Something something something

The trouble with writing
poems in bed
when you can’t be arsed
to get up for a pen,
is that you convince yourself
you’re too talented to forget
yet you wake with only fragments,
pondering;
“what the hell came next?”

© Copyright D. Archer October 2011

Genuine. Written in response to the best poem that was ever written in the history of mankind. The one I wrote that would have changed the course of human history, the one that would have stopped all wars and ended famine because the world would have come together in joyous celebration under the universe. The poem I could not be arsed to write down because it meant getting out of bed and finding a pen.

Word search

A dozen notebooks
filled with rhyme
uninspired metered time
vapid vowels
vacuous verse
puerile childish
coupled words.
Poems akin
to channel flicking
never stopping
only dipping
flow forgotten
momentum lost;
worth reading?
I think not.

© Copyright D. Archer October 2011

Dear Charlotte

You used all
the best words in “People”
you frighteningly talented swine;
you condensed
all my emotions
into eight
perfect lines.

If I lived my life
five times over
I could not conjure beauty
for the words
you had already chosen.

In light of the poem “People” by Charlotte Zolotow. Look it up! I’m not a library service.

© Copyright D. Archer October 2011 

 

Poetry is hard

Determined to write poetry
on my homeward bound train,
just to prove a point to myself
and to exercise my brain.

I borrowed some paper
and on my knee rested;
although jolted I jotted
down images suggested
that quickly turned hackneyed and trite,
so I stopped writing poetry
and drew a cat on a motorbike.

 © Copyright D. Archer October 2011