A first poem

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A first poem

wrote a
poem, it was
a very
long composition, an
epic in
about two star
crossed lovers.
I edited
it hundreds of
times, but
could not get
it to
rhyme or
scan, it had
no rhythm and the
meter was
all wrong but
the story was still
a terrific
one. 'Hmm,' I
'That's novel.'

The cycling poet

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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.

This is not a quadrille

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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

A Poetic Wrinkle

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A Poetic Wrinkle

I like poetry to rhyme,
With a touch of symbolism
I have learnt over time
To avoid words like journalism.

Light Verse

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Light Verse

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.

The Canine Poet

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."

The Poet’s Pen

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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.

A Yorksher love poem

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?…

A poetical movement

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A poetical movement

Six sonnets sail the seas
A rondeau rows the ocean
The limerick rarely sees
Such poetry in motion.

Classic Car

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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.
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