BORN MARKING TIME
Pens stroke paper as
Fingers caress keyboards as
Writers slowly die
Each of these poems
Is intended to be best
Read aloud … For why?
For I love the sounds
So build each piece
With sound in mind
As well as meaning
Plus any reference
For I love word play
And multiple levels
Of tacit meaning
The writer invites
The reader invents
In passing the time
Inhabit your life until it creaks, cracks open
Loudly ringing for a change – for transition
Hopefully, dutifully – inspirationally calling
Out to each and every reader passing by
In time words appear … “Beautiful poem.”
You reply: “Thanks for your kind words.”
POEMS LEAD POETS
This poem as emerged is actually
far more bitter and anguished
than its writer. Or far less …
What the hell. Let’s let it go;
it’s just the way it grew.
The initial germ here sprouted out
from a piece of Sarah’s weeks ago
that somehow caught my interest.
I’d have trouble locating it now;
it’s transmorphed completely.
Laboured at it for hours; it wouldn’t let go.
Clearly it’s determined to have its say.
As for you, happening by readers
looking out for an explanation
dream on, friends, dream on.
LIGHTLY FELT TIPS
When you learn to distinguish
between what is truly good in poetry
(especially your own)
and what is – shall we say – not so good
then you are almost there.
The rest is just practice, daring,
risk taking and self confidence.
Satisfying yourself is the foundation.
Rules are there to follow or break;
pleasing others a welcome bonus.
So leave the back door wide open
and invite the Musey Lady in for a brew.
She loves to take a load off.
If she’s silent, it’s only ‘cos she’s thinking.
She’s just observing, sipping her tea.
THE WRITER’S CODE
All those who soldier on
Striving against the tide
Building a sane future
Waving to weavers
While weaving while wondering
Why weave and why why
While weaving while wandering
Wondering, weaving, waving
This is dedicated to all readers who are also writers, and especially those who may be called – by themselves or by others – poets.
IAMBIC I AM
I lie awake
I spring (Yeah right)
The poet’s life
Spread forward like a map
I am therefore iambic