Poem number 1
The Very Last Poem
This is the very last poem
I’ve got to the end of the road
For better or worse
There’ll be no more verse
When I’ve got to the end of this ode.
This is the very last poem
I’ve run out of meter and rhyme
The cupboard is bare
No haikus in there
Just silence, to last for all time.
This is the very last poem,
I’ll leave with a thought if I may:
There’s magic in words
So if life gives you turds
Just read, and the shit goes away.
Poem number 22
Contentment Comes To Those Who Wait
I wrote a novel
I was chuffed
It got published
I got stuffed
Now I stick
To writing rhyme
I’m past my prime
At peace at last
No itch for prose
Content to write
In tiny rows.
Poem number 71
He wrote a lot of poems but he wasn’t good with words
They’d tumble out all tangled when he tried to talk to birds
So now he’s old and lonely, writing poems of regret
Life’s an evil bugger, lest you ever should forget.
Poem number 74
The sky is awful blue today
The sun is awful bright
The clouds are awful fluffy
And this poem’s awful shite
The lines are awful short today
The rhythm’s awful poor
The scanning’s awful dodgy
It’s just awful, nothing more
Awful awful awful awful
Awful awful bad
Just well and truly awful
Now it’s done I’m awful glad.
Poem number 124
Some days it comes easy
Some days it comes hard
Poetry’s a fickle beast
It’s hard to be a bard.
It’s tricky trying to find a rhyme
Like nailing blood to rock
Some days you can’t dig out the words
To tunnel through your block
Sometimes I’m sorely tempted
Just to sketch or paint instead
It’s a pity that I’m colour blind
And only see in red.
Poem number 138
I can’t be bothered to write today
I’m tired and have no mind
So here’s a little poem
Of the pre-recorded kind:
“The poet isn’t in right now
So speak out at the beep
Or call him back tomorrow
When he’s not so half asleep,
And with luck he may just pen a verse
Or even write a rhyme
But today? No chance, el zilcho
So come back another time.”
Poem number 146
I wish I understood
What makes a poem good
Why some verses work and others just fall flat.
If I only knew the rules
I could use them as my tools
To build poetry that’s lovely, just like that.
But maybe that’s just guff
And the rules are not enough
Perhaps it’s all instinctive, inner light.
And I haven’t got that spark
So I flounder in the dark
Over roads of odes to nowhere, endless night.
Poem number 190
A Very Short Guide To Poetry
A poem must have rhythm
Or it’s just a bunch of words
Just like a sculpture made of poo
Is just a bunch of turds.
Poem number 198
A quatrain is a four lined verse
Just like this one you’re reading
Enjoyed by ladies as they nurse
And farmers whilst they’re seeding.
Poem number 199
Your beauty is iambic, dear Sonnet
Syllabic pairs with ev’ry second stressed.
For love, no other form could upon it
Bear such a weight of meaning so expressed.
And those romantics of poetic bent
With heads bowed and swanfeather quill afire
Choose none other to smoulder their intent
Through four quatrains of such heartfelt desire.
And when, at last, their allotted twelve lines
Of alternating rhyme have been inscribed
The lover has one more sweet gift that shines
With love. A final couplet then imbibed.
Fourteen lines that show us your beauty, aye
Dear Sonnet, lens to every poet’s eye.