Can We Talk About Poetry?

The picture from the 300 word, has inspired me to write a poem.

Travelling on a Canal.

The narrow boat motors sedately along,
The thistle and cobweb enmeshed bank,
All so very picturesque and photographic,
Ripples spread evenly from bank to bank.

The chug chug of engines reasonably quiet,
Sheep on one bank, cows on the other,
A rural scene of an age gone by,
Each lock has to be maneuvered manually.

Further along on another bank a fair of old,
Fairground music adding to the atmosphere,
Ducks cross the canal serenely with eloquence,
A cottage pub sits near enticingly.

After a revitalised rest and refreshments,
We travel onwards into unknown territory,
An apple core splashes into the water,
Some children wave from a bridge.

After a few more hours night draws in,
And we snuggle into our sleeping bags,
A restful dreamless sleep engulfs us,
A beautiful dawn beckons another day.
A New Year Brings Hope.

Bong! Midnight is almost here.
Bong! Fireworks crackling about.
Bong! Let's hope the new one is better.
Bong! Singing Auld Lang Syne.
Bong! Peace, calm and harmony in the world.
Bong! Shake hands with a stranger.
Bong! More fireworks bang and crack.
Bong! Let the news be more cheering.
Bong! Let's drink more carefully.
Bong! Poetry flow freely from our pens.
Bong! Let the whole world rejoice together.
Bong! Let friends and family know that you care.

Happy New Year everybody
Let us sparkle through the year.
A Triplet of Limericks.

There was an old man who lived on the moon,
He thought he was a silly old spoon,
He bought a tie,
Had a great sigh,
But people knew he was looney buffoon.

An old man bought a didgeridoo,
He wanted to lure a kangaroo,
It hopped,
And stopped,
Because both wanted a poo.

There was an old man who lived on a barge,
Who lived often on bread, jam and marge,
The colour was pink,
Yet it caused a stink,
The merry old man is still at large.
Tears and Laughter for a Queen.

I stand here with tears running down my face,
I'm stunned and cannot move onwards,
People try to urge me beyond my threshold,
Why has this happened now at this moment,
Her peaceful laughter filled reign is unique,
I still weep for the unfairness of it all,
The world needs laughter not tears,
And now laughter breaks into my tears,
I can move on now, so can the whole world.
Disclaimer: Light verse. Any resemblance to real events, or any persons living or dead, are accidental. For entertainment purposes only. Not a life saver

Kim Stanley Robinson went to the shops

And purchased a mask and a pistol

And a bonny black mare, and a three–cornered hat

And hid by the high road to Bristol.

Sing Hi! Holiday! For Kim Stanley Robinson,

Kim Stanley Robinson, Ho!

Kim Stanley Robinson, sing me a song

And a-highwaymanning we will go!

Kim Stanley Robinson held up the stage,

And told them to “Stand and deliver!”

He put all the gentlemen into a rage

And sent all the ladies a’quiver.

Sing Hi! Holiday! For Kim Stanley Robinson,

Kim Stanley Robinson, Hey!

Kim Stanley Robinson, gather the loot

And together we’ll gallop away!

Kim Stanley Robinson rode to an inn

But the inn was all shuttered and dark

So he drew from his saddle his old saddle-flask

And sat on a bench in the park.

Sing Hi! Holiday! For Kim Stanley Robinson,

Kim Stanley Robinson, Yeah!

Kim Stanley Robinson, pour me a draught

And I’ll drink to your health, good Sir!

Sing Hi! Holiday! for Kim Stanley Robinson,

Kim Stanley Robinson - how?

Kim Stanley Robinson, Kim Stanley Robinson

Kim Stanley Robinson, POW!
My first book was a poetry collection. Never been clever enough to do haiku, though.

Anyway, here's something on the lighter side from that book.

Dark In Here, Isn’t It?

I am the dark that fills your room
All your fears shrouded in gloom
At night I chuckle as I wait for you
Nowhere to hide, nothing you can do

I parade your teddies in medieval hose
Raise the dust that tickles your nose
That three in the morning fatal disease?
It’s only my shadows trying to please

Oh I am the dark that happy wet thing
That dampens the pillows to which you cling
Don’t fear me my love, I’m only foolin’
It’s the thing under the bed that really is drooling

Nightly sweats and moonlit tears
It’s all entertainment to me my dear
What you fear I summon with delight
And they only hide when you turn on the light

So good night, sleep tight
And don’t forget
That I am the dark
And I’m not done with you yet…
A Ramshackle Cottage

A jolly woman,
A tired man,
A fragile child,
All in the old house.

The kerosene lamp,
The spilled oil,
The spilled black blood,
All in the old house.

A Lullaby,
The phony blessing,
An immaculate kiss,
All in the old house.

Unconditional obedience,
Negotiable effort,
The cuttable photo,
All in the old house.

The reddened skies,
The broken glass,
Memories in pictures,
All in today's house.

Kerker couches,
Burnt chairs,
Torn curtains,
All in today's house.

Broken loves,
The traumas made worse,
And soiled paintings,
All in today's house.

Hopes blown away,
The muffled desires,
Shards of Heart,
All in today's house.

I kiss your sweet hand,
near the skin of passion,
making my soul restless;

And blue irises come from these hands,
are the lights of our beautiful moon,
that radiates your purity!

And no petal could begin to match how you shine,
which makes my heart cry out your name,
for a sweet-smelling night.

I kiss your sweet hand,
near the skin of passion,
making my soul restless;

And blue irises come from these hands,
are the lights of our beautiful moon,
that radiates your purity!

And no petal could begin to match how you shine,
which makes my heart cry out your name,
for a sweet-smelling night.
That's really well-written, but I couldn't help but feel a touch of sadness.
In Pursuit Of Good Fiction

Fiction educates long after school has let out, needs no classrooms, open to everyone
Looking through eyes of others, starts upon opening a book, thought filled journeys
Stepping into shoes of countless others, time after time, worlds upon worlds open up
Connecting minds whose bodies will never meet, sharing thoughts and opportunities

Fiction is more persistent than truth, it grows forever stronger by leaps and bounds
Filling in blank spaces, powered by imagination, answering unanswered questions
Stranger it seems, as fiction is replaced by facts, more fiction slips in to replace it
Fiction outsells non fiction in the real world, repeating a story is the same as selling it

Only one kind of truth, has only true facts, not surprisingly mostly contradictory
Fictions made of everything, including truths, giving it an infinite number of forms
Grand tales of fabulous misadventures start the world's youth flying on their ways
Corporate speak based on rules of good grammar demands thoughts perfectly framed

Stories reflecting interests, wishes, beliefs, wants and desires, naturally resonate
Picking out true courses of action carried by flights of fancy has become an art form
Stories have gaps, like magic we fill in the missing pieces with wishes, wants, desires
Mold it, shape it, love it, hate it, just remember fiction's the stuff dreams are made of

Good, bad, or indifferent, news has to be entertaining, the ratings are more important
Living in a first person fictional world, feeling the world through the eyes of others
Imagine what it's like to be who you dream to be, free of constraints of ordinary living
Being the best you can be in the worst situations with absolutely no risk to limb or life

Our virtual world we made in our own image, it has no past, present, or future
First impressions, years go by and nothing ages, it's all like it's fondly remembered
Half the truth intentional or nor is the same as a lie, all we ever know is half the story
We live lives of fiction, half of our own making, the world supplies the other half
Loss of Virginity

I'm snuggling up to a cypress swan,
with hungry eyes that long
to devour the green cherry of my sweet holly —
to the naked eye, could be a simple pea.

Yet, it is a mistletoe,
so dearly beloved,
never allowed to be plucked,
sniffed, or kissed
by the soft, warm lips of any who tempted.

But this swan, whose skin glowed
like the wings of a fairy,
dared to rub it's beak on my cherry,
transforming it into a little blood moon.

And from that blood
melts the meticulous love
I had kept so deep within my core,
away from any embrace warm enough
to shake my very guts.

And once the cherry bled with fervor,
throbbing my lungs with air,
it was severed from the early holly.

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