprise if you see one

might depend on whether

or not

you are to be

its tea.

When the Triffid came to tea

It was a Thursday, at a half past three,

when the Triffid came to tea;

I’d baked a cake, and made some scones.

It wasn’t all that hungry,

as it had already eaten,

and sucked on some bones;

so it just had a – single – scone.

.

‘Jam first, and ‘then’ the cream!’

I softly admonished.

.

‘Sorry.’ clacked the Triffid,

somewhat astonished;

‘I’ve just come from Devon;

and there they put the cream on first;

your rules they really make me numb.’

Then, it downed a barrel of cider,

to quench a thirst.

.

‘Not to worry.’ I calmly replied,

‘Anything else to eat?

There must be a little room left inside.’

..

‘I do eat meat.’ the Triffid clacked,

‘That’s something that your table lacked.’

.

‘Sorry, no, we have not meat,

no piggy’s oink,

no baa lamb’s bleat;

no meat at all,

for Vegans are we.’

.

And so

the Triffid

ate us,

for its tea.

Sleeping Murder

It’s a title,

of a book,

when asleep,

I took a look,

I committed a crime

in slumbers deep;

and now I have

a rhyme to keep.

.

In the dead of night,

a shot was heard;

birds took flight

at, ‘Bang!’ the word,

and ‘Thud!’ the body

as it hit the ground.

.

And there was where

the detective found

a chalk outline upon the floor,

but no sign of a body,

just an open door.

.

And an ‘open door mystery’

Is not the same

as a ‘locked-room’ one;

and without a body,

who needs a smoking gun?

Wednesday Woke

I woke up Wednesday –

it had been snoring

in the corner

for quite a few days now –

and set it to task.

.

“What do I do?”

asked Wednesday.

.

After all these centuries

Wednesday was still a little lacking

in the intelligence department.

.

“Just be.” I replied,

“Make the weekdays

seem like they are nearly done,

and nod your head

towards the oncoming weekend.”

.

“Oh, is that it?

I could have stayed in bed.”

Wednesday really was a washout

when it came to geeing up things –

a ‘hump day’ indeed.

Who are you?

Who are you?

Do I know you?

Have we met before?

.

What is it that you bring to the table?

Or do you have an agenda?

.

Fill your bags with freebies;

leave your courtesies at the door;

assume a manner that is less about others

and more about yourself;

take, then take again,

and give no thing in return.

.

Who are you?

I know so little about you;

and, yet, I know so much.

Fly

Oh, me! Oh, my!

I think I can fly;

no I can’t,

and so I’m dead.

Disyllable (or Dissyllable) Poem

Enough, spoken Sentence;

forego chatter,

consign natter binwards;

refrain nonsense,

obtain conscience,

exist within avoid.

#WorldPoetryDay

#WorldPoetryDay

Today is the day, Teddy Bears,

that the World needs more Poetry,

just like every other day

that there is,

or was,

or will be.

So, write a Poem,

wear a trilby,

create some verse,

or whatever will be

will be.

Afternoon Haiku

Spring has now arrived,

snowdrops all accounted for,

let loose the sunshine.

.

“Where’s the afternoon?

The title says ‘Afternoon’?

This is about ‘Spring!’ “

.

“Ah, yes.” I reply;

“I wrote this this afternoon.

and so that is why.”

.

“Bloomin’ cheek!” you cry.

“All you ever do is this;

it’s not good enough!”

.

“I am a Poet,

that lives by his wits, no more.”

.

.

.

.

.

(The critic had left).