There was once a true mushroom, who loved to sing and write,
But one thing that she could not do was get a poem right.
By her words, apparently, she could not write a rhyme,
Though I might say to her right now, do just give it time.
Poems do not need to rhyme, nor have a tune or beat,
They just mean more to you or I, than what the eye does meet.
I’ll tell you here, just write your heart on to a page in ink,
Close your eyes and kill the world, and simply do not think.
If you wish to write in rhyme, like the verses up above,
Then let me be a guide to you, for poetry thereof.
I may not be the best at this, but I’m not bad, I think,
So do just try and follow me, you’ll miss it if you blink.
First you need a topic, something steeped in metaphor.
Like love or pain or student life, perhaps your bedroom door.
Your first line is very rough, don’t worry about each word,
It can be junk, but here you find the rhythm that is heard.
For now just try four lines a verse; I’ve always done it this way.
Alternate lines or pairs of lines will rhyme, I use them both.
This verse here has alternates rhymes, for emphasis, I say,
But couplets give you longer lines, and more exciting growth.
With topic in mind, your first line is a guide for all to come,
The final word, it’s in your head, some rhymes for it, do hum.
Or else just look them up on-line, if none do come to mind,
It does not matter where they’re from, but use well what you find.
The rhyme you’ve found, it now becomes the end of your second line,
Leave it there, and fill the blanks, with rhythm in your design.
Something to do with the topic you have, don’t deviate too much,
And work to beat, but leave some room for a dash of human touch.
Your first two lines, a couplet of rhymes: it’s a poem, all by itself.
Make more if you want, in a similar way, for as poems go, it’s an elf.
On following pairs, the same things works, now try and add some wit.
If the rhythm denies, just wait a while, don’t try and force it to fit.
I hope this worked for you, my friend, a mushroom true and true,
Probably not, but I can dream that somehow, it helped you.
Perhaps you’re right, I know you not, but now I’m more excited,
The less I know, the more there is to leave me so delighted.
Daily Archives: April 3, 2014
There was once a true mushroom, who loved to sing and write,
One with little misery,
Its full of tantrums and sulk,
Children have them in bulk.Time out or sent to bed,
Whilst complaining of my aching head,
Time for a cup of tea,
There is no break from being a mummy.
I look forward to my quiet night,
Sleep soundly until first light,
I’m up again at the break of dawn,
A cup of tea and a massive yawn.
I do my work and then wake the kids,
They stretch and flicker their eyelids,
They crawl down the stairs and take a seat,
It all starts again, and then repeat.
Its a hard life for me,
There’s no rest when being a mummy,
But I love my children, just so you know,
I watch them learn, play and grow.
When will I be free of this painful state
When will I avoid fits of rage and hate,
Searing jealousy, to me nothing new.
O’ if the crashing waves of time doth heal
And your face, seen upon sands, away will fade
Then never again in thrall shall I kneel
to your monstrous, intoxicating shade.
Until, borne upon Saharan zephyrs
She, another, arrives, to torment me
and make me ashamed of all my nevers
leaves me adrift on a desolate sea.
Still do I yearn for that which caused me pain.
Love is a cure that leaves it’s patient lame.
My name is Joe Roche, I am a 21 year old second year student of English at the University of Liverpool.
I enter from Stage Left
onto my stage,
not his stage,
but, his stage;
and cross down center
to enter the spot of light
to deliver his words,
not my words,
but, my words,
to my audience,
not his audience,
but, his audience.
And I speak every syllable,
of his thoughts,
not my thoughts,
but, my thoughts
with the passion and force
that were his,
And in that bath of light,
not my light,
but, my light,
I luxuriate and bask
as he did
on his stage
with his audience
in the applause
that was his applause,
not my applause,
but, my applause.
And I think
not my thought,
but, my thought:
The play’s the thing.
Copyright © by Lawrence S. Marsden, 3 April, 2014
A winter-wind whispered at my window and
shook me from my mid-day dreaming,
“You’re too cold, baby—don’t come around here any more.”
I put on all the clothes that lay between my bed and the door and
stepped outside for a thought and a cigarette—
The cold wind mixed with smoke bit and stung clear through to my lungs.
“Just let me read my books and smoke and think and don’t bother me.”
“You wish you could forget about me.” she whispered into my ear.
…which was true, but was also difficult in practice.
My cigarette smoked to its filter,
I placed the remnants in my already overflowing ashtray and went back inside to lie down.
Anyone lived in a pretty how town (with up so floating many bells down) spring summer autumn winter he sang his didn't he danced his did Women and men(both little and small) cared for anyone not at all they sowed their isn't they reaped their same sun moon stars rain children guessed(but only a few and down they forgot as up they grew autumn winter spring summer) that noone loved him more by more when by now and tree by leaf she laughed his joy she cried his grief bird by snow and stir by still anyone's any was all to her someones married their everyones laughed their cryings and did their dance (sleep wake hope and then)they said their nevers they slept their dream stars rain sun moon (and only the snow can begin to explain how children are apt to forget to remember with up so floating many bells down) one day anyone died i guess (and noone stooped to kiss his face) busy folk buried them side by side little by little and was by was all by all and deep by deep and more by more they dream their sleep noone and anyone earth by april wish by spirit and if by yes. Women and men(both dong and ding) summer autumn winter spring reaped their sowing and went their came sun moon stars rain E. E. Cumming SENT IN BY Butterscotch Blastoff
-YOUR FAVOURITE POEM SENT IN BY YOU WHAT’S YOURS
Good Morning, Good Morning, I say to you all.
Up at five AM seems to be my call.
My garden waits for the work to get done.
It is waiting for me, I am the one.
I pick up the weeds that get in the way.
The flowers most definitely have something to say.
They are starting to bloom and want all the attention,
They are very spoiled, a fact that I should mention.
The trees all need trimming so new buds will grow,
Sometimes it is too much work this I know.
But the pleasure of my hands in the dirt,
It is more than enough of an extra perk.
And then when the blooms do show their beautiful face,
I know that the garden is my very special place.
So I go out again at this early hour
Hoping to see all the new plants start to flower
Wishing that the weeds did not again appear
That is always my biggest fear!!
And sure enough just as I thought
They snuck up again, oh please tell me not