On Moon-gazing

At such a sight
As the moon at night
So high, so bright
My thoughts take flight
The sheer delight
Of its vibrant white
Its pungent bite
Some day might
Emit its light
To end my plight
Leaving me quite
Without foresight
Indeed contrite

All this I write
So slight
And yet, so recondite

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Cabin Fever

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Cabin Fever

 

At my kitchen chopping board,
While I’m getting dinner ready,
I’m engulfed by cabin fever
As my feelings swirl and eddy.

I set out to cook a meal,
But I’m overcome by whimsy.
I lose all sense of time,
Must have been that double whisky.

I take the smile from a banana,
Avocadian eyes and nose;
The eyeballs are two berries,
Bet you’d never think of those.

Baby carrots for the eyebrows,
Fat spring onions for the locks:
Now I’ve made a veggie’s portrait,
Opportunity, it knocks.

As boredom in my kitchen
Strikes a pensive lock-down note,
So I struggle to amuse,
Try to keep my mind afloat.

A childish occupation?
Well, it helps to pass the time.
As I struggle to stay sane,
I can always find a rhyme.

 

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Time To Linger . . .. A Kyrielle’

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Photo by Joe on Pexels.com

Time To Linger . . ..  A Kyrielle’

 

I carry my age so lightly,
With others help, don’t get me wrong,
I’ll manage to last till midnight.
Give me the time to linger long.

For patience is a true virtue,
And I’ve not knowingly done wrong.
So grant me one last interlude,
Give me the time to linger long.

And when my time at last does come,
My final lucid grateful song
Will say as they whisk me away,
‘Thanks for the time to linger long.’ 

 

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NOTE:

Kyrielle is a French form of rhyming poetry written in quatrains (a stanza consisting of 4 lines), and each quatrain contains a repeating line or phrase as a refrain (usually appearing as the last line of each stanza). Each line within the poem consists of only eight syllables. There is no limit to the amount of stanzas a Kyrielle may have, but three is considered the accepted minimum  . . .  The rhyme pattern is completely up to the poet.

[  From:  http://www.shadowpoetry.com  ]

 

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‘Good, Better, Best’

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From a re-created Victorian Schoolroom Museum, Devon, England … Photo WHB.  ©

Good, better, best
Never let it rest
Til your good is better
And your better best

 


I was here
Here I was
Was I here
Yes I was

 

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Poet Manqué

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Photo by Martin Péchy on Pexels.com

You may not yet know it, 
But I am a poet. 
I wait for my muse to inspire. 

I try not to show it, 
Hard work, I forgo it, 
My verses, not cheap, but not dire

So, call me a fool, 
Say I’m not cool, 
But of rhyming I never will tire. 

It’s my trade’s greatest tool, 
And while others may drool, 
I’ll do it until I retire.

 

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To Rhyme or Not to Rhyme?

I asked a question of my friend

It did not seem too hard.
I wished to know
What rhymes with word,
Hardly a question for the Bard.
He said he’d heard
Of nerd and turd,
And bird and curd and herd,
And even that rude French word merde
If I wished to be absurd.
I left him to his contemplation,
I could hardly ask for more.
Eight words were all that I could hope
Before he asked me what it’s for.
When I said I was averse
To omit a telling rhyme,
He said a verse was always worse
When forced into a line.
No doubt it’s true,
A poem is killed,
Its passion bled anew,
When thought proceeds without a nudge,
A kiss from me to you.
So, suitably dissuaded from
Forcing further rhyme,
I’ve downed my pen,
I don’t know when,
But, mouse among men,
I I’ll try again

… sometime.

Le Mot Juste

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Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

LE MOT JUSTE

As I sit with pen in hand
Considering what my muse demands,

Oft an idea comes to mind;
So many thoughts are inter-twined.

First a ruling I must make,
What form shall my poem take?

Rondeau, ode, or Villanelle,
Sonnet, haiku, kyrielle?

I’m excited, I am ready,
I’m inspired, feeling heady.

Ah, when the mot juste does occur,
How joyously my line will purr.

But then my thoughts will always turn
To all those words which I shall spurn.

Those rhymes which never quite will fit,
And where those phrases should be split

Have I spelt that word correctly?
I must check it out directly.

Then the punctuation too;
Comma or colon?  Wish I knew.

Capitals to start each line?
Will they add to my design?

Perhaps it’ll prove less nondescript
If I centre all the script.

Can I improve the way it flows?
Better check that I suppose.

Then, of course, must choose a title,
That indeed will be most vital.

Decisions made, about to publish.
Please don’t tell me it’s all RUBBISH.

 

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The WISE, The NOT-WISE, and The REST

OwlAsTeacher

The WISE, the NOT-WISE, and The REST

For a life spent in teaching and schools
Dealing with both genius and fools, 
Then without malediction
I can say with conviction,
I never had quite the right tools.

For it took me a long time to find
And the difference was hard to define:
The wise oft were demented, 
The dull – vague but contented, 
And both could be quite asinine.

Whilst the average student was fine, 
‘Twas these others who took up my time. 
The norms kept me sane, 
While the rest were a pain, 
But have given me cause for this rhyme. 

 

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Pastiche Poems #3

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A pastiche, created in PRISMA, of a painting of my own of Venice

PASTICHE POETRY

Following on from my opening outline of Pastiche Poetry (see my blog of two days ago titled ‘Pastiche Poetry’ ), and my blogs of yesterday  ( ‘Pastiche Poetry #2 ) and the day before (  Pastiche Poetry #1 ),  here are yet more of my own efforts (you may call them concoctions or confections if you’d rather) which I have based on the well-known opening lines of six different poets  . . .

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 To his Coy Mistress, Andrew Marvell …

Had we but world enough and time, 
This coyness, lady, were no crime. 
But I must say, I’m getting bored
With my advances being ignored.



Tyger! Tyger!
, William Blake …

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
Just be careful how you go
You’ll set the woodland all aglow.



Lines for a Christmas Card, Hilaire Belloc ...

May all my enemies go to hell,
Ah well, ah well, ah well, ah well.
I told them not to call my bluff
They wouldn’t listen, So that’s just tough.



She Walks in Beauty, Lord Byron …

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
Would that she was as sharp and bright,
Instead she got the booby prize.



Mary Had a Little Lamb, Nursery Rhyme, Sarah Josepha Hale,  …

Mary found a little lamb,
She really didn’t know
What on earth to do with it,
Perhaps she’d let it go.



The Owl and the Pussy Cat, Edward Lear …

The Owl and the Pussycat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat,
It wasn’t new, and right on cue,
It ceased to want to float.

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