National Poetry Writing Month: Day Twenty-Nine, "The Man in the White Suit"

This poem is based on the two main characters in the book I am in the process of redrafting. Enjoy.

Have you seen him,
The man in the white suit?
He’s causing quite the stir.
With great pride,
Does he rise,
His eyes filled with devilish allure.

Nobody knows who he really is,
That man whose influence grows,
As does his might and power.
Like a shadow of white light,
He spreads his great dominion,
His force seems to bloom like a flower.

His words are like wisps in the wind,
Winding and falling on our hearts,
Whispering to us deep desire.
With but a speech to the masses,
Does he reach out to our souls,
And light in us passion and fire.

But the man in the white suit is not without foes,
And such a menace is the one known as ‘The Guardian’,
Hidden behind his black mask.
A blade in one hand,
The Kinetic Regulator in the other,
And the defeat of our champion he has made his task.

So to war go these men,
The risen hero and the fallen,
In the greatest battle of our nation.
 What will transpire,
Will shape the rest of our time,
In the aftermath of certain this destruction.

National Poetry Writing Month: Day Twenty-Eight

Let go of your burning hate,
Unburden that unforgiving weight.
The tree will let fall the withering leaf,
Only you were my joy and my grief.
I do not care if what happened was right,
But I did not act out of mere slight.
The tree will let fall the withering leaf,
A drain upon life, an emotional thief.

National Poetry Writing Month: Day Twenty-Seven, "Don't Do Drugs"

One last haiku for the month.

If love is a drug,

It's my parents fault I'll die

alone, "Don't do drugs!"

National Poetry Writing Month: Day Twenty-Six, "The Little Things"

 

It feels like we live in difficult times,
With demands besetting us on all sides.
And while we strive to rise to such harsh challenges,
The scale can tip and gone are the balances.
It’s important in times savage as these,
To resist and combat that consuming disease.
For it’s easy to lose sight of who we really are,
And though it may seem somewhat bizarre,
It’s the little things in life that keep us sane.
Whether it’s a glass of wine or the sound of rain,
Or taking the time to watch a film or write a poem,
We need these things to keep our minds from being stolen,
By the stresses of life that seek to enslave,
And ultimately pressures that we grow to crave.

National Poetry Writing Month: Day Twenty-Five, "The Master and his Lieutenant's Mystery"

And then I saw him, kneeling in the sand,
Motionless as the Master issued devastating commands.
The lieutenant merely nodded, simple and without daze,
But there was a power in his eyes that shattered all sense of glaze.
Unlike the others, this soldier was aware,
And that alone is the heaviest burden to bare.
For the Master was a devil hidden in the guise of man,
And to control the minds of all was his ultimate plan.
For decades he has worked to manipulate the people’s cognition,
And those who defied he eliminated as opposition.

Yet here was a man, deep within his counsel,
That anyone of his like had come before was very doubtful.
Around him was politics and backstabbing aplenty,
But he stood out to me as some silent sentry.
If the Master saw what I saw, this man would surely die,
But he could not, and I ask myself why.
But for his eyes, there was nothing remarkable about him,
Like the others, his form was grizzled, bloodied and grim.
Then it struck me, that he thoughts are never spoken aloud,
And he does not carry himself like a person proud.
He takes his orders, foul as they may be,
And he executes them to the purest degree.

I understood in that moment why he stood out from his brothers,
For the truth of the Master had not yet within him been smothered.
He remembers the days of when we were liberated,
And knows the ways in which we can no longer be opinionated.
Then he looked at me and within a single breath,
And I realised that I too knew the truth, and this meant my certain death.

National Poetry Writing Month: Day Twenty-Three

Do you ever think of me?
Do I ever visit your dreams?
Late at night, have I softly tread within your longing mind?
Do I reside within your thoughts as much as you do within mine?
For I hope to be there,
Words do not articulate or lay bare,
And I know I do not say, for I cannot.
I merely hope, least of all, my memory shan’t be soon forgotten,
For you, I know with certainty, will not.

National Poetry Writing Month: Day Twenty-Two, "Captain Mareado"

How I’d love to sail the seven seas,
Standing in the bird's nest taking in that sea breeze.
I’d be a pirate with my crew and do as I please,
Or be an admiral and deal with such seaway thieves.
I know one day I’ll conquer the seven seas,
If I can stop vomiting on a boat and stay these shaking knees.

National Poetry Writing Month: Day Twenty-One, "The Renderkerth"

Another poem based on my fantasy work, from the point of view of the Halfling bard again. Enjoy.

Within the deepest depths of old Hermisia it is said,
Lurks a horror too frightful and fell.
Only the mad would near it tread,
For the land in which it abides is cataclysmic hell.
Stands so tall doth the beast that it dwarfs very giants,
Which it may feast on with little care.
Those that look upon it lose any sense of defiance,
And their hearts are torn by agonised despair.
Its presence is exaggerated by its bloodcurdling scent,
Rusted souls and broken flesh abound.
But its image is iron and smoke cruelly bent,
And moulded into a devilish compound.
Tendrils of ash, talons of ice,
Severe thee will it with but one slice.
Wings of topaz, horns of bronze,
Feed will it upon the remains of thy ground up bones.
The Renderkerth is an abhorrent without any peer,
And no man yet lives who is immune to its piercing fear.

National Poetry Writing Month: Day Twenty, "Master Procrastinator"

 

My, look at all the work I have to do,
Assignments and shifts and exam revision too.
I really should crack on with it all,
But with a week left, surely I’m allowed to stall.

So maybe instead I’ll watch some T.V,
There’s probably nothing on but I’ll still go and see.
Okay, I’m bored of that now so I should start working,
Especially since the deadlines seem to be lurking.

But then again, the PlayStation seems too appealing,
And the thought of work has left me reeling.
Now the final date isn’t far away,
But what’s the difference if I put it off one more day.

My film collection is exhausted and so am I,
But deep down I know that excuse won’t fly.
What do you know, it seems tomorrow is deadline day already,
I get the feeling tonight’s gonna be long and heavy.

National Poetry Writing Month: Day Nineteen, "The Whole World Has Gone Mad"

It appears the whole world has gone quite insane,
With everybody else living lives dull and plain,
I decided to dedicate my life and began to train,
To stop all the mad men until only the stable remain.

But they don’t want me to succeed,
For they believe it is me who has receded,
My best friend proceeded to try appeasing,
As I argued his sickness needed releasing.

Amid our discussion there grew much strife,
And it seemed within him the madness was rife,
To rid him of his sickness I grabbed a knife,
So to save his very mind I took away his life.

And in the gory aftermath of it all,
The local authorities were surprisingly appalled,
To the men in white coats they gave a quiet call,
And now I’m stuck in a room with bloody padded walls.

National Poetry Writing Month: Day Eighteen, "Where to find inspiration"

It seems inspiration comes to me at the strangest of times,
For my next poetical feats,
But I have established that the grandest of my rhymes,
Are formed when I find myself on a toilet seat!

National Poetry Writing Month: Day Seventeen, "Wisps and Embers"

So clear,
A gust drifting,
Velvet under starlight,
Washes over skin,
Tender flesh,
Neither living nor dead,
Life among the lifeless,
Louder than slumber,
Whispers within dreams,
Quiet like dusk,
Ripples on the ocean shore.
A leopard creeping,
Paw prints in the emerald,
Meadow trampled underfoot,
Crouch among the bark,
Leap,
Pounce for the prey,
Through wisps and embers,
Ashes of all that is good.

 

National Poetry Writing Month: Day Sixteen.

I am uploading this Haiku a little late as I was out for much of yesterday.

I await the day,
When law and Justice are one,
With honour throughout.

 



National Poetry Writing Month: Day Fifteen, "My Deadly Sin"

 

What would my deadly sin be?
 Of the seven, only one can apply.
Surprise you as it might, it isn’t gluttony,
But in fact it most likely is that of pride.
That’s not to say I don’t suffer from sloth or envy,
But being second best I cannot abide.
I rarely feel rampant wrath or lust within me,
But a desire to be the best I cannot well hide.
You will not witness snobbery in my company,
But my comments may seem somewhat snide.
But if I might embody pride, I would love to see,
Which deadly sins in you do reside.

National Poetry Writing Month: Day Fourteen, "A Riddle"

Found was I in works of the old English,
Though today you’ll find me if that is truly your wish.
I do not age or wither quite as humans might,
But I am not exactly a ferocious sight.
I spin tales to pick your brain,
Wit and humour flow though my metaphoric veins,
I can be exquisite or rather plain,
And often you’ll think of me as merely a pain.
It seems my ancestry may go back to Ancient Greece,
The time of great myths like the Golden Fleece,
For a sphinx was I used to slay,
  And for Baggins’ life I was used to pay,
In works of a more recent day.
To finish, I possess no earthly form,
And to find me today is not exactly the norm.
I speak but I cannot walk or fly,
So can you answer; what am I?

National Poetry Writing Month: Day Thirteen, "How to Conquer the World"

I’ve decided to conquer the world,
Lead a quest of total domination,
I make this promise and give you my word,
That I’ll usher in a united nation.

People may fear me at the start,
I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised,
That as I burn both modern and old art,
They feel the beginning of their demise.

I’ll unleash a virus upon the internet,
To cripple communications completely,
And while the leaders scramble and fret,
I’ll be chuckling in the shadows gleefully.

I shall train and build my own private army,
To fight for me upon the ground level,
And as I display the fury of a tsunami,
The world will believe I am truly the devil.

Watch as I burn their precious crops,
To make certain their food supplies will fail,
I will ensure I am the one left on top,
And their generals shall be left in my jails.

You may think I’m being somewhat eccentric,
Or perhaps acting rather rash,
But you’ll think my performance is something electric,
When all you know becomes ruin, smoke and ash.

National Poetry Writing Month: Day Twelve, "The Man in the Café"

 

I sit in my usual spot,
Inside this café free from rot,
Poring the tea from within its pot,
Nursing the drink now scolding hot.
Leaning back I see him stare,
From the mahogany table over there,
A dark presence overbearing,
And though normally I would not be caring,
This time I find my intrigue flaring.
Who was this man with a grim look,
A simple stranger at first I took,
With his red leather-bound pocket book,
But I doubt that would be quite my luck,
For I could feel my resolve being shook.
He wore a blue three-piece suit and tie,
Something I usually cannot abide,
Yet with him I found that I could not deny,
A deep respect in him did reside.
It seemed he reached some new decision,
And with striking precision,
Rose from his chair and with a sense of mission,
Wandered towards me.
He indicated towards a nearby seat,
I nodded and he spoke “It is a pleasure to meet,
I have come because I have a simple question.”
He noted my hesitation at his notion,
And laughed, his head rolling in a entrancing motion.
“Don’t be afraid, it’s nothing serious,
Though I’ll not lie, it’s quite mysterious,
I can tell you are somewhat curious,”
Indeed, this broke the usual sense of the monotonous.
I nodded again and he offered his proposition,

“Perhaps it pains you personally,
To perceive the poverty pounding at the people perchance,
But ponder that if you possessed power to persuade the powerful,
I put to you that potentially you would put aside personal philosophies,
Phasing like politicians and policemen into the pleasurable place,
A peacefully placid point of preference,
Petrified of panic and pandemonium.
Would you pacify and pander to the people,
Or play politics with a similar poker face,
Pleasing or passionate, paving a path with pace,
Please, would you present your position on this problem?”

National Poetry Writing Month: Day Eleven. "Crossroad"

 

I find myself stuck,

Between a rock and hard place,

Please pass the pick axe?

 

 

National Poetry Writing Month: Day Ten, "Ant Farm"

A slightly more sceptical poem to mark day ten.

A routine set in stone,
Made real by centuries of habit,
Patterns that dominate life,
Sequences that dominate thought.

A day follows a rule,
A week on repeat.
Scavenge food and drink,
Then fall into line.

‘Money makes the world go round,
Get involved with the spin.’
And so we scuttle away,
Clamouring for scraps of paper.

Day by day we move,
Like ants in an ant farm,
Commute and work again,
To support the greed of a few.

National Poetry Writing Month: Day Nine, "The Mountain of Ice"

This poem is actually a based on one of my fantasy short stories, and is written from the point of view of a Halfling bard. Hope you enjoy.

Sit back and I’ll tell you of Heril Geiger,
With the mind of a fox and the ferocity of a tiger,
Listen and you’ll hear of the sorceress strong,
It’s quite a tale but I won’t take long.

Now Heril hails from the Brother Kingdoms,
From the school of Sorcery in the Tower of Thanegons,
She is a power most accomplished,
And in her wake may dark forces diminished.

Geiger for quickly through the order,
From apprentice to journeymen and finally master.
She became the greatest at wielding two wands,
A newfound technique of which she was fond.

As the magical world reeled and recovered,
At this wondrous power recently discovered,
Former colleagues and master did conspire,
To bring their own gain through blood and fire.

Master Naid Hapus, a high mind of the Tower,
Plotted to further his own dark power,
In secret he betrayed his sacred Order,
And opened a portal of wind and thunder.

 

He travelled to the Heavens and the realm of the Gods,
Who watch over our world with axes and rods,
And from the stream of time the sorcerer took,
Three glowing pebbles with a stroke of luck.

 

He returned to our plane with fresh force,
Enough to give even mighty demons pause.
With the great pebbles he summoned forth,
A host of soldiers, giants, ogres and even a dwarf.

 

 

The sorcerers of the Tower could sense,
The grievous betrayal and so sent hence,
Heril and a company of mages,
Who travelled to the renegade with furies and rages.

 

 

Hapus built a mansion upon the side of a mountain,
Where once fire spilled forth like that of a fountain,
He hoped to ward off wary travellers,
For the breath of the mountain stretches farther and farther.

 

 

But the pebbles were too strong and began affecting,
The volcano and its fires began changing,
It’s burning depths froze over,
And threatened to engulf all in a frosty nova.

 

 

Heril and her company journeyed fast and far,
Through the desert of Grubany and the forest of Brnzar,
Until they looked upon the mountain of frost,
And as they stared forward all hope seemed lost.

 

The ground shook and trembled with terrible fury,
And ice spouted from the summit like a dragon roaring,
And with a glorious display of nature’s might,
Snow blanketed the earth in a shower of white.

 

Heril charged with allies at her back,
Against the army summoned by Hapus the Black,
With two wands did she strike true,
Until the monsters had all been cut through.

 

But Naid Hapus was far from dead,
Holding the pebbles of blue and red.
With waves of his hand he tore asunder,
The great mages with bolts of thunder.

 

Soon only Hapus and Geiger remained,
And they collided as burning ice rained,
For the destruction wrought Naid was blamed,
As all around deadly chaos reigned.

 

So powerful were the sorcerers that they were unharmed,
But the Brother Kingdom was rather alarmed.
In hours an ice age had begun,
And for most the day of reckoning had finally come.

The Black Master realised what he had caused,
And as thousands died their fighting paused.
Heril persuaded Naid to give up the stones,
And into the mountain the pebbles were thrown.

 

The volcano shuddered and started to die,
With curious agony its pits did cry,
But the ground gave one final spasm,
And Hapus lost control and fell into its chasm.

 

Heril had won but her Kingdom was ended,
Naid had delivered a blow that had rended.
Destroyed was most of the ancient land,
Buried now beneath snow and sand.

 

And so with the survivors Geiger came forth,
Into Hermisia, our empire in the North,
So if you find yourself in a spot of peril,
You had better hope you’re saved by the sorceress Heril.

National Poetry Writing Month: Day Eight, "Beveline the Biting Blade"

 

Beware the biting blade,
Bloodied crimson red.
No one knows where she was made,
But she’s lopped off a hundred heads.

 

They say she’s hard as steel,
With a soul icy and mean.
She’s chilling to hold and feel,
And they say her name’s Beveline.

 

One scratch and you’re a goner for sure,
So deadly is her edge.
In a second you’ll hit the floor,
Cut down like a leaf from a hedge.

 

Bev’ll kill you a thousand different ways,
And if she’s bored she’ll run you through.
But it’s not just foes she slays,
For wielder can be felled too.

 

So if you face a foe brandishing Bev,
You’d better dig your own grave,
Cause there ain’t a chance in hell,
You’ll beat Beveline the Biting Blade.

National Poetry Writing Month: Day Seven, "Ms Sharp"

 

Her spies are everywhere,
Laying secrets bare.
Findings within a library,
Processed like a factory.

Hide among the rubble,
Mask deep your troubles.
Mortality’s grievous price,
Courage within a vice.

Supress your true desires,
She’ll put out those passionate fires.
Webs covering the well,
Inertia and silent hell.

She ushers a new age,
Writing history’s next page.
The iron in the shadows,
The hangman at the gallows.

 

National Poetry Writing Month: Day Six, "When Seven Pets Ran Hence"

I've tried to use a different rhythm here, so it may take a couple of stanzas to get used to, but I hope you enjoy.

One Sunday, seven pets ran hence,
When they fancied a stroll and so jumped their owner’s fence,
The merry band just fled away,
When in the cramped little farm they could no longer stay.

On Monday, they followed the pet who ran first,
A horse named Horace, who hunted for hills,
But when he saw them, with excitement did he burst,
And he left his company, so insatiable was his thirst.

For Tuesday, they were led by the simple second,
A hen named Ben who longed for a pen,
So mad was he when no pen he could lend,
That he lost his very mind and had to be sectioned.

By Wednesday, their new captain was the third
A cat named Kate who craved some cake,
But out in the distance a robin’s song she heard,
And bid the band goodbye to find and eat this bird.

Came Thursday, small was their head the forth,
A mighty mouse named Mike who might feed on a woodlouse,
They came upon a pier while searching for this dwarf,
But into the sea, the mouse fell from the wharf.

Upon Friday, their leader was now the fifth,
A pig named Pete out to pull some pork,
Saw did he precariously high the babe Judith,
And he fell head over heels but also tumbled off the cliff.

Since Saturday, the sixth led the band now small,
A honey bee named Henry looking for a sweet treat,
The search led them into a great dining hall,
But the host was most alarmed and pancaked Henry on a wall.

Sunday came, and alone was number seven,
The Dog named Desmond merely desiring donuts,
So home he went and by quarter to eleven,
The farmer fed him his fill of donuts and he was in heaven.

So next time your friends ask you to jump that fence,
Hold your horses and hinder their hurries,
Grab their attention and with great suspense
Retell the week that seven pets ran hence.

National Poetry Writing Month: Day Five, "Insomnia"

Night descends again
Blackness falls around,
Stars light the sky,
Everything slows,
Except me.
Lying wide awake,
Under the fold of the sheets,
Fatigue claws my eyes,
Rakes my mind,
Pillages my thoughts.
My skin crawls,
Unable to switch off.
A thousand voices,
A chorus of pain,
At the back of a silent dream.
Hours pass like the tide,
On and on and on.
My eyes close,
But my heart races,
I toss and turn,
Tangled.
Too hot and too cold,
It’s frustrating,
Maddening.
Then the alarm rings,
Nails on a chalk board,
Tearing insanity into my system,
Breeding with hatred.

Throwing aside the sheets,
Eyes red,
Light burns,
Tiring with each movement.
Cold shower.
Doesn’t help.
Day becomes night,
Blurred vision,
Tangled in the work,
Tossing and turning at the desk,
Voices echo away,
Lose meaning,
Fade.
Head lulls,
Don’t know if I’m awake.
Fingers scratch wood.
Being conscious is the dream,
Waiting to end.
A grinding pain,
Distant at first,
Slate on stone,
It grows,
It sings,
It screams,
Bellowing for quiet.
Then I’m in bed again,
Eyes are red,
Light burns.
My eyes close,
But my heart is racing.

Fucking insomnia.

 

 

National Poetry Writing Month: Day Four, "When a Writer and an Actor Rap-Battle"

 

As with every time we meet,

Allow me the honour of going first,

I’ll blow you away with a lyrical feat,

Sending you off in a Hurst before your drama queen outburst.

My toolkit is full; plot-twists, creativity and maybe I’ll alliterate,

What do you do? Oh yeah, play a tree or do your best to articulate.

You’re a mimic, barely fit for miming,

I’m the writer and the poet, let me do the rhyming.

The guys who have my back are without any peer,

Tolkien, Fitzgerald, Dahl & Shakespeare.

 

 

 

You wanna battle pal but I’ll slay you dead,

And with just a touch of CGI, I’ll even cut off your head.

You think you’re the source of what I just said,

But I can outplay you while I’m sleeping in bed.

Shakespeare, he wrote his plays for me,

So clearly he doth hath more sense than thee.

Don’t get me wrong, your praises I’ll sing,

But who on Earth still reads The Lord of the Rings?

People watch that and A Game of Thrones on T.V,

When was the last time you took home an Oscar or an Emmy?

 

 

 

We have the Nobel Prize, you stupid prick,

How anyone can be so ignorant just knocks me sick,

I had no idea that you were so thick,

I bet there’s more brainpower in an amnesiac-ridden tick.

You’ll never be a competitor in the big league,

Your guys might be famous, but we go down in history,

Try as you might, you’ll never reach our degree,

We’re the crème de la crème, the top pedigree.

Everything you do comes from a script we made,

Talent you may have, but we’ve got it in spades.

 

 

 

Are you really so naïve as to discount my skills,

Buddy, I'm known world-wide for my A-list thrills,

Your jottings read so bad, they're making me ill,

No matter, like dead Ned your career's been killed.

I'll make this point once so you'd better listen up,

We've battled wits but your ass just got whooped,

So why don’t you crawl back into your book?

I’m too busy living in Hollywood, not giving a-

 

 

Hold up brother, we may be like chalk and cheese,

but of each other, we are in need.

 

I have to admit that I agree with your guess,

without each other we’d be worth a damn sight less.

 

 

 

 

National Poetry Writing Month: Day Three "Hullabaloo"

Today's poem is more fun than yesterdays, to try and counter those Thursday blues.

Day 3:

Hullabaloo

 

Listen to that hullabaloo,
A popping balloon,
A stampede in a zoo,
A stamping shoe.

Hear that roaring boom,
A party in bloom,
A fire in the gloom,
Kaboom, incoming doom.

Notice the blowing fuse,
A madman letting loose,
A forming muse,
A discovered ruse.

This clamour through and through,
A flushing loo,
A train’s choo,
A baby born new.

The volume renews,
An elephant’s blues,
A lion chews,
The cheetah zooms.

A scream from the flumes,
The Dragonborn’s Thu’um,
An emitted fume,
An echoing room.

These sounds without mute,
The playing flute ,
A hissing newt,
A thuggish brute.

A jester amused,
A giant boomed,
A mammoth swooned,
A trebuchet used.

All these sounds old and New,
Filling your ears like treacle and glue,
An uproar of noise right the way through,
So listen to that hullabaloo.

National Poetry Writing Month: Day Two, "The Eternal Wanderer"

Todays poem is a little more sombre in nature, but I hope you enjoy it.


Day Two:

The Eternal Wanderer

Crushing is the chill of hollow cold,
Bearing all around.
Like a blanket of blackness it sways,
Shrilly seeping into the corners of my gaze.

 

I am alone; alone in the entirety of the universe,
Not another soul to break the unyielding silence.
It was terrifying at first,
But the candle of my fear has long since flickered away.

There are no walls,
No edges to this dream.
I merely drift and float,
Like a dying leaf in a light autumn breeze.

 

Illuminating the dull void are stars,
Celestial and graceful in the dark.
I long to feel their warming radiance,
Though they stay ever out of my grasp.

 

It is maddening; the waiting,
The drifting, the chill.
Will I ever find peace when,
It is with nature I am at war?

 

I might live evermore,
And see phenomenal sights.
But I tire of this journey,
The soulless silence of solitude.

 

Yearning to rest grows within,
A desire to find a place to hold.
I regret the day I made the pact,
To become the Eternal Wanderer.

National Poetry Writing Month: Day One, "Anyone Can Write A Poem"

 

            So today is the 1st of April, huh? Three months of 2014 have been and gone like a fleeting instant, and the rest of the year could follow suit. But I for one do not wish for that to be the case, so I have decided to try and make the most of this month at least. That means that for me, the 1st of April isn't just about making a fool of somebody. The 1st of April is the first day of National Poetry Writing Month, or NaPoWriMo. The goal is simple; write a poem every day for the month of April, leaving you with thirty poems at the end.

 

 

If only it were that easy....

 

 

            Regardless, I'll give it my best shot, and if any of you feel like you want to express yourself through poetry, then give it a go. Anybody can write a poem, even if you don't every tell anyone about it. And so to stay with this theme, my first poem for the month is all about just that. Some poems that I write will be fun, others will be dark. Some will rhyme, many will not. Words are what you make them, so make them what you want.

 

 

Day One:

 

Anyone Can Write a Poem

 

Anyone can write a poem,
A simple stanza or two.
Just sit down and go a little mad,
You’ll come up with something totally new.

 

Everyone can write a poem,
if you can find the time.
I think you should give it a whirl,
It doesn’t even have to rhyme.

 

Someone once wrote a poem,
The first one ever heard.
Was it a limerick, acrostic or ballad?
Did the audience think it absurd?

 

Everybody could write a poem,
It would make an interesting game.
There’d be billions of different rhythms,
And no two would be the same.

 

So why don’t you write a poem,
About animals, nature or your favourite place?
Or if you fancy being a little crazy,
How about aliens from Outer Space?

 

Anyone can write a poem,
A simple stanza or two.
I thought I should give it a go,
So I could read one back to you.