Tag Archives: #rhymes


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.

From The Viewpoint of the Garden

From The Viewpoint of the Garden

Leaves and clouds and sky and stuff,

like my words and rhymes

the weather can be rough

or smooth;

and I can either move to the groove

or shelter from the storm

(or the excessively warm)

in the garden

where the pottery of poetry

is often found

by looking skywards

at the ground.

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!

Upon Cats

Upon Cats

The Cat That Didn’t Like Poetry

The cat

didn’t have a hat;

he knew that respectable cats

didn’t go with things like that.

Cat’s don’t need to be dressed like clowns;

and a cat in a hat has less ups than downs;

due to the fact that a rhyme in time

doesn’t save lives numbering nine

but, causes much vexation

at the poor cat’s situation

Never laugh at the feline friend

or he’ll get you in the end.

Rhymes Against Reason

Rhymes Against Reason

Jane was getting fed up

with rhymes before breakfast,

at meals, and during the day,

and she did say:

“I don’t suppose,

you could learn to speak prose!”

Well, it was certainly a shock,

and my confidence

it did knock

to realise that

I was a friend of the cat on the mat.

I worried, tried to think –

but I couldn’t be hurried –

what to do?

Like old Samuel Carew

(Whomever he was)

I could change

because, I wanted to.

Rearrange my vocabulary,

or be arrested by the poetry constabulary

do crimes I had committed,

and rhymes less omitted

were crimes seen to be heard

aka my poetry word

my voice

which was my speech of little choice.

Could I, would I, should I?

I doubt

there is an easy way out.

Perhaps I could speak poetry; but deliver it in the style of prose. Who knows if that will work; but, I may seem less of a dork… just more of a berk!

…eep! (2)


Chimneys weep
Castles keep
Cows go beep
If their horns work
Sheep count sleep
Oceans are deep
Road-Runner goes ‘meep!’
Chicks go cheep cheep
Chirpy chirpy cheep cheep
“Very ‘umble!” goes Heep
GIs drive Jeep
Faith goes ‘leap!’
Whisky goes neep
Whistle-blowers peep
Sowers reap
Waters seep
Widows also weep
And creepers creep.

Just climbing up the poetry hill and it is steep.