Tag Archives: Poets

Potatoes and Poets

Poets like potatoes,

and potatoes like poets;

what is more,

a poet can be found in potatoes,

but not in a potato;

a potato, it should be said,

cannot be found in a poet.

It’s all just letters and words,

don’t you think?

Pressing the Mute Button on Poets.

When you are caught in the headlights

of an oncoming poet’s wittering,

it would be really useful

if you could just press the mute button

bringing calm to an, otherwise,

chaotic outpouring of poesy.

Then, you could concentrate on other things,

more important things,

and await what the future brings

without the inconvenience

of rhyming couplets

and Iambic Pentameters

doing your head in.

So, let’s all pray for the day

when the Poet Mute Button

comes our way.

“Can Poets Make a Difference?” #MakeADifferencePoetry

“Can Poets Make a Difference?”

What can a poet



Okay maybe we shouldn’t go down that road –

leave it less travelled,

as you might say –

as we poets are a sorry lot,


apologising for this,

asking forgiveness for that,

and writing less about the other,

than the avid reader would like.

“But, can a poet make a difference?”

I hear you ask once again –

persistent little critiquer, aren’t you?

A poet can make many things…


Or describe a few.

He can make a sow’s ear out of a purse,

a simile sound just like a… similar thing,

or something quite dissimilar.

He’s like a magician with words,

juggling them like a juggler juggles…

juggly things.


I hear you whisper.

Well, give him a selection of vowels and consonants,

and a poet can make a ‘difference’-

Just, not quite the one that you really want.

Poets are Dicks

Poets are Dicks

Poets are Dicks…

… and poems are written by Dicks…

… Harriet’s, Marys, or Toms;

some poets are hairy,

and, in their poems, rhyme ‘bombs’

with ‘proms’;

in order to shock;

some swear a lot,

and use the word ‘cock…

… a-doodle-do’,

I don’t,

because I’m not a Dick,

are you?

The Doctor’s Reply

The Doctor’s Reply

It just isn’t true

that doctors dislike poems –

they just hate poets.

A Poet’s ‘Hello!’

A Poet’s ‘Hello!’

“Hello, Everyone!”

they cried in unison;

for is that not how poets cry?


They cry alone,

and on paper

about the how, wherefore and why.

Recycle Poets! (Revisited – now in Haiku or Tanka version).

“Recycle Poets!”

Haiku Version

Recycle poets!

They’re biodegradable –

bury one and see.


Tanka Version

“Recycle poets!

They’re biodegradable –

bury one and see.

And if that doesn’t stop them

Then probably nothing will!”

Larkin or Auden?

image image

Larkin or Auden
Auden or Larkin
Larkin or Auden
Auden or Larkin
Adlestrop stop
Thomas or Auden
Auden or Thomas
Thomas or Auden
Auden or Thomas
Thomas the Tank Engine?
No, Edward Thomas.
Edward Thomas or Aldgate
Aldgate or Edward Thomas
Edward Thomas or Aldgate
Isn’t that upon the underground?
Circle Line or Northern
Jubilee or Piccadilly
District or Waterloo
Bakerloo or…


PS  I would here like to say that WP Admin  is ‘NOT’ a poet. Yet. G:)

The Lunatic Poets Have Taken Over The Elysium !

Christopher Marlowe spake of Elysium

Christopher Marlowe spake of Elysium

Stone The Poets!
They are an evil, wicked bunch
They are planning to take over the world
Well, that is just my hunch!
Let’s cook the blooming lot of them
And eat the twits for lunch!

Well, perhaps we shouldn’t stone them…

And, now I come to think of it…

That does seem a little harsh;
Let’s just ridicule their silly rhymes
And maroon them in a marsh
Or snigger when they start to speak
Of ‘clouds that scutter by’
As if a cloud would do such things
‘That’s gibberish!’ We’ll cry.
And maybe sneeze and cough…
and other subtle things we know
Which will break the poet’s flow-

“Those sort often makes me lose my thought…”

Who am I? Do you not know?
I am the mourning poet
At the source of P.O.E.T.R.Y!

At odds with my self, as usual,
It’s the way I write, you see.

As poets go
When the time comes
That the rhymes just won’t come
I will go quietly into that goodnight, Vienna
With ne’er a look back
Or regret

But, until then…

Poets Die in Hot Cars

Poets die in hot cars
Poets die in hot cars;
While doggerels lay exhausted in the heat of the midday sun
Lacking fluid and needing the shadow
Of Autum-te-dum leaves.
The sweat of a writer's brow trickles between lashes 
And splashes of colour lighten up an otherwise dull shade of grey.
Old tomes lie, unread, unnoticed and largely unwanted 
when minute devices carry their weight lightly
Politely giving up their words at the press of a button
Although some would think of Shakespeare as Lamb dressed up like Milton.
Or Brie compared to Stilton.

Poems die in a bright non-blaze of apathy 
Lounging in cupboards and drawers; spouting off about charges and wars
When all the people want is a quick laugh
Then another
Without too much bother
"Brother, can you spare the time to read a book?"
"A what?"
And so it goes
Where it will end
Nobody knows.
The written word is fading and blurred
And will be long forgotten
When all things have occurred
That are happening now.
Learning to read?
What is the need?