Pen*s
is just an anagram
of sp*ne
and p*nes,
sn*pe and sep*n –
and if sep*n
isn’t a word
then it d*rn well ought to be.
They are just w*rds,
l*tters on a p*ge,
so what are you all that worr*ed about?
By the Book (sic)
Bardly Writ
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Tag Archives: words
A Pup in a Mug
A pup in a mug
or a hug in a cup?
What’s up?
Who’s down?
Smile or frown?
Tragedian or clown?
Country or town?
War or peace?
Let war cease!
Tension release
and…
calm.
Three Silent Cyclists
Three cycling cyclists,
six spinning wheels,
no one spoke.
“I’m in the garden playing with words!”
I’m in the garden
playing with words;
long fat juicy ones,
short thin skinny ones,
adding on a prefix,
abbreviating puns;
as I pop them in my mouth,
I wonder if they hurt,
pulling out the big guns
polysyllabic dirt.
Wigan Pier and other works
I’m piering at Wigan from a distance;
unlike Southend it’s got me bemused,
I think I’m on the road to nowhere;
because I’m so easily confused.
Up and in,
down and out,
in unhappy Londres
and gay Paree ,
I am beholden
only to me.
A visit to Binary Room 5,
where my elder sibling looms over me,
like a jackboot above a face.
Now, throwing snowballs at Napoleon,
the animals went in two by four,
some moreso than others.
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?
A Poem from when writing a poem is not what my brain wants to do.
It’s hard, sometimes,
to craft the rhymes,
that make the words sing;
and, often, if I do write,
what I write is poor,
and lame, and not the same,
as what I write when I’m in the zone.
But, still, I will put my words together,
untether the process of creation,
and, perhaps, by writing,
I might start inviting inspiration.
Or, I can always wait,
for the seminal state
to return.
I may earn nothing
from what I do,
but worth is in the eye
of the beholder:
that is something you learn,
as you grow older.
There is always worth in words.
Words
The word ‘Poetry’
has three syllables;
the word ‘Syllables’
also, has three syllables.
What any of that means
is open to debate;
but, not here, not now,
as I am the one syllable,
‘late’.
Dec 2nd – Starting and Finishing Words
When, is the word
with which I started this poem;
there are many others that I use
in its construction,
some short, some considerably longer,
but, the word that I have chosen
to end this poem
is unknown.
Tuesday is the new Monday, (or should that be Wednesday?)
Tuesday is here,
until it’s gone
(see Lynyrd Skynyrd’s ‘Tuesday’s Gone’ for more on that last part),
and it followed closely on the heels of Monday
(see Shakespeare’s ‘Hamlet’ for more on that),
precursoring Wednesday
(precursoring is a made-up word)
and claiming to be ‘Hump Day’
(see a camel for details about ‘humps’).
So, should we worry about what the day is called,
or where it lays in the ‘seven’?
(or ‘eight’ – see The Beatles about ‘eight’).
Well, I may have a lot of questions;
but, answers?
What do you think?
Posted in Poetry
Tagged #Humpday, #Monday, #poetry. #poem, #silly, #Tuesday, #Wednesday, @Days, words
Graeme Sandford 