humour – NOT Just Saying

How To Tell If You’re A Poet

Do you wake up at two thirty with a rhythm in your head?
With a phrase that just won’t go away, but lingers there instead?

Do you turn the light on, rub your eyes, and start to madly scribble
On the pad you keep beside your bed, without a single quibble?

Do you think in rhyme when perhaps the time is not exactly right?
In the middle of a meeting, or, like me, the dead of night?

Does your brain dictate the time you put your words into a verse?
Do you have to finish it at once, when on the loo (or worse?)

Do you need to eavesdrop all the time to find your subject matter?
The bus, the Primark changing room, where people have a natter?

Is your poetry the heart and soul of everything you do?
Is it not a hobby, not a fad, but simply part of you?

If you grimace at the chance remarks that you get thrown your way,
‘So you dabble, do you? Oh, what fun to pass the time of day!’

If you mutter at the clichés and the patronising smirk
From a highly-paid executive who says it’s not real work,

If you live and breathe to hone your craft and hardly earn a crust,
If you scribe because you’re driven, and you scribe because you must.

Then you truly are a poet and the writing’s on the wall.
Words are wonderful my poet friend, so don’t ignore the call!

© Carol Ann Wood
October 2018

Links:
My bespoke poetry service, Diverse Verse
About the author
Contact the author, or follow this blog
Follow Carol Ann Wood on Twitter
Levelling the Playing-Field: Carol’s football-related blog
Only in Erinsborough Carol Ann’s fun look at the lives and loves of the characters from the Australian soap, Neighbours

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Poets Do Not Dabble.
We don’t turn our hand to writing.
We write.
It’s our brains that compose the words,
The structure, the verse,
And the hands simply obey instructions
Forming the line breaks and the punctuation.
Poets don’t dabble with a cup of tea
On a rainy day, when bored.
Our grey matter demands that
We pay full attention to instructions.
And we write.
Poetry is composed on the bog,
In the early hours of the morning.
At important meetings, at parents’ evenings,
During terribly dull sex.
When you’re laying on a doctor’s couch,
Legs akimbo,
With his hand examining your genitals.
Poetry is composed during sessions of Vin Yasa Yoga.
Whilst others are feeling the vibe,
You are searching for an illusive line
And wondering if you can grab your phone
From the pocket of your yoga pants,
To write in notes ‘Poets Do Not Dabble.’
Poetry is composed during inappropriate moments,
And no matter how much you try and pack it in a compartment,
It won’t go away.
If a poet leaves the words till a convenient time,
They will sit for hours with a blank page and a pen,
And immediately, they will find that
They have a parents’ evening or a meeting to get to,
They’re late for their yoga class,
Their nether regions itch and they must see a doctor,
They need to have dull sex.
Poets do not dabble.
They write.

© Carol Ann Wood
October 2018

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Granny Gets the Sex Toy

(A precautionary tale of Christmas preparations)

I’ve done my Christmas shopping, I’m getting quite ahead!
My haul of gifts are waiting to be wrapped, beneath my bed.
And so, with Christmas carols playing, in spirit, I begin,
A plate of mince pies by my side
And a little nip of gin.

Outside the snow is falling as I Sellotape and wrap,
(Well actually it’s sleet but then I thought that sounded crap.)
I write my sticky labels and I eat another pie,
And I take another nip of gin
To help the task fly by.

I’m feeling rather jolly, and smug to know that others
Leave gift buying till the very last for aunts and mates and mothers.
It’s easy once you’re used to it, and so to celebrate
I have another nip of gin and the last pie on the plate.

The carols still are ringing out and now my job is done,
The gifts all wrapped quite prettily – it’s even been good fun.
But wait – where are the labels that I got from a value range?
I know I stuck them on each one, but they’ve fallen off! How strange!

Well sod this for a lark, cos I’m not going to start again,
I’m sick of frigging Christmas and the whole thing is a pain.
So Granny gets the sex toy, and Uncle gets the make-up.
It won’t do either any harm and will give their lives a shake up.

Yes Granny gets the sex toy, my mate the potted plants,
My brother gets the oven gloves and my boss the fur skinned pants.
My mother gets the chick-lit and my teenage niece a pen,
And Granny gets the sex toy cos I an not starting again!

Yes Granny gets the sex toy, and as for those pink knickers
They were meant for my cousin Kay, but they’re probably now the vicar’s.
I may have made a slight mistake in large or small amounts
But Granny gets the sex toy – and it’s the frigging thought that counts!

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Your Aunty’s Pussy

I’m not saying that I never share anything silly or useless. But sometimes I’m incredulous at what people will and will not share!

Share a chain message, send a heart or flower.
Then, you’ll never have bad luck.
Share a status to help catch a thief
Who stole a bike in Bridlington
Even though you live in Delhi.
(Well, thieves can move fast.)
But don’t share my poem.

Mark yourself as safe in an earthquake
In Japan, when you’re in Market Deeping.
Share a funny video of a twerking Granny
And a photo of your aunty’s pussy.
Share an unfunny joke from The Lad Bible.
Share a cake shaped like a penis.
Share your breakfast, the first snow of winter,
A hamster eating nuts.
But don’t share my poem.

Don’t share my poem because it could contain a virus
And in any case, you might not understand it
Because it’s a poem and poems are for other people.
Poems are for people who think they’re a bit cleverer than you.
And poems are for people who don’t want to do real jobs.
That’s what someone said on Jeremy Kyle and in The Daily Mail
So it must be true.
So share the bad parking, the football fans behaving badly,
Copy, paste, share.
Just do not share my poem, no matter how much I implore you to.

Share a photo of a missing teenager
Because you are responsible and caring.
(And I am being serious here because it might help them get found faster.)
But don’t look at the date before you share the photo.
Don’t notice that said teenager went missing for two hours in 2014
And was then fortunately found safe but intoxicated at the bus stop.
Share frequently, carelessly, whether the news is fake or not.
Especially share your aunty’s pussy pix.
But please, don’t ever do anything so stupid
As to share my poem.

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The Late, Late Train

It’s been a long day and you’re weary and worn,
You won’t reach your home till some hour in the morn.
There’s a man with a can and he sits next to you
And he’s slurring his words, as the pissed often do.
There’s The Suits with their braying, their bragging and boasting,
A PA with Moët for the party she’s hosting.
A gaggle of hens and some young lads with bum fluff
Who jostle and nudge and who try hard to look tough.
The over-loud tourists, the twat with no brain.
All walks of life on the late, late train.

The football day trippers, so happy or sad.
The backpacking friends and the poor knackered dad,
The beggars, the chancers and the ones with no ticket.
You daren’t leave your seat in case someone should nick it.
The man whose coat smells like stale piss and old rain.
All walks of life on the late, late train.

The couple who fondle, who grope, snog and slobber,
The girl with the outrageous fancy dress clobber.
The stench of the burger, the noodles, the sauce.
The whiff of the Lynx (and the lager, of course).
The phone conversations, the break-ups of pain
All seen and heard on the late, late train.

The lies of the partner who swears they worked late,
And who then phones their lover to arrange the next date.
The girls in a bitch fight all shouting and screaming,
The indignant woman who’s roused from her dreaming.
The tweeters, the readers, the careworn and dazed,
The old-time commuters nonplussed and non-fazed.
Wake up tomorrow and do it again.
Your Ground Hog Day journey
On the late, late train.

Index of Posts:

Links:
My bespoke poetry service, Diverse Verse
About the author
Contact the author
Follow Carol Ann Wood on Twitter
Levelling the Playing-Field: Carol’s football-related blog
Only in Erinsborough Carol Ann’s fun look at the lives and loves of the characters from the Australian soap, Neighbours

Please note that any advertisements which appear below these posts are placed there by a WordPress algorithm. They are not indicative of any endorsement by the author.