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Wednesday 27 April 2016

Napowrimo Day 23-26

Sorry guys, its catch up day again. But I am still struggling on. And I think the standard of my poems might reflect this, but, and it is a good but, I AM still trying. Even if I'm stumbling over sonnets...

Day 23

A sonnet was asked for, a sonnet they got!

There is a point in every poets life
When nothing that she writes, deserves to stay
upon the page, or recorded in a book.
Where words are caught, and trapped for every day.
There is a time in every poets dream
Where, no matter what she does, there is no time.
And nothing that she writes is what it seems
Or stays within the meter of a rhyme.
But who would want this talent to be tamed
As every image lit would sound the same,
And every emotion touched upon, awhile
would only bring a sad and lacking smile.
So I struggle to write until the start of May.
And words appear, poemish each and every day!

27th April 2016

Day 24

Thi is meant to be a mix and match poem with flowery prose and down to earth words. Think I have confused myself.

This last ventricle of a book has bamboozled me.
I wander across the vermillion viaduct,
Blanket tight in sweaty hand
As I try not to take umbrage at my own thoughts.
There is no hook for my turgid brain to hang a thought upon.
Voluptuous, or otherwise.
My breathless utterances rent the sky
with vulcanised swearwords.
But they cannot hold a candle to the pain
my thoughts have wrought.
Metal needles, copper pins,
tin foil sticks and stones.
I devoured them voraciously.
Now, only a random pine-cone rattles lonely
across the finger rough stonework.
And I loiter, inflexible against the wind.

27th April 2016

Day 25

"Cursed be he that moves my bones,
When I am gone!"
But death to him that touches my books,
And replaces them out,of, order,
Upon those sacred shelves.
Pushed in anyhoo.
Ruffled. Ripped and torn,
Corners crumbled and pages stained.
Unalphabetised, and height confused.
Deauthorised.
They are mine, I tell you. MINE!

But worse, if they were broken up
Forgotten, and unloved.
Unwanted on those sacred shelves.
Unread and unenjoyed by any other soul.
Bones are bones.
And curses only work if there is belief.
But books,
They only live when eyes devour the printed page.
Books should be read.
Not left as perfect spines, as dead as I, upon that undusted shelf.
Enjoy my books.
Forget my bones.

27th April 2016
This was the title/line of a poem By Ian Whitely based upon Shakespeare's tombstone. He wrote a great poem. Mine is different.

Day 26

Call and response.

A Beer Drinkers Sea Shanty?

Through storm and sunset we may sail.
Raise a pint of ale, lads.
Beyond the land, our faces pale.
Raise a pint of ale.
But we go on beyond the sea
Raise a pint of ale lads.
To find a fortune, after tea.
Raise a pint of ale.
And dragons foul, and maidens fair.
Raise a pint of ale lads.
What other delights do we find there?
Raise a pint of ale.
Through dragons fair, and maidens foul.
Raise a pint of ale lads.
We shall not throw in the towel.
Raise a pint of ale.
We shall not waver, for blood, or love.
Raise a pint of ale lads
And when all's done, meet down the pub
To raise a pint of ale lads.
To raise a pint of ale.

27th April 2016

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