What a fabulous morning, bright sun, crystal clear skies and frost on the lawn where the sun hasn't managed to get to yet - gorgeous. Lift the temperature by twenty degrees and it would be worth having. All makes it feel so much better.
I had a coffee with brother and sister in law next door this morning and sister in law has lost six pounds on her diet so she's doing really well. We had a look at their fish pond this morning and the water was only about three or four degrees, so my mind was made up not to do any spring maintenance on my little puddle to avoid stressing the fish. Brrrrrrrrrrrrr.
I don't know if your blog has it, but at the top there's a little link which says 'Next Blog'. I often click that and have a mosey round the world of blogging and there's some fascinating stuff I must confess: personal lives, family lives, hobbies, politics, photography and much, much more. Last night I came across a great site which had poems on it and unfortunately after I read it I moved onto the next one and didn't make a note of the link.
It was a poetry blog by an individual who writes about his personal life in the modern way of doing poetry, unlike poems when I was a kid which all rhymed. Interesting story within the poems but I'm sort of uneasy - concentrating so much on reading it properly to make it sound like a poem that I forget what the content is all about.
So I wrote a little ditty of my own last night as a commentary on the 'modern' way of writing a poem.
Just a simple Berk
I love to read a poem
To muse on prose and rhyme;
To feel the lines trip off the tongue
The feeling is sublime.
But looking on the Internet
At modern verse and line,
Just really makes me wonder
Why poems no longer rhyme.
There is a secret, I suppose
Which I’m not privy to,
Of how to make the lines flow right
Without a harsh review.
I like to giggle, have a laugh,
See clever word play work;
Tis a skill I do not have -
I’m just a simple berk.
To write a poem, I’ve no clue
To follow modern ways,
When ere I read the modern stuff,
My eyes go all a glaze.
I think I’ll quit while I’m ahead
Rhyming dictionary overused.
My final words on modern rhyme?
I’ll just remain ‘bemused’.
Copyright Rarelesserspotted, first published on www.rarelesserspotted.blogspot.com on 20 February 2010. Not to be reproduced without permission.
Chat soon
Ta-ra
Showing posts with label poem. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poem. Show all posts
Saturday, 20 February 2010
Saturday, 25 July 2009
100 not out!
Welcome to my one hundredth blog!
I have never written poetry and speak it very badly, rarely getting the rhythm right but I do like reading some of it as long as its not too heavy. In celebration I've written one, about cricket of all things, but it's summer, it's England and village greens are surrendering themselves to the weekend sound of leather on willow, (with old men pulling muscles and young men losing fingernails as they bravely go for balls that are hit far too hard.)
In Tribute to Village Cricket
Not for us the murmuring Lords
This village vanguard team;
‘Tis just enough to cross our swords
Wi’ lads from beyond the stream.
Our flat green wicket, amid the square:
The scene of battle many,
Where heroes only here may dare
And cowards ne’er tarry.
No Flintoft here to smirk and sledge
To frighten man and boy,
Just grocer Tom with simple pledge
His Yorkers to deploy.
Umpire Fred puts on the bails
And roaming dogs do cower,
Mongrels slink with lowered tails
To avoid his look so sour.
Locals gather around the flags
With nervous anticipation;
Deck chairs, beer and trembling fags
At village son’s participation.
The first ball’s down, short and wide,
The batsman plays and nicks;
‘Owzat’ in unison, aloud is cried -
The index finger flicks.
The wickets fall, the runs are meagre,
Home lads are steaming through;
To see Tail-enders off, and eager
For a welcomed interval brew.
The Umpire is surely having a laugh!
(Our innings starts with a falter;)
“You’re out, it calls to you, the bath,”
Sacrificed on seamers alter.
The bouncers whizz, the out-swing teases
Our lads, it seems no answer;
With fours so rare and singles squeezes-
To the score it’s no enhancer.
Last over comes, eleven’s facing
Nightmares all coming true;
Onslaught - sinews tired of bracing,
Body black and blue.
Just four required, no skill has he
As rocket like, ball comes down;
Thick outside edge past slip men three
Cherry skips with bowler’s frown.
Will ball meet boundary as runs come slow?
Field-er dives headlong;
The ball sneaks past the boundary flag,
Air punched and victory song!
No hard feelings, hands are shaken,
Backs are heartily slapped;
Beer is served in yonder pavilion,
A good day’s work is capped.
The dogs return, the walkers roam,
Of victory, memory fades;
On this green veldt, on English loam
That once saw willow blades.
Copyright and intellectual property of
'Rarelesserspotted'
July 2009
Chat soon
Ta-ra!
I have never written poetry and speak it very badly, rarely getting the rhythm right but I do like reading some of it as long as its not too heavy. In celebration I've written one, about cricket of all things, but it's summer, it's England and village greens are surrendering themselves to the weekend sound of leather on willow, (with old men pulling muscles and young men losing fingernails as they bravely go for balls that are hit far too hard.)
In Tribute to Village Cricket
Not for us the murmuring Lords
This village vanguard team;
‘Tis just enough to cross our swords
Wi’ lads from beyond the stream.
Our flat green wicket, amid the square:
The scene of battle many,
Where heroes only here may dare
And cowards ne’er tarry.
No Flintoft here to smirk and sledge
To frighten man and boy,
Just grocer Tom with simple pledge
His Yorkers to deploy.
Umpire Fred puts on the bails
And roaming dogs do cower,
Mongrels slink with lowered tails
To avoid his look so sour.
Locals gather around the flags
With nervous anticipation;
Deck chairs, beer and trembling fags
At village son’s participation.
The first ball’s down, short and wide,
The batsman plays and nicks;
‘Owzat’ in unison, aloud is cried -
The index finger flicks.
The wickets fall, the runs are meagre,
Home lads are steaming through;
To see Tail-enders off, and eager
For a welcomed interval brew.
The Umpire is surely having a laugh!
(Our innings starts with a falter;)
“You’re out, it calls to you, the bath,”
Sacrificed on seamers alter.
The bouncers whizz, the out-swing teases
Our lads, it seems no answer;
With fours so rare and singles squeezes-
To the score it’s no enhancer.
Last over comes, eleven’s facing
Nightmares all coming true;
Onslaught - sinews tired of bracing,
Body black and blue.
Just four required, no skill has he
As rocket like, ball comes down;
Thick outside edge past slip men three
Cherry skips with bowler’s frown.
Will ball meet boundary as runs come slow?
Field-er dives headlong;
The ball sneaks past the boundary flag,
Air punched and victory song!
No hard feelings, hands are shaken,
Backs are heartily slapped;
Beer is served in yonder pavilion,
A good day’s work is capped.
The dogs return, the walkers roam,
Of victory, memory fades;
On this green veldt, on English loam
That once saw willow blades.
Copyright and intellectual property of
'Rarelesserspotted'
July 2009
Chat soon
Ta-ra!
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