Written the Evening Before a Post is Due

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To my sorrow
I have no poem for tomorrow

And now it is today
What do you readers say?

In the future
Will a reblog suit ya?

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Identity Crisis

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A family moment, measuring the boys:
measuring the boys on their own
measuring the boys against each other
measuring the boys against Dad
measuring Dad against Mum
measuring the boys against Mum.

Son, you’re 5’4”, so that’s two inches taller than Mum.
That’s not right. Do it again.
We measure again:
5’4” and 5’2”

No, I’m five foot tall.
I’ve been five foot tall since I was eighteen.
My Dad measured me for my passport
when we emigrated.
Women don’t grow after eighteen.
I was five foot then; I’m five foot now.
I’ll take my slippers off. Do it again.

I ignore the sniggering as they measure once more.
5’2”
Your tape measure is faulty. Find another one.
5’2”
Do it against the door. Mark off 5’2” on the door;
I’ll wash it later. I’ll stand under it and you’ll see
a two-inch gap.
5’2”

I don’t get it.
I don’t understand.
I’m five foot tall. You’ve made a mistake.
You know your Dad was ditzy like y…you know
your Dad was ditzy. He probably made a mistake
when he measured you.

How can you make a mistake with a tape measure?
It’s not possible.
He shrugs.

No. I’m short. I’m dainty.
I’m tiny, like Kylie Minogue.
5’2” is not dainty. It’s not tiny.
It’s not who – not what I am.
I’m five foot tall. I’ve always been five foot tall.
I’m five foot small.

This is like that time my feet grew two sizes
when I emigrated.
I blame South Africa.

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Genuine identity crisis. I’m still seething, twelve years later.

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Beach Box

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Found
On the beach
At the spring equinox
A box
A brown box
A drowned box
A bashed box
A stoned box
A locked box
Had taken hard knocks
Pounded by waves
Or perhaps pounded by rocks
Yes, rocks must have been chucked
By a bunch of drunk jocks
I take stock
It is locked
I pound the lock with a rock (o the irony)
Then
What a shock!
Inside the box
The locked box
The bound box
The pounded box
The damaged
Battered
Tattered box
Is a pair
Just one pair
One pair of men’s socks

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This is a nonsense poem. Nonsense poems are great fun to write: simply choose a word and find as many rhymes or near-rhymes as you can, then try to weave it into some sort of story or logical progression (think Dr Seuss). But it doesn’t matter if you can’t; just have fun with the words!

You can also repeat words as often as you like, as I have done here.

Here’s a great website to help you: Rhymezone.

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It’s All Greek to Me

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Theatre
Democracy
Lighthouses
Cartography
Odometers
Geometry
Marathons
Peer juries
The Olympics
Pericles
Alarm clocks
Thucydides
Safe doctors
Swears Hippocrates
Anchors
Philosophy
Waterwheels
History
Cranes
Sophocles
Showers
Demosthenes
Maria Callas
Archimedes
Clock towers
Vending machines
Moussaka
Socrates
Alexander the Great
Eratosthenes
The Spartans
Stories for movies
El Greco
Onassis
Nia Vardalos
Pythagoras
Mythology
Ouzo
Cheap holidays

It’s all Greek to me

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If you haven’t come across one before, this is a list poem. List poems are exactly what they sound like – a poem in list form. I have some rhymes and half-rhymes in this one because it’s a bit of fun.

A half-rhyme (also known as a near-rhyme or slant rhyme) is when two words sound similar but are not proper rhymes, such as elk/milk or (from the poem) cartography/geometry.

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Sheep Fight

Father and son disagreed:

A ram.
A lamb.
A ding-dong,

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I can’t believe I’m the first person to come up with this joke but I couldn’t find anything via Google.

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I think it might be just a British joke:

ding-dong
[ˈdɪŋdɒŋ, dɪŋˈdɒŋ]
NOUN
BRITISH
INFORMAL
a fierce argument or fight:
“they had a bit of a ding-dong”

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But I did find this for my American readers:

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