She said. “Hold me as tenderly as
you hold that poetry book.
Let your ink stained fingers
trace my lines, as you
say my name like you
have a poem on your lips.”
So I set aside my poetry book
and took her gently in my hands.
Then I looked into her eyes and
discovered her poetry,
reading it again and again,
unable to put her down.
Poetry-Man, Poetry-Man, does whatever, well whatever a Poetry-Man can…
Spins a rhyme any size,
goes over time in slams gets disqualified,
when he gets up to perform always fails to check his flies.
look out here comes the Poetry-Man.
Are his words strong? Listen bud
he spits like a llama, which I think means he’s good?
Can he swing from a thread?
No, he’s got gout and arthritis
he travels by bus instead.
Always got a rollup ready, here comes the Poetry-Man.
In the chill of the night
he checks the sales figures of his books.
Leave him a bad Amazon review
and he’ll punch you in the nuts.
Poetry-Man, Poetry-Man, drowns his sorrows with gin, its Poetry-Man
wealth and fame he ignores,
bit daft really as poetry pays bugger all.
So if he misses the last bus he can’t get a taxi there goes the Poetry-Man.
Poetry-Man, Poetry-Man, thank god it’s the last verse it’s Poetry-Man,
He seems to live on just beer and pork scratchings
They call him the chicken of poetry as ideas he’s always hatching
he’s infected with words let’s hope it’s catching
There goes the Poetry-Man.
I’m very pleased to have three poems in the charity poetry collection Further Within Darkness and Light, compiled by Walsall poet and author Paul B Morris. Sales of the book go to benefit the charity Mind and you can get a copy via the link below
Click here to buy a copy.
I’ve had a very interesting chat with Paul Morris about my forthcoming book “Creative Waste,” and more. Read all about it at the link below.
I know a bloke who boasted he’d thrown away his TV set,
Then that he’d burnt his TV licence with no feelings of regret.
Curious I sat him down over a pint and said “listen,
Without a TV you really don’t know what you’re missing.
There’s so-called celebrities dining on testicles and bums,
Tax-dodging millionaires begging you to donate to charity funds.
Plus interfering chefs telling you what to eat that’s good for you,
Then adverts for pop stars flogging you their expensive shoes.
You could watch a talent show where skill doesn’t count if you’ve had a sad life,
Or see twenty women scramble to be a cheesy millionaires wife.
Witness the UK’s yearly humiliation in Eurovision,
Hear Piers Morgan spouting his alleged wisdom.
I even saw Keith Chegwin in the nude on a game show,
Mind you I’m still having hypnotherapy for that you know.”
When I’d finished I thought I given bigging up TV my best try,
My mate smirked, then looked me straight in the eye.
He said, “you talk a good talk, but you know what you should do.”
So I got out my lighter and my TV licence too.
When your pen feels like a splinter in your hand,
When your malicious inner demons won’t be quiet.
When your body feels like a carcass left out for the dogs,
When your convinced you’ll soon be caught out as a liar.
There is no better time to write.
Write whatever your demons are slyly whispering,
Write no matter how badly it hurts about how you feel.
Write to exorcise all your fears and insecurities,
Write it all down and create poetry for you that’s real.
Your heart was a nothing but a maze of
twisted tiny streets. Each one promising
that it would lead me to you, but
instead spiraling me away from my
desire. Making me retrace again and
again my tired steps, as instead of drawing
closer to you, we got further and
I found a poem at work.
It was tied up in red tape,
Under dusty stacks of paper.
I pried the words loose with my staple extractor,
Then stuck them round my monitor on bright post it notes.
I found a poem on the beach,
Hiding under some jetsam and seaweed.
As I kicked its slimy home,
The words tried in vain to scuttle to safety,
While I eagerly chased them brandishing my net.
I found a poem in a church,
Trapped among the dusty tomes of a tired sermon.
I resurrected the words from their stuffy grave,
Sending them into the light
With my blessing.
I found a poem in the last place I expected.
Lurking in my head among my memories and fears.
I tried to lure the words out,
But they flatly turned me down,
Saying they wanted to stay where they felt safe.
Don’t forget there’s still time to contribute towards my poetry anthology for charity, click here for details
This isn’t a poem
It’s the fallout from an explosion
in a dictionary.
Mixed with the shredded pages of
a thesaurus, glued back together
This isn’t a poem.
It’s words plucked from
a scrambled radio station or
phrases pulled from a
scratched record played
at the wrong speed.
Which then begs the question….
If this isn’t a poem
why do I expect anyone to read it?
And why did I even bother to write it?