Posted on 24th Jun 2021
A first poem
poem, it was
long composition, an
about two star
it hundreds of
could not get
scan, it had
no rhythm and the
all wrong but
the story was still
one. 'Hmm,' I
Posted on 23rd Jun 2021
The cycling poet
William, a poet, was cycling
When his chain broke, and forced him to stop
So he popped ovver 'road into Wainwright's
Who ran a small bicycle shop.
Embarrassed because he'd no money,
He said,"Alf, can you fix me chain right,
And I promise to pay you back later,
Which I'm hoping you'll say is alright
He'd fix it for nowt he said kindly,
If he were the last man on earth,
"Because you, William, are a poet,
And we're all aware what your word's worth.
Posted on 3rd Jun 2021
This is not a quadrille They sneaked into my bedroom under cover of darkness, slipped on the handcuffs and placed me under arrest. I protested my innocence, but the poetry police wouldn't listen. A quadrille is a dance originating in France I insisted and refused to say another
Posted on 21st Apr 2021
A Poetic Wrinkle I like poetry to rhyme, With a touch of symbolism I have learnt over time To avoid words like journalism.
Posted on 10th Apr 2021
Considered silly, not serious,
Impish, but never imperious.
My verse is light, not stodgy, heavy,
Less red wine and more beer bevvy.
No clever rhymes to take your breath,
My verse won't scare you half to death.
When I paint pictures, it's by halves,
I'm only here to make you laugh.
So, if you chuckle at my poem,
Tha'll do for me and I've hit home.
Posted on 19th Mar 2021
The Canine Poet I tried to draft a careful poem Of length, with strength, a testing tome. The final draft though, monochrome It should have stayed in house, at home. So, I turned to trite, a ditty Should have learned, as far from pretty. Try to force iambic meter Like compulsive over-eater. Talent turns to trad. a sonnet, Boy, that's just as bad, it's chronic. This queer compulsion to get rhyme To scan, oh man, it's such a crime. I'll try some prose, see how that goes, A budding Rowling, no one knows. That's it, my friend, I'll write a book With twisted end to get you hooked. Pen a song, with awesome lyrics Dance floor flooded atmospherics. Writing now, on upward spiral, Fame and fortune, even viral. Name in lights, and big star billing. Upbeat dog treats, snoozing, chilling. Win awards, a prize, a trophy, Accolades and "Well done Dauphy."
Posted on 13th Mar 2021
The Poet's Pen
Six slim inches of ink, with proclivity
To harness her sharp creativity.
The potential for much positivity
And the power to beat negativity.
Oft times, a frustrating activity
Requiring at times perspectivity.
Striving to get objectivity,
Shunning the crass subjectivity.
She strives to achieve productivity,
Artistic, with some sensitivity,
But lacking required motivity
Writes, but once a year, a nativity.
Posted on 31st Jan 2021
Hobbo: The French are a romantic bunch aren’t they Dauphy?
Dauphy: We are, why?
Hobbo: I thought that I’d move away from funny poems and try my hand at something a bit more romantic.
Dauphy: Mon Dieu!
Hobbo: So, I’ve written a love poem.
Dauphy: This has trouble written all over it! Let’s have a look then…
A Yorksher love poem Tha'll get me pension, when I die and 'tools inside me shed. You are the gravy in me pie the girl I chose to wed. Tha's like the salt, I put on 'chips The froth that warms me beer a lass that wobbles when she strips to who there's no compeer. And tha's the lass what 'ad me kids and set me 'eart a thuddin'. As solid as two dustbin lids the air in 'Yorksher puddin'. Tha's the mush in mushy peas The fluff in fluffy slippers What taught me 'bout the birds 'n'bees The girl that cooks me kippers. Tha's the match what lit me fire The stubble on me chin Who dances like a tumble drier The nine in feminine. So, me love, rough as you are 'tis death will force our partin' Tha's more use norra flashy car Despite tha' flippin' fartin'. Yorksher: Yorkshire tha'll: you will me: my tha's: you are compeer: compare 'eart: heart Yorkshire pudding: A savoury'pudding' eaten with roast dinners norra: than a
Dauphy: The mush in mushy peas!
Hobbo: I know, it’s good isn’t it?
Dauphy: Has Mrs Hobbo seen this?
Hobbo: No. Not yet.
Dauphy: Well, don’t show her it, or you’re dead!
Hobbo: Why? I thought she’d like it.
Dauphy: Where do I start?…
Posted on 26th Jan 2021
A poetical movement Six sonnets sail the seas A rondeau rows the ocean The limerick rarely sees Such poetry in motion.
Posted on 23rd Jan 2021
Classic Car The motor belonged to his niece But she let him have it, on lease On lifting the bonnet A fourteen line sonnet The source of the rhyme, ancient grease.