In the well of thoughts
The wordsmith dips his
cup
In search of inspiration
And drinks deep the
draught
But when the spark is
struck
The muse was present
At the moment of
conception
In the well of thoughts
The wordsmith dips his
cup
In search of inspiration
And drinks deep the
draught
But when the spark is
struck
The muse was present
At the moment of
conception
Great poets, wordsmiths of yore
Prose and rhyme did
write
Of matters that went
before
Viewing them in poetic
light
The very acerbic Anne Adcock
Who seems to appear adhoc
In order to criticize or knock
Seems to appear out of nowhere
Materializing out of the ether
Leaving no way to contact her
She hides behind her anonymity
Like the Scarlet Pimpernel maybe
Or perhaps she is actually a he
She protects the sacred grammar
Never knowing when to expect her
She’s like the Pimpernel in that manner
They seek her here
They seek her there
They seek Ms Adcock everywhere
Is she in hiding?
Or is she not
That darned elusive Anne Adcock
Isn’t culture wonderful?
Music, theatre, poetry
Something for everyone
To feel or hear or see
The performing arts
I particularly like
poetry
Especially poetry
readings
With the writer at the
mic
I go to festivals and
slams
From time to time
I like to go to a
recital
And ask why the poem
doesn't rhyme
I sit alone in a room
Writing jokes for comics
To earn my money
But on my own I wonder
If I’m the only person on the planet
Who thinks it's funny
So riddled with self-doubt
I’m terrified of finding out
When I was in a writing team
We was write a gag and get a laugh
Now it’s just me and a word processor
And it's hard to make the bastard laugh
Writer Charles Dickens
Kept in his
kitchen
The best of
thymes,
The worst of
thymes
I bought the world's worst thesaurus
And it’s
irredeemable
But it really is the
worst
But not only is
it terrible, it's terrible
Tahoma and Calibri walked into a bar
And were told, “you will have to leave I fear
But please don’t take it personally
It’s just that we don't serve your type in here”
Something has happened
That
I don’t think is nice
Because
my poetic license
Has
been revoked, Twice
When you are writing a story
About
losing your virginity
Please
do one thing for certain
And
put it in the first person
Poetry is remarkable for
The
amount of joy it brings
But
please poets, we do get it,
Things
are like other things
A manuscript is always called an MS,
After
the prospective Authors submit,
By
the publishing house because that
Is
the state the receiving editor finds it
Something has happened
That
I don’t think is nice
Because
my poetic license
Has
been revoked, Twice
I launched a new book,
Aimed
at children, today
And
I hit one of the little sods
Before
they ran away
I lost my thesaurus today
It was after the exam
I can’t find the words to describe
How upset I am
21st Century Nursery Rhymes
I really find are such a doddle
Though
most people think
That
they are a load of twaddle
But
as I rapidly approach
The
autumn of my days
It’s
frankly just too late
Derum, sorry if I’ve caused offence
I
will desist from this moment hence
I
received instructions from the Ed
“Give
as good as you get” is what was said
Does anyone know if Ralph Coates?
Does
anyone know if Brenda Totes?
Does
anyone think is Donna Tart?
Would
you know is Maxwell Smart?
My wish is to get my poems published
And
not because I want to be paid
And
I will just have to persevere
Until
I manage to make the grade
I
will give up trying however, if I see