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.

The power of funny

Hobbo was a poet
scribbling ditties by the score.
Not in it for the money;
he wanted something more
important, critical
to make the readers smile,
have a chuckle to themselves,
forget their worries for a while.

But the poet also wanted
to make the public think
what they could do about a world
so clearly on the brink.

He had some small successes
with Dauphy, his black dog;
a mix of thoughts and laughter
he slowly grew his blog.
Hobbo stayed unpublished,
simply not the business type;
happy to write poetry,
he shied away from hype.

After he had snuffed it
his family found his treasure,
tons of his originals
written for pure pleasure.
His new books sold like hot-cakes,
for charity the money.
He would have been delighted
to see the power of funny.