Some Things are Beyond Rhyming

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Some Things are Beyond Rhyming

If I read one more bloody poem which
Rhymes move with love,
Or prove with love,
Or cove with love,
Or some such non-concording glitch –
I swear I’ll tear it from the page,
My critique serving to assuage
My poet’s rage.
Each lazy half- and quarter-rhyme,
With stubbly chin and flaccid lust,
Just can’t be arsed, it’s marking time;
It’s only there because it must –
On speaking terms, but only just.
And then they have the rough-faced gall
To drag in love among their ranks,
To mangle with their petty pranks
And gen’ral lack of wherewithal –
For love, as ev’ry poet knows,
Has few bedfellows of a pair;
It won’t be shunted into rows
Or sold-off cheap in shabby fare.
Don’t leave your love where rhymes rehearse,
But let it flow throughout your verse –
For love is never trite or neat,
And rare those words that sound as sweet.



Part-Time Poet

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Part-Time Poet

I’m only a poet on Tuesdays –
For most the week, it’s ignored.
When all of the rest
Of my life is distressed,
That’s all I can really afford.

I’m only a poet on Tuesdays,
I’m only an artist in brief.
By Wednesday, it’s gone
As the week presses on,
And my words are all buried beneath.





The Shape of the Pear


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The Shape of the Pear

Oh, why did you have to choose that one ?
Of all I submitted, my only enthral.
But that one is nothing, ’tis makeweight and fluff
A ditty so petty, so bluffing and rough
I sent my perfected, my searing-most stuff
And all were rejected, excepting this one
Which you rank above all,
Which you published and all,
Which you say betters all, ev’ry poem I’ve done.

Oh, why did you have to choose that one ?
Of all I submitted, they only appal,
Bar this merest jotting of thoughts best forgotten
With metaphors fraught and with sentiments rotten.
Yet all were rejected, excepting this guff
Which you rank above all,
Which you published and all,
Which you say betters all; this one poem’s enough.

Oh, why did you have to choose that one ?
Of all I submitted, you favoured the small.
No really, no really, if only you’d hear me,
I hate that one dearly, if only you knew.
I’ve others a-plenty, oh let me send twenty,
For that one torments me, it’s not what I do.
Yet still they’re rejected as less than this trite,
Which you rank above all,
Which you published and all,
Which you say betters all, ev’ry poem I’ll write

Oh, why did you have to choose that one ?
Oh, why did I ever submit it at all ?



Sex & Death



Sex & Death

“Sex and death are the only things that can interest a serious mind.”
– W B Yeats

Expunge from mind your blue-remembered hills,
Put out your tyger tyger burning bright,
Dig up your host of golden daffodils,
And walk no more in beauty like the night.
Don’t take the golden road to Samarkand,
Or raise a lamp beside a golden door,
Don’t meet with trav’lers from an antique land,
Or laughing fellow-rovers anymore !
Ignore the stately pleasure-dome,
Forget the lays of ancient Rome,
Don’t hear the steeple peeling its half-chime.
No Raven or ascending Lark,
No Jumblies or the hunted Snark,
In rose-red cities half as old as time.
Don’t fill the unforgiving minute
With a nightingale or linnet,
Hiawatha or Macavity.
And wish not cloths of Heaven,
Nor for Player Queens or Seven-Woods,
And do not rise and go to Innisfree.



Dusty Jackets

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Dusty Jackets

If we can’t judge a book by its cover,
Then doesn’t that just tell us that their marketing is junk ?
Amateur and changing with their ev’ry new edition –
How can they hope to build a brand when faced with corp’rate bunk ?
So why are all these authors acquiescing to the bland,
And hiding all their bindings ?, shied away behind such flimsy card
That creases up and tatters through the simple act of reading.
You wouldn’t catch a band conceding for such vagaries unkind,
That leave their babies ripped and scarred
Cos publishers won’t go the extra yard.
After all, who thinks that Sgt Pepper should be redesigned ?
Or Dark Side of the Moon, perhaps, or Bad, or Nevermind ?



News Snooze Cues Muse Schmooz

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News Snooze Cues Muse Schmooz

I met her in the silly season:
Ace reporter Lisa Leeson –
Met her in the Summer, as it moved from high to late.
She said she newly had the time
For chilling with a gin and lime,
And meeting with a stranger for a secret steamy date.
Until the real news arrived,
She churned-out waffle, faffed and skived,
To dodge the z-list luvvie-spotting at the village fete.
And so we spent the Summertime
Away from wars and wonks and crime,
And nothing went on happening in law and trade and state.

Not a love-nest, romp or threesome,
Just myself and Lisa Leeson,
While the ever-greedy presses must procrastinate –
And so we joined our choice of queues,
With not a thought to check reviews,
For visits to the restaurants, the movies and the Tate.
But Summer changed to Autumn brown,
And cooler breezes teased the town,
And she could hear the calling of the headlines and the hate.
So Lisa Leeson bid farewell,
And broke our silly Summer’s spell
By quitting idle drifting for a world that would not wait.

Wherefore by their Fruits ye Shall Know Them

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Wherefore by their Fruits ye Shall Know Them

And thus the Lord saith until Satan
“Testest thou my great creation,
Tempt and trick and lead astray:
The Righteous shall refuse to play,
And know thy works and block thy game,
And firm upon the path remain”

The Devil thought and mused awhile,
Then broke into demonic smile,
And so with cunning, wrote a tome
Forged deep within his hellish home
With hints and winks and clues abound
To show itself corrupt, unsound.

For here was found a petty god
Who knew no mercy, spared no rod,
But set such rules upon His flock
Which He Himself would break and mock,
And kill His own as took His fancy;
Proud and jealous tyrant, He.

Alas, Old Nick does now succeed
Too well, as heretics still bleed,
And signs are begged from out the skies,
As morals spring derived from lies;
The Faithful, though, shall call absurd
This book, and not believe a word.