I’m a practising poet.
Here, let me show it:
At my keyboard I eagerly sit,
flexing my brain to come up with it ~
some great lines in a verse
aiming for better not worse
than the last time I tried to rhyme
(real poets thought it was a crime).
Some think it quite strange,
they note I’m deranged
when they see rants arranged
shouting upon the page
as I vent my misspent rage.
It’s good to get it off my chest
and return to feeling blessed,
for I’m a much nicer fellow
when I’m feeling mellow.
I write poems for my pleasure
that fill up my leisure,
and if I can share them with you
that’s an enjoyable thing to do.
The meter gets fleeter
and the words are much sweeter
depending on how many wines
are imbibed while writing these lines.
I must put down the glass,
show a modicum of class,
but it’s thirsty work you must agree,
wrestling with words to make poetry.
I’ll settle for a cup of tea
(coffee’s too much for me)
and try a sonnet about a lace bonnet,
but (depend upon it), I’m sure you’d vomit!
So I won’t, I’ll do this instead ~
whatever comes into my head.
With thoughts kaleidoscopic
there is always a topic,
from nature to prayer,
love shows that I care,
and if I can make you smile
then I’ll stick with that for a while.
I’m a practising poet.
Did I show it?
Yeah… I know it.
A lot more practice is needed
before I can say I succeeded.
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