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Poetic Licence

I've got Poetic Licence
Applied the other day
I took a little test you see
They said I was OK.

With this Poetic Licence
I now talk just in verse
But sometimes when out shopping
It feels like quite a curse.

Where some would say
'Tomatoes'
I find myself in rhyme
I ask for things at length you see
It sure eats up the time.

Not 'tomatoes' do I ask for
Nor a kilo and a half
I come out with some poem
I do get lots of laughs.

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poem by David Keig
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I Remember Loving You

I remember loving you.
You turned my heart into a koan I haven't cracked yet.
You were a muse of dark matter.
A Mayan phase of the moon
that kept your predictions to yourself.
You were the unified field theory
that made me feel I knew why I was here.
That my abysmal ignorance
was the ore
of infinite enlightenments to come
each one a world of its own
we were free to start with each other.
I remember touching your skin
as if I were reaching out to a ghost
to see if it was real.
Even now after all these years
I can recall the sensation
as if I were holding
a first folio edition of Shakespeare
that no one knew anything about.

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poem by Patrick White
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Zoe Reno Is Not A Car?

Hey Reno! Get the name right!
Hey Reno! Zoe is not a common noun!
Zoe is a first name! A Christian name!
In Greek Zoe means life, abundant life!

Zoe Reno is a young girl, your car stole her name!

Oh Zoe is not a name you do not believe me?
Your paid judge has ruled Zoe is not a first name!
Ever heard of St. Zoe, a Roman noble woman?
Several notable Christian women were named Zoe!

Two were empresses ruling in the Byzantine empire!

Their recorded rule kinda out rules your judge!
St. Zoe the Roman noble woman was martyred!
Why? For her Christian faith in Emperor Diocletian’s
famous severest last persecution of the Christian church!

What it is not a living word? Ok you do not buy it fine!

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poem by Terence George Craddock
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Jobson Of The Star

Within a pub that's off the Strand and handy to the bar,
With pipe in mouth and mug in hand sat Jobson of the Star.
"Come, sit ye down, ye wond'ring wight, and have a yarn," says he.
"I can't," says I, "because to-night I'm off to Tripoli;
To Tripoli and Trebizond and Timbuctoo mayhap,
Or any magic name beyond I find upon the map.
I go errant trail to try, to clutch the skirts of Chance,
To make once more before I die the gesture of Romance."
The Jobson yawned above his jug, and rumbled: "Is that so?
Well, anyway, sit down, you mug, and have a drink before you go."

Now Jobson is a chum of mine, and in a dusty den,
Within the street that's known as Fleet, he wields a wicked pen.
And every night it's his delight, above the fleeting show,
To castigate the living Great, and keep the lowly low.
And all there is to know he knows, for unto him is spurred
The knowledge of the knowledge of the Thing That Has Occurred.
And all that is to hear he hears, for to his ear is whirled
The echo of the echo of the Sound That Shocks The World.
Let Revolutions rage and rend, and Kingdoms rise and fall,

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poem by Robert William Service
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Passion Plot - Arthur Abacus' Affiancing

Passion Plot - Arthur Abacus' Affiancing Application Against Ann's Approval

Passion Plot

Aspiring author aims at gold award
accordingly advancing work of art
always rhyming, rhythmic, in accord,
A I O U and Y are drawn apart
from that which follows D, and from the start
inscription shows how mighty is nib's sword.

This way of writing is simplistic - word
word follows automatically drawn,
idyllic musing is it or absurd?
no hours are lost, all printing rags untorn,
prompt spurring, on hot air as tiny bird,
this work so artificial's promptly born.

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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In Honour of that High and Mighty Princess, Queen Elizabeth

Proem.

Although great Queen, thou now in silence lie,
Yet thy loud Herald Fame, doth to the sky
Thy wondrous worth proclaim, in every clime,
And so has vow'd, whilst there is world or time.
So great's thy glory, and thine excellence,
The sound thereof raps every human sense
That men account it no impiety
To say thou wert a fleshly Deity.
Thousands bring off'rings (though out of date)
Thy world of honours to accumulate.
'Mongst hundred Hecatombs of roaring Verse,
'Mine bleating stands before thy royal Hearse.
Thou never didst, nor canst thou now disdain,
T' accept the tribute of a loyal Brain.
Thy clemency did yerst esteem as much
The acclamations of the poor, as rich,
Which makes me deem, my rudeness is no wrong,
Though I resound thy greatness 'mongst the throng.

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poem by Anne Bradstreet
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Answering The Wolf

Answering the wolf.
Its agony, my own.
Its long howl of irreproachable pain
enough to silence the mountains
with trepidation before something holy.
Desecration. A photo. Two dozen wolf corpses
pouring over the tail-gate of a pick-up.
The bounty of two happy hunters
kneeling beside their rifles
as if something had been accomplished
it would be worth telling their children about.
Hard truth. Here is a human. My species.
It can do this to anything that lives.
From blue algae to Auschwitz,
Uganda, Syria, Wounded Knee.
Whales, buffalo, Sabra and Shatila, the Amazon,
twenty-five million famished children a year,
an avalanche of wolves at the back of a pick-up.
Beyond wanting to know why
there's this black spot

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poem by Patrick White
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I Feel The Thorns Of The Rose Making Inkwells Of My Eyes

I feel the thorns of the rose making inkwells of my eyes.
It's me that hurts. But without meaning to,
I'm bleeding for everyone. A watershed of blood and tears.
A reservoir of pain. Not all my own, I drink
before anyone like a hummingbird, or a canary in the mine,
to make sure it isn't toxic. No goat skull in a well
of rotten water. No blood on the horns of the moon.

What a disgrace it is to be a human sometimes.
What a sorrow when your heart wobbles like a drunk bell
and there are perturbations and precessions in your orbit
it's hard to explain except as the flawed configuration of a dream
with your waking life, though they're both just two waves
of the same sea of awareness, feathers and scales.

Oxymoronic maple keys vertiginous as Sufis
at the crossroads of everywhere and here. My heart
is a bone-box full of elegies for Arctic swans
shrinking like ice-bergs from global warming.
And I'm not as mindless in love as I should be,

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poem by Patrick White
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The Toad And Spyder. A Duell

Upon a day, when the Dog-star
Unto the world proclaim'd a war,
And poyson bark'd from black throat,
And from his jaws infection shot,
Under a deadly hen-bane shade
With slime infernal mists are made,
Met the two dreaded enemies,
Having their weapons in their eyes.

First from his den rolls forth that load
Of spite and hate, the speckl'd toad,
And from his chaps a foam doth spawn,
Such as the loathed three heads yawn;
Defies his foe with a fell spit,
To wade through death to meet with it;
Then in his self the lymbeck turns,
And his elixir'd poyson urns.
Arachne, once the fear oth' maid
Coelestial, thus unto her pray'd:
Heaven's blew-ey'd daughter, thine own mother!

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poem by Richard Lovelace
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The Rape of the Lock: Canto 3

Close by those meads, for ever crown'd with flow'rs,
Where Thames with pride surveys his rising tow'rs,
There stands a structure of majestic frame,
Which from the neighb'ring Hampton takes its name.
Here Britain's statesmen oft the fall foredoom
Of foreign tyrants and of nymphs at home;
Here thou, great Anna! whom three realms obey,
Dost sometimes counsel take--and sometimes tea.
Hither the heroes and the nymphs resort,
To taste awhile the pleasures of a court;
In various talk th' instructive hours they pass'd,
Who gave the ball, or paid the visit last;
One speaks the glory of the British queen,
And one describes a charming Indian screen;
A third interprets motions, looks, and eyes;
At ev'ry word a reputation dies.
Snuff, or the fan, supply each pause of chat,
With singing, laughing, ogling, and all that.

Meanwhile, declining from the noon of day,

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poem by Alexander Pope
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