Category Archives: Poetry

Counting Magpies – Martin Choules

One for nada,
Two for nowt,
Three for a shrug,
And four for a doubt,
Five for zero,
Six for oh,
Seven for knowing there’s nothing to know.

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Spring List – Nick Barth

Cherry blossom, check.
Book of verse, jug of wine, check.
Loaf of bread, thou, check.

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The Exhausted Poet – William Morton

The exhausted poet went to bed
and there she laid her sleepy head.
Rhyming tried she in repose
but none there came – just boring prose!
Half wakened by her snoring nose,
a rhyming couplet I suppose,
had tangled uvula and airway,
but to Parnassus came no stairway!


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Time, Ladies & Gents – Pat Francis

It’s Christmas time at Questors,
let’s have a glass of wine;
it can’t be eight already –
the readings will be fine.

It’s party time at Questors,
you’ll find us in the bar;
my sonnet’s nearly ready;
let’s have another jar.

It’s Christmas time at Questors,
let’s dive into the fray;
I forgot to bring my glasses;
let’s read another day.

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The Dreamer – Alan Chambers

Who is the old woman
curled warmly into sleep?
Her dreams are the shadows
that gather in the street.
She wants no awakening
to this cold, dim day,
she is only the guide
through another way:

Where the paths are thorny,
where the rivers run deep,
where the sea is forever
and mountains steep,
where a castle towers high
on its smooth black rock,
where a key rusts slowly
in a broken lock.

Only a brave dreamer
can venture this land,
with a badge of truth
in a clear left hand.
A sinister dragon
waits below the crag
and the sea’s armed might
with its blind tides’ drag,

Beware of the song
that the dragon sings,
beware of the pedlar
and the Fisher King.
A courageous dreamer
may climb the rock,
to turn the key
and loose the lock,
then enter the castle
that has no end,
to meet himself,
to call him friend.

ALAN CHAMBERS

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The Old Men – Alan Chambers

With red rimmed sunken eyes that leer
the old men sat and blew upon their wrinkled claws
like cold toads waiting under stones for summer.

A pretty miss
with heels a clack a click
and well upholstered grapefruit breasts,
caused those bleary eyes to flicker.

A wan regret, a thought of racier days,
a coarse remark and then a shiver.
The old men spat and turned for solace to the pub.

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Caution: Poet on Song – Pat Francis

You don’t care if you’re right you don’t care if you’re wrong,
you forget to be cool when you’re spinning along
swinging on words like a hammock.

You thunder and cry, you plunder and lie,
you bluster and roar an’ lose all decorum
your politics distasteful, your grammar disgraceful.

You don’t know what is real, you don’t know what is true,
you don’t know who is who, you don’t care how they feel,
you just kick up your heels and go

swinging, swinging,
swinging, swinging,
swinging on words like a hammock.

N.B. If we weren’t carefree poets we might say ‘swinging on words as if they were a hammock’ but who wants to say that?

 

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