The bestest poem ever

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The bestest poem ever

The bestest poem ever
is certainly not this, 
but before you move on
and you give it a miss,
think what it would mean
to be terribly clever
and able to dash off
the bestest poem ever.

One that would make
princes and pharaohs,
prime ministers, presidents,
kings and mikados,
queens and princesses,
emperors, khans,
maharajahs and shahs,
viceroys and sultans,

and ordinary people,
sit up for a bit,
pause, to try solving
this whole crock of shit.
Climate change, covid,
inequality, racism,
middle east, poverty,
bigotry, sexism.

If the stroke of a pen
could sort out this pickle
and by way of a bonus
perhaps, make us giggle.
If you could do that,
then, believe me that's clever.
I would take off my hat
to the bestest poem ever.

Doing a Hobbo!

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Doing a Hobbo!

Doing a Hobbo,
what does it mean?
The expression implies
that your brain is not keen
enough to come up with
a quick, witty remark,
needs time to reflect
before making its mark.

Requires contemplation,
reflection, some thought,
then with a deft flick,
the ball's in your court.
A short, pithy poem,
initially funny,
it quickly transpires
is bang on the money.
That's doing a Hobbo,
it is happy, not triste,
then, just as you're chuckling,
you are caught by the twist.

The adventure rolls on

It was little over a year ago. Dauphy and I were bored during lockdown, so we reached a joint decision to resurrect my childhood love of writing poetry, and start our own blog, Hobbo’s Poems. Now, I am less technically minded than Dauphy, but eventually we cobbled a site together and began posting poetry. To my initial amazement, our number of followers steadily increased, and still does, although we now realize that there is a huge difference between followers and readers.

Since the beginning, we have posted an average of three original poems a day and now have quite a large and growing collection. Because of our limited I.T abilities, the site is not very dynamic, and little changes, other than our daily posts. Despite this, we now have a small number of readers who comment regularly and seem to get genuine pleasure from reading our stuff. You know who you are, and thank you, from both of us.

Encouraged by these readers, we wanted to have a go at getting published. We have such an aversion to all things technical that self publishing was not a viable option. After careful research, we have now found an independent publisher prepared to take us on for what we consider is a fair contributory fee. Now I know that there are some who will say this is just vanity, and maybe it is, but surely it is worth taking the risk. The advantage from our point of view, is that they are a multi-national company with expertise, and they will handle the typesetting, the printing, the cover, the publishing and the marketing. All me and my pal have to do is carry on writing poems.

If the project is a success, which at this stage we would define as breaking even, then we have a series of several books planned. The first one, due out next year, has the working title Hobbo on Life. Thank you for your support and we will keep you posted.


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I can't quite conquer alliteration,
And rhyming activity leads to frustration.
To blame the virus, would be an allusion,
Whilst syllable counts lead to confusion.

And I ain't got the hang
Of enjambment, dang.
I will have to resort to blank verse,
Though I can't think of anything poorer.

The Wordsmith

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The Wordsmith

Twenty six letters
Are all that it takes
For the thousands and thousands
Of words that she makes.

She picks one or two
A dozen or so,
The nub of a poem
And she's raring to go.

That's not quite right,
Finds a good synonym,
This is not what I meant,
Opposite, antonym.

Not to forget
The syllable count,
Add one in there,
Take this one out.

Get all that right
And the rhythm is wrong,
Sort it out and it's
Finished, mais non.

Before any of these
So called, latter stages,
She first needs a subject
To grace those blank pages.


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It is an addiction
That's cost me all this
And that's not an excuse,
it's the way that it is.

I've lost a great house,
The big, fancy car,
You and the kids,
My ma and my Pa.

I've no self respect,
My job's down the drain,
The dogs and the cat,
Our villa in Spain.

Even my friends
Have waved me goodbye,
I'm so lonesome now,
I sit here and cry.

It wasn't the drugs
Or even the booze,
Brought me rock bottom
With nothing to lose.

Nor was it gambling
That lead to divorces,
I don't bet on the footy,
Gaming or horses.

As I hunker me down
In this sleeping bag city,
I curse that sad day
When I wrote my first ditty!


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A poem is not a poem
without any tears,
we play it for laughter
or highlight our fears.

When we pen a song
we'll ride the white swan,
telling life as it is,
not sweeten the wrong.

The artist, the poet,
songwriters too,
listen that message,
we are talking to you.

Without that emotion,
the humour, the rage,
there is no connection,
it's words on a page.

Just a thought

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Just a thought

Pacing the floor
whilst searching for more
inspiration, a thought
pops up and is caught
in Hobbo's nonsensical head,
his life spent composing,
but now decomposing,
perhaps he is already dead!

The poems I write

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The poems I write

A poem I write
May make you laugh,
It could be trite,
Or daft, or naff.

The poems I write
Are sometimes true,
These poems can bite,
May get to you.

The poems I write
Could make you cry,
Squeal with delight,
Or wonder why.

The poems I write
Are not highbrow,
I keep them light,
Well anyhow..

The poems I write
Are not too clever,
They may excite,
But, I would never

With poem I write
Claim things untrue,
Be too forthright,
For I need you.

A poem I write
Needs to be read,
Your fire ignite,
Or words are dead.

The poems I write
I share with you,
And at their height,
They may just do!

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.
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