Drowning in poetry

Dauphy: You’ve quite a collection

Hobbo: Knocking on for two thousand now.

Dauphy: They’re cluttering up the dining room; you’re going to have to do something.

Hobbo: I’ve had an idea.

Dauphy: Blimey!

Hobbo: Later this year, Austin Macauley will be publishing the first collection, ‘Hobbo on Life.’

Dauphy: But that is just a drop in the ocean, and anyway it’s self-publishing really; you had to make a contribution.

Hobbo: This is where my idea comes in.

Dauphy: Go on….

Hobbo: I could learn to self-publish on Kindle and then organise the stuff into collections and put it out there. For free.

Dauphy: And you know what you’re like with technology. It won’t happen.

Hobbo: Have you got a better idea?

Dauphy: I have, as it happens. Ask your WP friends.

Hobbo: (After pausing for thought) Dauphy, you’re a genius.

Dauphy: I know…

Writing poems

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Writing poems

I'm obsessed with timing
and rhyming and rhythm.
The whole world screams poetry
and poems, it's a given.
I will write you a poem
about nothing at all,
ubiquitous verse,
no job is too small.
I will wax, blue and true
on the heartaches of love,
the beauty of nature,
the heavens above.

I will tell you tall stories
or small ones, to laugh,
writing daft ditties
of my better half.
You may hear me spelling
the horrors of war,
the next breath, I'm telling
that time I got sore
on my old derriere,
quite private for most;
I don't really care,
my life is burnt toast.

Fantastical creatures
to serious thought,
anything features
if it can be caught
by my pen, in a moment
and written for show;
though what that last line meant,
I don't really know.
So, I'll search out for clues,
like old Sherlock Holmes
and sometimes, to amuse,
I'll write poems about poems.

A small tribute

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A small tribute

Though I show a little flair
When writing the odd ditty,
Humour, my  raison d'être
So results aren't always pretty.

Three poets who stand out,
Beat me on any terms,
All happen to be women,
K.Hartley, Misky, Worms.

Each poem penned carefully,
A tribute to their cunning;
What helps them raise the bar
Is imagery quite stunning.

Metaphor with vision
Is how they seem to plan it;
It makes me catch my breath,
Not always understand it.

There are several others
I could have chosen from,
Who thrill me with their writing,
A list would be too long.

I can not name them all,
Not individually,
I also love their poetry
But wanted to pick three.

So if you want to visit
And say a quick, hello,
With satisfaction guaranteed,
Click on these links below.

K. Hartless      https://wordpress.com/read/feeds/11150269 5
Misky      https://wordpress.com/read/feeds/125601948
Worms      https://wordpress.com/read/feeds/98292719

The poet’s partner

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The poet's partner

Talking metaphor and rhyme,
You do it all the blooming time.
Instead of saying, pass the salt,
You wax about a crystal vault.

You use wide-words where I use narrow,
For me, a cart; for you, wheelbarrow.
I'm sick of your verbal excreta,
Always searching perfect meter.

Showing off what you can do,
Bits of foreign language, you
Use poetry to saccharify,
And what the hell's decree nisi?

A limeriku

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A Limeriku

A woman from deepest Peru
Thought that this was a clever haiku
But counting the lines
She saw that it rhymes
And realised it just wouldn't do.


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A poem can make you smile.
A poem could make you cry;
Take but a little while
To leave you wondering, why?

Rhymes can lift the spirit
They help our souls to sing;
Words can have great merit,
A lifetime lesson bring.

Articulated rhyme
Or poetry, free verse
Can soothe a child's bedtime,
Her infant fears disperse.

A poem can teach us love,
A good companion be
Or make you want to shove
Yourself into the sea.

Poems can last a lifetime
Or chuckle and forget,
Rhymes can be a lifeline
Or transient roulette.

Whether you like haiku,
Longer verse, a sonnet
Or limericks as I do,
Rest assured, we're on it.

Poems are not an option
Like taking on a wife;
It's a job description,
A poem, my friend, is life.

Write me a rhyme

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Write me a rhyme

Write me a rhyme,
Rattle one off;
Do it in time
To finish my scoff.

A poem about what?
Give me a clue.
What means a lot,
Is important to you?

Any old thing
You are the poet,
Something to sing
Easy to know it.

Listen, old mate
This is a farce;
You're an ingrate
and I cannot be arsed!

My job

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My job

My poems don't rhyme,
Not all the time,
My thoughts can be back-biting
But if, sweet pea
You'll laugh with me
Then it's been worth the writing.


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Miming takes timing
to be a sensation
but rhyming needs priming,
a muse, stimulation.


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A politician, let him stay nameless,
Lived a life that was totally blameless.
Of course, this depiction
Is nothing but fiction;
We poets are utterly shameless.
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