Serious stuff

Photo by Startup Stock Photos on
Serious stuff

I'm going to write stuff serious, 
I've got it in my locker,
Statesmanlike, imperious,
Articulate, a shocker.

To do so might become a bore,
I've heard a little rumour
That people ought to laugh much more
- I think I'll stick to humour.

Writing poems

Photo by Kaboompics .com on
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.

Write me a rhyme

Photo by Startup Stock Photos on
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!


Photo by Sam Lion on

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

The power of funny

Photo by Amir Ghoorchiani on
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Hobbo stayed unpublished,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.


Photo by Pixabay on


Borrowed a new book today
from the library down our way;
following closure for deep-clean,
the library, not the book I mean.

Anyhow, it’s open now
so, off I toddled to say ciao
to girl who works the children’s floor,
who’s French, but I can’t say bonjour.

Anyhow, a book she lent
me, full of poetry and meant
to sharpen up my mental powers,
relax me in my darkest hours.

Anyhow, the book did not;
abounding with pretentious rot,
no sense of rhythm, rhyme or meter,
bucketsful of pap, excreta.

Almost giving up, I find
a handful though that blow my mind,
imagery, so powerful
worth plaudits by the barrowful.

Others too that made me laugh;
one about a dwarf giraffe
falling for a stripey cow,
that’s my favourite, anyhow.


Photo by Pixabay on

Seeking an answer, definitive,
She boldly split her infinitive;
Do you really love me,
Shrieked out hysterically,
Was hardly the question most sensitive.

Poem with no name

Photo by Kaboompics .com on
Poem with no name

It happens sometimes,
we run out of rhymes,
where normally there are plenty
our fun-bank is empty.
We search a new muse
to inspire, to amuse.
We chatter and talk
or take a long walk
among the tall trees
and the whispering breeze,
to start juices flowing
without really knowing
if that awful blank page
will be there for an age
or suddenly sink
under fast-flowing ink
rekindling the flame
for the poem with no name.

Today though, I'm dry
not a thought, just a sigh,
as I sit here alone,
bereft, with no poem,
swimming in sorrow
but, there's always tomorrow.


Photo by on

Thank you to all
who have given there aid
in the righting of
this little poem.
Without whom this ditty
would knot have been maid,
any errors, of cause,
are my own.

To punctuate, or not to punctuate

Photo by Olya Kobruseva on
To punctuate, or not to punctuate?

It's a difficult evaluation;
the significance of punctuation.
If I put a full stop.  here. would you stop?
or, should you clamour
for a comma?
Would an exclamation mark with swollen!
give a man a semi-colon;
or would you
rather not be bothered
prefer it if
I blathered on
and on and on
and on
with no sense
of whats right
or whats
%d bloggers like this: