An Anthology of Personal Poetry


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I hear sunsets go well with poetry so I took this photograph from my collection. Just so we could test that theory.

Since I hear no clamor from publishers wanting to publish anything written by me, I have decided to publish my “poetry” here. I suspect it will make them look quite silly. That is, if this blog is on their reading list.

Most of these lines appeared as throwaways on assorted Facebook groups. When you read them you will know why they were thrown away. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

“Oh Alright,” you say, “Let me read them, stop talking!”

“What? Me talk? Heavens! I’m the quietest, shyest person you ever did meet. I don’t like to talk too much. I prefer to let you get on with it. Action, you know! That’s the ticket. Stop the nattering and get going. Yes sir, ( or madam ), you won’t find Ajesh B going on and on longer than necessary to get the point across. Brevity! Simplicity! Brevity! I said that twice didn’t I? Hmm. It goes to show the value of brevity. And I only want to say one last thing… uh… what? Stop? Stop what? Oh talking. You wish to read? Ok. Go on then. Do let me know how it goes, won’t you?”

Lamentary

The post was not a pome
It was a lament, no more.
Poetry is not my home.
I shall write it no more.

There was a time when
Words I wrote were in rhyme
Curs’t it was, my pen
But I’m cured just in time.

How lovely is my prose
How amusing and funny!
This ditty I must close
For I hear the call “Bunny!”

Blues #1

The old man who played the blues
on his guitar while everyone did snooze
was beaten for his pain
and for raising cain
“it’s not the playing but the singng, you goose!”

Orange Juice Blues 

The old man who played the blues
One morning while he drank his juice
remarked to no one
I wonder if anyone
Drank coffee as if it was booze

Ghostly Roast

A lady who hunted ghosts
Travelled to both of the coasts
Of ghosts she found none
She had tea with a bun
with some potatoes, pickles and roasts

Ode to Cats

Violets are blue,
my nose is red,
what cats do,
is fill me with dread.

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Practically Witty


Almost summer morning
Almost summer evening

I wrote this poem for no reason
For it’s really just the season.
This poem is quite small
and it’s very stupid and all.
Tubetops, when they put these on
you also get those bare knees on.

You know this is really quite silly
For I’m writing stuff willy nilly.
You may exclaim “Oh Lord!”
“He really is so odd!”
It’s not because of the terrain hilly
Or a preponderance of rose and lily.

In fact there is no Grace
Rose, Lily, or April in lace
So you can perish the thought
that my silliness is ill begot.
No, It’s the life and it’s pace
that makes me go red in the face.

It’s a wonder this poem got wrote.
For the 7:20am train has my vote
Now you’re here, come, say your piece
For comments here attract no fees.
Do it while sitting in your boat
or sipping wine with table d’hote.

You may think it is a real pity
believe this is practically witty
but don’t you from commenting shirk
on this blog, for you know it is a perk.
The poem such as it is is a little nitty,
a tad gritty, maybe witty, but mostly shitty.

You and I


You’ve said a lot.
So have I.
You’ve done a lot.
Have I?

I’ve thought a lot.
So have you.
I’ve tried a lot.
Have you?

You’ve hurt a lot.
So Have I.
You’ve worked a lot.
Have I?

I’ve cried a lot.
So have you.
I’ve smiled a lot.
Have you?

Just me


1-20151109_092136.jpg

Left home and my heart behind
with our future on my mind.
Just me?  Only me?
Seems it’s me, not we.

Looks like it’s going to rain.
Lord, I don’t want that again.
It’s only me here.
Could do with you here.

But then, again, is that  true?
Will you paint my rainbow blue?
I think it’s just me.
I know it’s just me.

Who writes this bilge?


Domenico Ghirlandaio - Zacharias Writes Down t...
Domenico Ghirlandaio – Zacharias Writes Down the Name of his Son – WGA8861 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I cannot lie – it is I.
I don’t mean to boast or preen
but it is true I shopped for shoes
and wrote about my woes.
The blog it is dry, the humour forced.
The Pomes are silly and the stories long
A rant or two – There’s even a song
And I love it. For mine it is and mine alone
I gave it all it has and will atone
for what I gave it in a later life
For now be sure it will not die.
So come on and read the posts I write.
You surely will be pleased (or not).
If you are say so and if not, then too.

I found this little gem among my old Facebook status posts…. an original pome, a piece of profound portry! A rare gem, don’t you think?

Ode to The Nose


A kitten licking its nose.
I put this in there to entice the unsuspecting cat lovers…..    A kitten licking its nose. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

He’s a good friend to me, he is.
Wherever I go he goes before me.
In a public urinal when I go to piss
He alerts me to dally not, but pee
quickly and get the hell out. Continue reading “Ode to The Nose”

The Path


1-IMG_0115The path to the future never did run straight
I have to walk along it, the silent victim of fate.
The sun plays hide and seek between the trees
Zephyrs lay their gentle touch, the buzzing bees
are busy with the business of their flowery Continue reading “The Path”

Portrait of the writer


It’s Thursday! You lucky people get to read a very old pome! Enjoy!

SloWord

The art of the writer
is a precious thing.
He writes for himself,
but others are served.

The heart of the blighter
wants the woman to cling.
He wants for himself
the other thinks “perve!”.

The part of the writer
is a constant thing.
It creates itself
barbers conserve.

The fart of the writer
has a wonderous sting.
He relieves himself
the room is unnerved.

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Yosemite tangle


English: Sunset on Half Dome seen from near th...
English: Sunset on Half Dome seen from near the Yosemite Lodge in Yosemite Valley, California (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I’m tangled up in Yosemite and
the need to write a blog.
The pictures need fixing
but the software’s just a dog.
Oh, what a tangled web we weave when Continue reading “Yosemite tangle”

Impending Autumn


dsc02818.jpgNow is the season for death. A death that will bring life once again, but for that life we must die now. This is the season for love. A love that will take you further apart, but for that love, this love must die.

The present is doomed. The past misunderstood. The future? The future is known. The future is death. The thing we call love is filled with the thing we call hate. The one and the other are equal to the eye. Continue reading “Impending Autumn”