Same Old New Year
Despite the chimes and fireworks,
Despite the cheers and resolutions,
New Years start off slow –
As continuity, not revolution.
The banks begin on holiday,
The schools are easing into term –
There aren’t too many early birds,
But then, there aren’t that many worms.
The world is in need of a lie-in,
Before the problems start to press.
Even I am barely trying,
Slurring rhymes with extra esses.
Soap Bubbles
There’s a poem that I meant to write,
Back when I wrote them ev’ry day,
Back when I still had things to say –
I should have said it then.
And now, I don’t remember quite,
Except it would have been a hit –
Before it faded, bit by bit,
And stayed within my pen.
But humour me and let me quote to you
Some lines I almost wrote –
Some lines I never got to know,
Yet knew were quite the best I’d ever show.
Ah well, no point lamenting,
Or resenting one that floated off instead –
Although, I sometimes wonder
At the hundred things that moment might have said.
There’s a poem that I meant to write,
Back when the poems wrote themselves,
As passionate as magic spells –
I should have cast it then.
And now, the page is far too white,
And now my metre’s far too slow.
I had my chance, and let it go –
It won’t come round agen.
But sit with me and let me read
A few more lines I never freed,
Some lines I never knew I knew –
Adieu – into the ether with god-speed.
Ah well, no point regretting,
Or forgetting all the other ones that stay –
I wrote too many verses
To waste curses on the one that got away.
Roses are…um…
My love is like my writer’s block
It sneaks up from behind,
It twists me like a weathersock,
It leaves me deaf and blind,
My confidences sharply fade,
My workings have resigned,
As all at once, my serenades
Have quite escaped my mind.
Dry January
I overindulged last month:
Had far too many ideas.
Now I’m a bloated, empty husk
Who’s run right out of tears.
My motor’s barely revving now,
From weeks of crunching gears.
My spark is fused, my wit is blown,
I haven’t a thought to call my own.
The Poets’ Almagnac
One more tot and then I’ll start –
My pen’s uncapped and primed,
Indeed it’s been that way all afternoon.
I know my almanac by heart,
With beats precisely timed
And metric feet to dance to ev’ry tune.
It lays it out by grid and chart
Of syllables that chime,
By trochees by the phases of the Moon.
But writing’s such a thirsty art,
Especially when it’s rhymed –
But one more tot and I’ll be starting soon.
Tick-Tock, Writer’s Block
The ants are marching ten-by-ten,
Running through my brain,
Where nine little Indians
Are dancing for the rain,
With eight green bottles
That they’re trying hard to fill,
And seven for a secret
When Jack falls down the hill.
Six geese are laying,
Though they’ve nothing yet to show,
With no knick-knack or paddy-wack
Where five men went to mow.
This little piggy stayed at home,
When the hickory-clock struck four
But three in the bed, in my empty head,
Find counting such a bore.
So two chirping crickets
Are all that’s left behind,
As one lonely tumbleweed
Is blowing through my mind.
The Old Poet to The Young
Have I told you all about my block ?
Many times, you say ?
Well, this time I’ll tell it better,
By telling the telling-of – very meta !
Oh, it’s easy for you to mock
My rhymes gone quite astray –
But lack of words befalls us all,
The silence always comes to call.
And it’ll be you who’s short on stock –
You’ll see, one bad day !
Of course, I once was just as bold
And laughed at all the wordless old.
So spare a thought for those you knock –
That’s me ! I’ve lost my way.
So let me tell you of my drought –
It’s all I’ve got to talk about.
Robinless Rounds
Pass another mince pie, then,
And oh, another tot ? Why not !
Now don’t hold back, I’ll tell you ‘when’,
Is this the only one we’ve got ?
I’ve plenty others, I could swear,
At least a dozen…Gone, you say ?
Ah well, I’m sure I had my share
When you came round the other day…
But no, of late I haven’t written much,
Who wants that slog ?
I’m not concerned I’ve lost my touch –
They’ll flow again, just like this grog…
I say, this is a cosy time,
A cosy time, I always say,
Who cares about the bloody rhyme ?
I’ll write some verse another day.
Def’nitely, though, come next year,
Give or take a month or two,
But well before the Spring is here
I’ll knuckle down to something new:
Sonnets, ballads, villanelles
I’ll drink to that ! Hang on, I’m dry –
Here, fill me up, a double Bells,
And ooh, is that a mincemeat pie…?
Oh, this again…
So,
Once again
Do I find I have nothing,
Not one-thing worth saying,
Just faffing and milling.
And so,
Once again
I must stretch out my nothing,
My say-nothing saying,
In space that needs filling…
I’ve been here before,
And I’ll be here again,
And again,
And again,
And again evermore.
And each time is longer,
And each time is worse –
So churn out a poem on lacking the verse.
The song is the same,
And, well,
So is the tune –
And my thoughts are a hiss
And my spirit is flat.
Hey ho,
Looks like it’s a long afternoon
Like the time before this,
And the time before that.
I’ve said all I said,
And I’ve said it before,
And my muse is still dead
And my think-nothing head is a victim of war.
Ho hum,
It happens,
We blow through our haul,
Then find we’ve got nothing
Where once we were tall.
Ah well,
It happens,
Our thoughts hit a wall:
From red meat to salad,
From flying to fall.
So,
What can I say,
Okay,
What can I say
When you come round to call ?
Shall I read you the ballad of sweet Fanny Adams,
Or sing you the song of sod all ?
Unamused
I used to walk with Grecians ev’ry day:
Callíope would whisper in my eager ear
Of battles fought for kingdoms won for heroes slain,
While Clío often passed my way
With tales of nations ancient, far and near,
And Thália could make me laugh a hurricane.
Melpómene just loved a fallen king,
While Érato was swooning over some romance,
As pious Pólyhýmnia was lilting psalms.
Eutérpe, now: that girl just loved to sing !,
Which always caused Terpsíchore to up-and-dance
While even swot Uránia had starry charms.
I used to dream with Grecians ev’ry night.
And thanks to them, I wrote as fast as ink would run
My songs and tales and poems, all my brain could hold.
And all of it was doggerel and trite !
For all of my ideas, there was not a-one
That captured even half an ounce of what they sold.
I’m better now – a lifetime lived and well,
Of sights and thoughts and loves and wisdoms heard,
Has brought me to the seasoned man I am today
But I am now, alas, beyond their spell –
For all of my ability to turn a word,
I cannot think of anything I need to say…
The names are given in their Greek form, which is slightly different from the Latin alternative we may be more familiar with, hence the accents to spring the correct syllables.
Rhyming Couplets 