Day: November 6, 2018

I write well.yeah super Nell

What the hell,a villanelle!
It looks too hard for such as me
Still I will write ,yes,I write well

I have a story I can tell
It’s from the English who love tea
What a hell,oh villanelle

I saw a man with a sea shell
I asked him for a pod of pea
I write well.yeah super Nell

I often wonder if I smell
As I drink so much  greenish tea
What’s s to tell ,my villanelle?

But worry makes life into hell
And it’s bad for those who see
I write well,but who can tell?

I must take much charity
If you ask, what is your fee?
What the hell oh villanelle
I write well but   life is hell.

The Tiller



Come back to me, my sweetheart
Don’t leave me all alone.
Come back to me, my darling
I can’t believe you’ ve gone.
I’m crying ‘cos I’m feeling blue again.
I’m crying’cos I’m falling like a stone.
Oh, let me tempt you with my beauty
And my voice forever young.
Let me tempt you with my spirit
My laughter and my songs.
I’m crying ‘cos I never did you wrong.
I’m crying ‘cos with you I  still belong.
I thought maybe I’d follow,
To see where you have gone
But there’s a hand upon this tiller
That is not mine alone.
I’m crying ‘cos I wrote this old blue song.
I’m crying ‘cos I’ve been lonely for too long.
The hand upon my tiller
The mystery of the dark
The unknown one who lives in me
And sings like a skylark.
I’m singing ‘cos I wrote you a new song.
I’m singing ‘cos the cat ain’t got my tongue.

We love your form and elegance ,oh both

To you my villanelle I plight my troth
A poem both  dignified  and full of play
I love your form and elegance ,oh both

In your form I’ll never insert oaths
Neither will I boast  of making hay
To you my villanelle I plight my troth

I’ll take you in my boat to the North Coast
From you I expect  no reward or pay
I love your form and elegance ,oh both

You are a welcome visitor to host
Though you look both diffident and fey
To you, dear villanelle, I plight my troth

And when my friends come round we’ll drink a toast
To wordsmiths and to poets  on their way
We love your form and elegance ,oh both

On my bed at night I gently rest
Knowing that I wander  as your guest
To you my villanelle I plight my troth
I love your form and elegance ,oh both

 

 

Poetry and the future

architecture art building business
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

https://www.huffingtonpost.com/patricia-lockwood/poetry-future_b_5071308.html

 

 

  •  poetry that THINKS it is about nature, but instead is about the simulation that all of us are living in.
  • Poetry as facehugger, chestburster, Queen Mother, and sticky disgusting egg.
  • Postmodern poetry is succeeded by posthuman poetry.
  • Grace Jones is now required by law to make an appearance in every poem ever written. If she is left out, then the poet is killed.
  • In Grand Theft Auto 47, you don’t steal a car… you steal a poem, which is a vehicle for the imagination.
  • Perverts are now allowed to marry horses, the Eiffel Tower, their pillow-wives, and poems.
  • Poetry is more machine now than man, twisted and evil.

We freeze our soul

Like the threatened frog or timorous toad
In a bowl of water by the path
We play dead,we keep our profile low

Until a sense of safety is restored
We freeze instead of exploding with  crazed wrath
Like the threatened frog or timorous toad

Our cowardice  makes the withered soul erode
And who can weep all day and never laugh
We play dead ,we keep our  living low.

Feelings frozen in  burst , explode
We will kill  the best  with poisened  pus
Unlike the threatened frog or wise old toad

We   discover  patience when bestowed
Or we shout an  aggravated curse
Even risking killing by those we loath

Patience is like money in a purse
We fill up the lacks with our  sweet love
To our frightened self  we love bestow
We live  now accepting that we’re low