Although artistically minded, Wesley Biggs of Nashville, Tennessee, had always considered poetry beyond his creative reach – until he learned that it does not necessarily have to rhyme. “I feel like such a doofus,” said Biggs. “All this time I’ve...
Mr Jones, the Lighthouse Keeper, had an ever increasing collection of masks, finding them on Amazon, going for a song on Ebay, fading celebrities, an Amazonian Warrior, Donald Trump, the colour of desperation, everyday waiting for the knock. The Postman whistling his happy little tune, handing over the packages, waiting for the signatures, the always offered cup of tea, wanting to g...
There was consternation in Chutney on the Fritz when a fairly decent writer, who doesn't bang on about his poetry on social media turned up for the Words Matter poetry night in the King's Bottom on Wednesday night. Deirdre Rhyming Couplet from the...
This is a poem about going mad. Possibly about having already gone mad. I thought it up whilst on a bus, stuck in traffic in Bangkok. That city may have been a contributory factor in my downward spiral. Life, like the heat, is intense there, and an extended period of intensity can have an extraordinary effect on someone, particularly someone who spends a long time in isolation, away from anyon...
I've always drunk water EVER so cold And have done since I was 15 months old Afore that, kind Sirs, I'm bound to admit I was keen for a suck of me dear old mam's tit And sometimes, still am. Oh, please, Sirs, I beg you! Don't scold me! Don't chide! From your derision, 'tis true, I have nowhere to hide Don't hate me! Don't slate me! It's a lie! I'm not cheap! (Though it's true I once had...
I'm the cat amongst your pigeons I'm the writing on your wall I'm the black sheep in your family No, I don't fit in at all I'm the sight that raises eyebrows The cause of nervous coughs The fly in soup and ointment The cap that's never doffe...
Hag, slag, you filthy old bag! Your minge is a sewer, your titties, they sag You can't call me squeamish, but I had to gag When I saw your pug-mug in that tacky slut mag Your 'friends' they all hate you, your pimp is a fag Trundlin' along in h...
I like milk, I'm inclined to say, And I drink it keenly, ev'ry day One me Corn Flakes, in me tea, Sans milk, the same, it would not be Does the milkmaid, on her stool Know the bliss she brings this fool? Udder clenched - then, without fail The white stuff spurts into her pail! And then the milkman, on his float Provides according to Mum's note Chilled and pure as driven snow The mil...
Ants, ants, ants They're not very nice Weird little bodies Creeping, crawling, swarming But they're all 'people' If we go back far enough They can't help their nasty habits So leave them alone Bees, bees, bees They're not very nice Black and yellow Buzzing, buzzing, buzzing But they're all 'people' If we go back far enough They can't help their nasty habits, so leave them alone...
Kobe Bryant wrote a heartfelt poem about retiring from NBA Basketball and all he's faced, just about, is flagrant abuse from some members of the writing community. Sure, some die-hard Kobe and Lakers fans think Shakespeare or Chaucer actually wrote t...
I've ridden the wicked draw that runs from shytown to the edge of the heinous herd that abomination of unspeakables which propagates fear in the dreams of the unweary in the center of that heinous herd you will find the apocalypse sitting smug, wrapped in oil skins on a heap of 2 day old horned imp skulls Giddy up you old fool The heinous herd was an abomination that even all of hell reject...
For National Poetry Month, Walt Whitman's recent return from the dead for his reading of "Song of Myself" was overshadowed by the shocking arrival of Donald Trump, who said that he had not heard of Whitman, but was intrigued by the title, which he thought was "Shlong of Myself," and by prospects for spontaneous "call and response." However, sources confirm that his outbursts merely echoed phrases...
Among the belongings of the late great Irish writer and dramatist Brendan Behan has been discovered a short Romantic poem. Seemingly, Behan had visited the great Irish jump race meeting at Cheltenham in the spring of 1961 and wrote the poem on the back of a bookie slip that he evidently intended to throw away. It may well have been written by him for his own amusement. It is a parody on the wo...
(With apologies to William Butler Yeats) Churning and churning in the miasmic mire The Tea Party cannot stand the Moderates; Things fall apart; the center cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the GOP; The Wing-nut tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of common sense is drowned; The best lack all compassion, while the worst Are full of fanatic in...
Dear Poetry Fans, I found the most interesting poem yesterday when I was thumbing through the "Baseball Digest," from August 15, 1987. I was looking over some old baseball cards I had examining the edges and looking for creases. I wanted to see what they were worth. There is a certain quality to the poem that I can't describe. I want to share it with you.
I'm an IntCom guerrilla Trade wars to the highest seller I'm a tinpot Godzilla Universal kiddy-killer I'm a street-bombing prancer A global-heating moral cancer A swift-declining Panzer Double-serpent-tongued pretender But let's not talk about peace and ethics And kids that don't explode We're losing all of our respect and honour Universal chaos motherlode, yeah baby A humanitari...
I'm just no good at small talk Narrow and bijou Microscopic and minute Sorry, what do you do? Dinky winky, little, dwarf Incy wincy, klein Matchbox, kneehigh and compact Can I top up your wine? Teensy weensy, minimal Teeny weeny, wee Itsy bitsy, miniscule Would you like a cup of tea? Baby, mini, miniature Shrunken, titchy, speck Narrow, nipper, iota, mite Get naked? What the h...
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