Please
Don’t call me “hon”.
Save it for the bees,
Who tease
The flowers on this beautiful July day.
I pray
Do not say
“Hon”
Or I will run
Away!
—
Please
Don’t call me “hon”.
Save it for the bees,
Who tease
The flowers on this beautiful July day.
I pray
Do not say
“Hon”
Or I will run
Away!
—
An interesting post about “Telling a good poem from a bad one”, (http://www.dailywritingtips.com/telling-a-good-poem-from-a-bad-one/).
The comments following on from the article are, on the whole also well worth reading with (in my opinion) the following exception:
“ahi, as far as I am concerned poetry is for one person and that person is the person that wrote it and to be honest that is where it should be left.
I have tried many times to read poetry which has been sent to newspapers and to magazines but it is too much like hard work to bother because it is generally absolute tripe.
Poetry belongs with latin, forgotten, and should stay there.
There are a few con-merchants around as well who offer to publish ones poems if they come up to the mark. In this case the mark is if you are prepared to pay for the thrill of seeing your rubbish in print and people constantly fall for it.
I even pointed this fact out to one guy and he was still adamant that the quality of his work was “good”. I am sorry but it was absolutely terrible,”ignorance is bliss”, cheers, david”.
The above comment does, I believe say more about the person making it than it does about the value of poetry. “It was too much like hard work” says it all!
There was a young lady called Lucinda
Who met a hot man on Tinder.
He said, “with you I will level,
I am the devil
And my gift to you is a cinder”!
No need for roses to impress
The girl in the short summer dress,
Though there is wine a plenty
To fill the empty
Cup.
A man may sup
And not be filled
Though wine be spilled
Upon the sheet
Where nectar sweet
Runs
And the great tide comes
In once more
To sigh
And die
On barren shore.
There was a young man called Lefroy
Who thought every girl was his toy.
He met a lady called Kate
And learned too late
How a girl can a man’s ego destroy
There was a young man called Strange
Who lived in a moated grange.
The moat dried out
And his neighbours did shout,
“You must your affairs rearrange”!
Thunder echoes but Thor
Is no more.
People look skywards as before
But only to remark
That the sky is dark.
The rain will clean
For a while, but the obscene
Heat
That festers in the calculating brain
Will remain.
The sane
Will go with the rain
That cools
While fools
Complain
That nature rules.
When the sweating
And the getting
Is almost done
And our sun
Is setting,
Will we count a race well run?
Let us be wary lest the tears fall
And what seemed sweet, turn to gall.
There was a young man called Neil
Who’s love for a girl was passionate and real.
She said, “Beware,
For people stare
And my heart it is made of steel”!