No-Fear Poetry
if I could have one wish
it would be that every dish
I ate of fattening food
would reduce my weight
to a long-lost 8
and my belly would not protrude
(okay, that’s two
but greed is why I got so big:
I don’t know how to eschew)
***
USA readers: that’s a British size 8, which I think is a size 4 in Americanese.
Walk the red carpet
in concubine feet?
Watch at home, anonymous
in slippers.
Be celebrated, rich? Diet?
Drip haute couture?
Eat chocolate; slob
in granny knickers.
Never tweet a word without first
clearing it with your publicist?
I mean, there’s no contest,
is there?
***
Sorry! Technept here…this is tomorrow’s post, accidentally published the evening before.
Rather than cancel and schedule so that you receive two notifications, I’ll leave it as it is.
I can’t promise that it won’t happen again, because I’m not a liar and I am a luddite.
I see red
when
I go unread.
***
The piku poetry form is a blend of haiku and the first three numbers of pi:
Three lines
Eight syllables, broken down 3-1-4
It doesn’t have to rhyme but I like the challenge.
If you fancy having a go, the easiest way is to write a prose sentence and then whittle it down to its bare essentials. Please do share in the comments if you try it.
Create a piku chain by keeping your sentence intact, but remember – 8 syllables: 3-1-4.
Soap…I’m not a fan.
Sorry if I burst your bubble, he shrugs,
as only a grubby lad can.
A bit o’ dirt won’t hurt
but soap in your eyes makes you cry.
I can’t cry; I’m almost a man.
22/6/22
Yesterday’s: two-
two-six-
two-two. I forgot; did you?
June is
done; the
next one’s
in July.
I will try to recall them
all from
now on.
***
Did I mention I love palindrome dates? I forgot all about yesterday’s however, so I wrote this by way of apology.
If you count the words on each line in each stanza, you will see they add up like this: 2/2/6/2/2.
You can have a lot of fun when writing poetry; the words are only the beginning.
Dear Rain,
You know I hate to complain
but you ruined June again.
Now you’re trying to kill July.
Why?
Must we yank out our passports
and fly away to fairer lands,
impairing the planet along the way?
The solution is in your hands:
move over for the sun
so we can have some homespun fun.
Be a sport!
Love, the Damp Populace of Stockport.
***
Fact: it rains a lot here. I’m scheduling this poem so I can’t guarantee it’ll appear on a rainy day; but chances are it will, because it rains a lot here. Did I mention that it rains a lot here?
Try to stay awake:
it’s the longest day of the year,
especially for those whose kids
have started their summer break.
https://coppafeel.org/your-boobs/
I don’t claim science is partisan
But if men had to flatten their bits
The way we’ve to compress our tits
Tests would be by remote scan
To solve a crime
take the time
to hire an investigator,
also known as a scrutator –
I kid you not one jot.
Thank me later
when your crime is solved
and I’m absolved
of inventing new words –
aka neologisms –
which sound absurd.
I will accept your apologisms.
***
Dictionary.com:
scrutator
[ skroo-tey-ter ]
noun
a person who investigates
neologism
[ nee-ol-uh-jiz-uhm ]
noun
1. a new word, meaning, usage, or phrase.
If I wrote a novel,
I’d be a novelist.
Hollywood would call,
and I would write a script.
My first casting choice
would clearly be Brad Pitt.
And I’d make tons of cash
on the delicious strength of it.
If I wrote a play,
why, then I’d be a playwright.
My amazing script would cause
a definite bidding fight.
Thousands of admirers
would flock to my opening night.
The money would improve
my current cashless plight.
If I wrote a song,
I’d be a hit songwriter.
I’d celebrate my Grammy win
with a cool all-nighter.
I’d probably go to jail
because I couldn’t get much tighter.
Publicity would open up
those wallets so much wider.
If I wrote a special exposé
for a trashy magazine
I’d be a famous exposer
of the hidden and obscene.
Perhaps bring down the government…
better yet, the Queen!
I’d relish every cent
of the amount of dosh I’d glean.
But if I wrote a poem
there’s no doubt I’d stay obscure.
After all, who even knows
what poetry is for?
All it does is leave me
utterly poor poor poor.
Rhythm and rhyme take time
and I really have no more:
I’ve a book to write;
a film to script;
I might do the music score;
an A-list event that I can’t wait
to prep and dress up for.
I know that advertisers
will soon be running for my door.
I’ll be most in demand
for time with the press corp.
Writing’s fine in my own time
but this writer wants MORE.
Much more.
So much more.
More. More. More.
I HAVE to see my face
on shelves at the book store.
I’m so tired,
so very tired,
so bored of being poor.
Poetry Fluff 