About Poetry - Kathy Figueroa

These days, pretty much anything goes
From measured meter to free-form prose
From haiku, odes, or tossed “word salads”
To precisely presented ballads
 
Like crickets chirp, wolves howl, and birds sing
To express one’s self is the main thing
So share your thoughts, let the words ring true
We learn from each other’s points of view
 
Kathy Figueroa


Image : GuernseyPoets

The Great Man - Stephen A. Roberts

We sit and wait in hushed reverence
as the great man - with hair like mine, and C&A clothes - 
arose
The Laureate.
The priest of prose. 
He spoke in quiet Yorkshire tones
of his joy of working with girls and boys
and like a visiting stand-up cracked 
that he found here weird 
and could not pronounce Aurigny 
OR-EEEE-KNEE we all mouthed. 

Then he read from selected works
with an emphasis on the coast
a place for him exotic as the moon
he told us of his penniless Pennine walks
where he would literally
earn a crust living on his words:
those words arranged like the blocks
of the dry stone walls
in his native land, solidly built
with meaningful gaps between
inspiration for an installation -
the plaques inscribed with his
works - his Stanza Stones.

Then questions from the audience
who by then were almost mute
afraid to look the fool
before the ruler of rhyme
in his casual wear
I too was silent - what could I have asked - 
how was Lockdown? - we all knew - 
he spent it in his shed with the famous 
and a TV crew
despite his self- effacing air he is
quietly industrious with massive self belief
likes Bowie and OMD and
is a wannabe rock star just like me:
but the gulf between he and I
is as ‘twixt land and sky.

Stephen A. Roberts


Image : Stephen A. Roberts

You Can’t Lock Us Down - Tony Bradley

The air smells fresh,
there’s little exhaust fumes
and listen, to all those birds
It’s only ugly modern life,
that’s bereft,
the artist’s still have their brushes,
and the Poets still have their words.

Tony Bradley
Image : Pixabay - Ngo Minh Tuan

The Old Soak - Tony Bradley

I bath several times a week
I’m a hygienic bloke
okay, at least twice
I have a good soak.

With my bad balance
I can’t stand for a shower
I like a nice, long bath
well, more than a hour.

It’s the best place for my poems, too
‘cos my mind always becomes clearer
with a cup of coffee, my recent buzzwords
and a big slice of Madeira.

Occasionally, I’ve even dropped off to sleep
it’s all steamed up, the mirror’s gone foggy
the coffee’s spilt, and my fledgeling poems
are like the slice of Madeira . . . a little bit soggy.

Tony Bradley

Famous? - Kathy Figueroa

Famous?  I guess I have been, to a degree
And could be more so, except that I’m low key
On social media, I don’t strive for a million friends
Outliers like me often buck the trends

My poems and pictures are published here and there
These creative endeavours I’m always glad to share
But though my work is known in many a distant place
Most folks undoubtedly wouldn’t recognize my face

Some artists and writers strive to cultivate fame
But basking in the limelight isn’t my aim
I’ve things to do, dreams to dream, and words that rhyme
Blank pages await my pen ...for chasing fame I have no time

Kathy Figueroa

I Have This Gift - Tony Bradley

Well, it could be more of a failing
to be honest, I’m not really sure
I can wait in queues, at the bus stop, or the doctors
sometimes for 30 minutes, for an hour, or more

Whilst some may pace up and down, or fidget,
others play with their phones, or tutt, or curse
I call to mind, my latest, "work-in-progress"
an embryonic poem, gets another verse.

Tony Bradley

One Man’s Evolution, Or Lack Thereof - J. Archer Avary

I didn’t come quickly to poetry
I never did find it that cool
What caught my attention
Was punk rock aggression
And showing my ass like a fool

Pursuing the simplest of pleasures
Like drugging and women and booze
I wasted my youth
Spitting three-chorded truths
When I thought I had nothing to lose

Lamenting my twenties and thirties
My foibles remain unsurpassed
Repossessions and ex-wives
And workingman’s strife
Leave those terrible years in the past

Now I’m much older and wiser
I’ve mellowed like expensive wine
I’d sooner forget
Than dwell on regrets
It appears that I’ve turned out just fine

What lies ahead for the future
Oh where in the hell might I be
Pushing up daisies
From down in my grave
Or charged with disturbing the peace

J. Archer Avary

Drifting Poet - Ian Duquemin

If it wasn't for your kindness
He would be a drifting poet
Who might sing a song of sadness
To whoever wants to hear it
And his words would flow like water
That would trickle through their ears
Where each drop that they were hearing
Would amount to all his tears
As every poet's heart is hurting
It's the way that God desires them
To break the hearts of others
So that he can overcome them
Leaving scars that have some meaning
From a time when they were broken
And the only cure they needed
Were the gentle words once spoken
By the healing sound of thunder
Or the silence of a whisper
From the voice that serves to call you
If he had become that drifter
But he stayed within your comfort
Like a child that needs affection
Contented in your arms
As though he longed for your protection
It was you who gave him shelter
Sowed the thoughts of Inspiration
So that every word he'd spoken
Was a breath of aspiration
If it wasn't for your kindness
Then I wonder where he'd go?
Well I've never been a poet
So I guess we'll never know

Ian Duquemin

Writer's Block - Tony Gardner

It's been about a week or so
Since I sat down to write a line
I've been so busy, had no thought
No inspiration, or no time
So I have made some room tonight
In the study, all alone
To clear my mind, call for my Muse
Helped by a little Côtes du Rhône
It's all in vain for nothing comes
I've got a Writer's Block it seems
I'll walk tomorrow in the woods
And maybe there re-capture dreams

Then with my mind alive, ablaze
I shall write verses to amaze

Tony Gardner

Victor Hugo’s Parrot - Richard Fleming

The parrot of Victor Hugo
does not reside in a château,
instead he dwells in Guernsey air
and perches calmly on a chair,
immobile, quiet as a mouse,
in Le Salon of Hauteville House.

He knows he dare not interrupt
for Victor can be très abrupt.
He’s been as grumpy as a crab
while writing that Les Miserables.
But when work’s finished for the day,
Vic loves his petit perroquet.

Richard Fleming

I got POEMS, me - Tony Bradley

I have an affliction, it's not hereditary
I got POEMS, me, they're coming out my ears
it started when I was a nipper
so I suppose it's been a few years .

Throughout Medical History, other people have had POEMS
Wordsworth, Shelley, Milligan, McGough
Doctors can't help you, with sick-notes & tablets
it's not like syphilis, . . . or 'flu, . . or a cough.

These POEMS can fester into Fame or Fortune
those malignant growths would really mess up my 'ed
if they're diagnosed for me, on top of these POEMS
I just hope they'll stay small, 'till after I'm dead .

Tony Bradley

Poetry Not In Motion - Sara Kreckler

I sat down but I couldn't think
So I washed the dishes in the sink
One plate and one saucer
Then I thought of Chaucer
Also William Shakespeare
And whatshisname
But nothing came

I suddenly thought of something to do
Mix all the words together like a stew
Chaucer became saucer
Shakespeare became disappear
To be or not to be?
Now where have I heard that?
I'd get on my bike but the tyres are flat
Oh well......I guess I'd better eat my hat!

Sara Kreckler

Modern Poets - Bryony de Lat

I wish to declare my long-held disquiet
regarding the inaccurate image of modern poetry
presented by media, schools and the like
where the poet's a recluse, strange and solitary.

'Au contraire!' in my experience, (quite varied,very long)
yes they step back, but only to digest, philosophize,
by their very nature, folk easily become friends, and more
they hear everyone's woes, an ear kind and wise.

Bryony de Lat

Acrobatic Poetry - Fred Williamson and Lester Queripel

Today's poem is a "Golden Oldie" and was originally published here in October 2012

The words leap off the page.
Onto the empty stage.
It’s the start of the show.
The ideas flow.

Words rain from my mind.
I juggle them into line.
Poetry prose and rhyme.
Easy to find.
Pumping from my brain.
Like an express train.

Words, like busy bees.
Like monkeys in the trees.
A wordy display.
A worthy array.
The show must go on.
There is no pause.
Even after the applause.

Fred Williamson and Lester Queripel

Sorry, you're a poet - Bryony de Lat

It's no bed of roses and you know it, poet
but you were born to be one, always will
maybe a modern performer, with your mate, mic.
Or ye olde school scribe, with ink and quill.

You're not like news-hacks, who just scribble, and spew
with you everything that happens, hits home
you take it all to heart, no escape for you
it's neither rag, nor paperback, it's a life-long tome.

Everything affects you, with your caring heart
it's your best virtue, but it's also your curse
your emotions are constantly ignited, excited
and to temper and contain them, you oft' turn to verse.

You wouldn't really want to be like some people
full of themselves, with their masquerades, and poses
strutting through their own garden of life
without ever smelling the roses.

Bryony de Lat

Word Child - Diane Scantlebury

I’ve come to claim my creation
A shameless child of mind’s invention,
Cavorting and jumping up and down before you
Trying to grab your attention,
This wayward child is demanding
And won’t let you rest,
Till you stop what you are doing
And acknowledge her,
For she is your train of thought,
She‘ll pester you even while you sleep,
She is persistent and will not be ignored
Until you embrace her,
Praise and applaud her
Then commit her to paper.

Diane Scantlebury

Birth of a Poet - Ian Duquemin

On the day that the rain makes a spider web shine
When breeze blows the blue bells so letting them chime
As snow spirals down as if fairies in flight
And a spark lights the moon on a magical night
When unicorns leap over waves crashing in
And beauty is found by the soul that's within
As words from the lips of a lover are sworn
That's when a poet is born

Ian Duquemin

Waiting for Rhyme - Aindre Reece-Sheerin

Today's poem is a "Golden Oldie" and was originally published here in February 2012

Waiting for Rhyme
Taking my time
Really feeling fine
Mushing the thyme
Pulling the pau pau spine
Looking at the people standing in line
All patiently reading the sign
Cashier asking if they’re feeling fine
Or just simply waiting for a rhyme.

Aindre Reece-Sheerin

Beautiful Old Style Poems - Kathy Figueroa

Today's poem is a "Golden Oldie" and was originally published here in February 2012

Give me a rhyme
A clever turn of phrase
Give me glorious poems
Written like
In the olden days
Let me revel
In the language
In words that resonate
In my mind
Why are beautiful
Old style poems
Now so hard to find?
The eloquent verse
Of a bygone age
Still makes people smile
Why has rhyming poetry
Fallen out of style?
Rhyme for me a story
An epic adventurous tale
About a trip to the
Mountain peaks
Or the ocean to set sail
Speak of the
Human condition
The best and the worst
Of joy, sorrow and triumph
And dreams that have burst
Tell of hope and longing
Of heroes and dignity
On injustice and suffering
Shine a light for all to see
Weave a wonderful story
Use rhyme like
Golden thread
Form a tapestry of words
That inspires wonder
When it's read
Rhyme like Robert Service
William Blake and
Edgar Allen Poe
Create a beautiful
Timeless poem
Like they did
So long ago...

Kathy Figueroa

(This poem was first published in The Bancroft Times newspaper on November 23, 2011.)

The Proseman’s Guide to Writing Poetry - Chris Hudson

All lines should rhyme
Because when reading it
This saves a lot of time!

Topics should be warm and cosy
So we all know exactly what is meant
Nothing to bend th’enraptured will
But stifle with sentiment.

Jokes too are okay
As long as they
Don’t break societal convention
Preconceived clichés are so much more apt
To gain the audience’s attention

A poem can show wit and be apposite
But not be improprietous;
Indecorous behaviour
Is reserved for rioters

Whilst it is absolutely forbidden to assume
Any stance of politics or philosophy
(That is best left to the bedroom!)

To win one’s audience to one’s side
One must make no comment absurd nor snide
But levelling all experience at root
And aphorisms twee to boot

The concept of the poem should be endlessly brewed
And any fortitude or boldness eschewed
Every word pored over in minutest detail for all to see
The dead idea thence pinned to a tree

Nothing free or frivolous should blight the page
Lest the dear reader fly in a rage

With sentiments barren and mundane ideas
Nothing original should blight one’s ears

No idolatrous ideas, or tales of woe
Nor bravely how we bashed the foe

But metaphors bland and senseless dross
Lest our pals think us incongruous
Respect your reader and try to ease
Areas where he has sensibilities

The poet may pull his hair out in writing verse and rhyme
But the reader does not always have the time
To decode scrawlings of trenchant pus
These kinds of poems will not liberate us!

Christopher J. Hudson