If there is bad poetry   and good poetry how about grey poetry?

The poem was not a diamond  nor a pearl
Nor was it even moonstone  they surmised
But  in the weekly news, it got a mention
Which gained the author looks of great surprise.

The postman and the milkman lingered longer
The  dustmen were all eager to commend
They rescued other writing from recycling
They told the author it was in demand.

Or if not now, then maybe in the future;
Like Ted Hughes, we ought not to destroy.
The driver’s  done an OU course in writing
Everything from Pontefract to Troy.

The postman wrote us verses  every Xmas
The milkman gave us readings from our palms.
The dustmen read the Times  if it was folded
If it was creased, then they were up in arms.

Save letters, lists and diaries when handwritten;
Even the old  table where you write
Perhaps your  golden pen from Haifa
And the Esterbrook which knew your daily plight.

I don’t know where Sylvia’s stuff was quartered
But now it fills  great rooms  with gravitas
Innumerable academics sift it
Has all her suffering brought her down to this?

So build a shed and make it dry in winter
Get heavy duty bags from Shangri La
Every single sentence you have written
Put it there before you cross the Bar

In your Will,do mention your grey  verses
Leave all to the University of Rome
If they    don’t really  want  to shelve them
Make a university  of your home.

Writing poems is easy,in the end
For they exist already in the tongue.
We  remove excess, and inappropriate,  mend.
Hence what is left cannot be written wrong.

The longer and more complex is the poem
The easier for the poet to  sculpt to shape
But brief and succinct verses  hide, or roam.
Empty is my paper and I  mope.

Or are words  a  mere random heap  of stones
A poet ,  a builder of a drystone wall?
Skeleton,  or heap of  beggars’ bones
Awaiting  flesh , for which desire they call?

Maybe a hidden body in the woods,
A hand protrudes and dogs run all a-bark
Lazarus waiting  for  his unique   God
Who alone  provides the  living spark

Frankenstein or Saviour, who can tell?
Construction  may obscure  and then  too late;
Both  good and evil can  be written well.
A tyrant’s spell  makes ruin   seem like fate