Does anyone here write poetry

[mahunamoon]

If so do we have a board for it, I write inspirational poetry, just wondered. Joan x

[Hidden]

Do you know, mahunamoon, I cannot write poetry at all, in fact I need to know a lot more about it. So I will sit on the fence and see how you all get on. Best of luck.

[mahunamoon in reply to Hidden]

Thanks annieseed, yes I need to see how it goes aswell, I just write what comes into my head, or into my life, must admit its a bit deep at times, it seems to make sense at the time, but then I am a lover of philosophy aswell, lol Joan x

[kathok in reply to Hidden]

Yes,here's one.A ghost who was still in his prime,said "my acting technique is sublime".So he tried for the stage,and was quickly engaged to appear in a phantom mime

[mahunamoon in reply to kathok]

lol what about the skeleton who sang I aint got no body Joan x

[Hidden]

Tried to write poetry but it was pathetic!!

[mahunamoon in reply to Hidden]

awwwwwwww sorry annieseed, must admit I do have to be in the right mood or mode. Joan x

[Gidge]

I'm afraid mine is not so much inspirational as Pam Ayres!!!!

[mahunamoon in reply to Gidge]

Neither is mine shes soooooooo funny and witty, I dont write that kinda poetry. Joan x

[mahunamoon]

ok here goes, bear in mind this is about the nature of life... and changes.....yet still exists.

The babbling brook,

babbles no more,

the sun did come and take her,

to journey on in another realm,

another form, another place, another time,

yet still the spirit of the babbling brook

continues to watch over us,

bringing us refreshment

by way of early morning mists, and raindrops on a warm sunny day

such is evolution my friends.

Joan x

[rick1]

Some really good replies here, is poetry supposed to rhyme or doesn't it matter?

[mahunamoon in reply to rick1]

Hello rick1 I dont think it needs to rhyme, there are so many different kinds of poetry, long as it sings tothe heart and soul its fine, but to me the main thing objective is that what one may call the flow, hope you get what I mean .... Joan x

[johnwr in reply to rick1]

Rhyme is not as important as rhythm. Stuff that rhymes, if it hasn't got rhythm, doesn't work. Stuff that doesn't rhyme but has rhythm, sometimes works very well. O

johnwr

[johnwr]

There are some awesome poets on this site, but there are more who just take poetic licence!

This has been one of the favourites of this old hasbeen for about fifty years. Tolkien wrote it, sounds best spoken in Tolkien (slightly loudly drunk with a Somerset accent!).

THE MAN IN THE MOON

STAYED UP TOO LATE

There is an inn, a merry old inn

beneath an old grey hill,

And there they brew a beer so brown

That the Man in the Moon himself came down

on night to drink his fill.

The ostler has a tipsy cat

that plays a five-stringed fiddle;

And up and down he runs his bow,

Now squeaking high, now purring low,

now sawing in the middle.

The landlord keeps a little dog

that is mighty fond of jokes;

When there's good cheer among the guests

He cocks an ear at all the jests

and laughs until he chokes.

They also keep a horned cow

as proud as any queen;

But music turns her head like ale,

And makes her wave her tufted tail

and dance upon the green.

And O! the rows of silver dishes

and the store of silver spoons!

For Sunday there's a special pair,

And these they polish up with care

on Saturday afternoons.

The Man in the Moon was drinking deep,

and the cat began to wail;

A dish and a spoon on the table danced,

The cow in the garden madly pranced,

and the little dog chased his tail.

The Man in the Moon took another mug,

and then rolled beneath his chair;

And there he dozed and dreamed of ale,

Till in the sky the stars were pale,

and dawn was in the air.

Then the ostler said to his tipsy cat:

"The white horses of the Moon,

They neigh and champ their silver bits:

But their master's been and drowned his wits,

and the Sun'll be rising soon!"

So the cat on his fiddle played hey-diddle-diddle,

a jig that would wake the dead:

He squeaked and sawed and quickened the tune,

While the landlord shook the Man in the Moon:

It's after three! He said.

They rolled the Man slowly up the hill

and bundled him into the Moon,

While his horses galloped up in rear,

And the cow came capering like a deer,

and a dish ran up with the spoon.

Now quicker the fiddle went deedle-dum-diddle;

the dog began to roar,

The cow and the horses stood on their heads;

The guests all bounded from their beds

and danced upon the floor.

With a ping and a pang the fiddle-strings broke!

The cow jumped over the Moon,

And the little dog laughed to see such fun,

And the Saturday dish went off at a run

with the silver Sunday spoon.

The round Moon rolled behind the hill,

as the Sun raised up her head.

She hardly believed her fiery eyes;

for though it was day, to her surprise

they all went back to bed!

breathe easy all

johnwr

[mahunamoon in reply to johnwr]

Yes johnwr very good example, would love to hear it, I will try to find it as an audio book on my tablet,............ thanks Joan x

[legion9]

Occasionally write songs, but would enjoy seeing more poetry and would probably start again (used to during teenage years) if there was a place for it. That's a nice thought.

[mahunamoon in reply to legion9]

cool, legion9 .... thanks I wonder if theres enough members we could start something up Joan x

[mahunamoon]

mabe short stories, song verses. and poems, mabe also everyones inspirational thoughts, Joan x

[Hidden]

I've only just found this thread - I'll be posting me poems on here from now on.

Ars Not Arse

A dead cow floats in Formaldehyde -

is someone taking me for a ride?

Rodin's "Lovers" tied up with string!

Some people will pay to see anything.

If you want to look at an unmade bed

Come and visit my son's room instead.

Bring back Waterhouse

bring back Rossetti,

don't show me displays

made from cans of spaghetti.

The art world is turning into a farce,

What we all really want is Ars - not arse!

Poemsgalore

[Hidden]

Girl In The Chapel

Her short cropped hair

and pock-marked skin;

was it plague?

Was the rough, coarse shift

her only dress?

And why the Lady Chapel?

So many questions I need to ask

as she turns the pages of the Holy Book.

But when I say:

"How can I help you?"

She points towards the altar candles -

then slowly disappears.