Tag Archives: Poetry

A Poem AboutTime.

A Poem AboutTime.

It’s about time

that I wrote

this poem.

Not that this poem

is aboutTime;

or about Tim,even.

In fact, is at is about

very little indeed –

and, so, I am just

wasting your Tim

and mine.

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“A Poetry Competition!”

“A Poetry Competition!”

“A Poetry Competition?

There’s no Conpetition

like a Poetry Competition –

go find a rhyme

in your own sweet time

and enter it before

or after

the submission date.

Then, await the fate

of your words so fine…

but, be careful

to write every line

just right –

then you could win;

leastways, you might.”

“Unexpected Poem in the Bagging Area!”

“Unexpected Poem in the Bagging Area!”

“Unexpected poem in the bagging area!

Please wait for assistance.”

I hesitate.

Then wait.

Debate whether to grab it and go,

or await my fate.

Too late, I realise that I tried to scan it through as a carrot.

“Who’s a naughty poetry boy, then!”

commented a passing parrot.

Me.

Myself.

I am.

It’s not as if I couldn’t afford it,

and I don’t really need it;

I just wanted to read it,

and applaud it.

Now I’m off to jail;

“For poetry shop-lifting!”

I wail.

That will teach me.

A Poem For a Devonian Poetry Evening.

A Poem For a Devonian Poetry Evening.

East Cornwall is East Cornwall

and West Devon is West Devon

and never the Twain shall meet,

apart from along the length of the Tamar;

and that bit up near Bude

(which isn’t technically East Cornwall);

but, you know where I mean,

that bit where the road takes you through about a mile of Devon:

take my word, when I say

that my cry of: ‘I was only going to the garden centre!’ is often heard

whenever we choose to go that way.

As for Plymouth…

well, it is its own special place,

kingdom, province, municipality,

and in all probability

is twinned with an enclave

of Plymovians in Inner Mongolia or Outer Space.

Plympton, on the other hand,

Is a different kettle of fish;

the people there are very nice

they have happy, smiling faces,

freely give concise advice

donate generously to charity,

take many courses on crochet and pottery;

and they are especially keen

on supporting local poetry.

In fact, I have heard, that once

they even applauded a visitor from Cornwall at their poetry recital

when his poem was done.

A Limerick Revisited

A Limerick Revisited

There was an old lady from Fowey*

Who wished that she’d been born a boy;

Ken as her name;

Playing the rough-tumble game;

But, as Barbie she was purely a toy.

*Fowey in Cornwall is pronounced ’Foy’.

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?

“Umm?

Ooh?

Err?”

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…

one-

‘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.”

Sweaty Betty – That’s Me!

Sweaty Betty – That’s Me!

Sweaty Betty was upon the settee;

and that Sweaty Betty was me.

I’m not a yeti –

at least not yetty;

can sometimes be profound

upon a jetty;

like eating pasta –

if I can spaghetti any;

and am not at all rich in money

like the man they called Getty.

Never in the navy

so not an officer, petty

or otherwise;

and I have never named one of my caress Hetty – why would I?

I don’t know, I forgetty!

I long to duetty with a fine opera singer,

as long as she is the cousin of Mario Andretti – is that likely?

You betty!

I shall stop now,

all this rhyming

is making me weak

C’est la vie – nil regretty!