The Haphazardly Poetical – Finding the Perfect Rhyme for Atrocious

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I was delighted that a post of mine on “Why Editors Hate Ryming Poetry”, helped to inspire this poem of Colin’s! Kevin

colinmcqueen's avatarGetting On

Poetry Photo by Trust “Tru” Katsande on Unsplash

I really don’t think it’s a crime,
But I like all my poems to rhyme.
It’s possibly overly formal –
I prefer that my rhythms stay normal.

And then, if I possibly can,
I prefer every stanza to scan.
You may think I’m being effete,
But I quite like a verse with a beat.

I find that it all feels much neater
When the lines are of requisite metre,
For I really do feel it perverse
When there’s no shape or form to the verse.

So, for those who prefer their verse free,
There is no point in looking at me,
But for people who like their rhymes bad,
Stick around then, ‘cos I am your lad.

For K Morris (Poet) and James (Proclaims) with apologies for taking so long…

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When A Wicked Young Lady Named White

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When a wicked young lady named White
Rang my doorbell at just after midnight,
And I said, “that’s really not acceptable!”,
And she said, “but you’re not respectable!”,
I had to agree with Miss White

Much Poetry Has Been Written

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Much poetry has been written
About a country called Great Britain,
Full of antique grandfather clocks
And old maids darning socks,
And miss Marple at her knitting!

I Have Dreamed Many A Dream

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I have dreamed many a dream
Where fantasy
Did seem
To be reality.
And I have thought, that I ought
To take care
Lest my dream, turn to nightmare.
For in dreams
All is not what it seems,
And who can fathom
The chasm
That may or may not be
Between a dream,
And  reality?

 

When I Met Young Women At Dice

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When I met young women at dice
Who said, “sir, are you into vice?”,
And I said, “i’m not into betting”,
They said, “but, surely you’re not forgetting,
That there are many forms of vice!”.

Sometimes I Think We Poets Obsess Too Much On Grim Death

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Sometimes I think we poets obsess
Too much on grim death.
We hear the blackbird sing
And say “the flowers that bloom
In spring,
And this bird, so full of joy,
Time will destroy,
All too soon”.

We obsess
Over the maid
In her white
dress,
And say, “she will fade
Into the eternal night”.

Yet there is much delight
In the maid,
And when, into the night
Poet and maid
fade,
They may leave to posterity,
More than poetry.