Poets are very strange & very funny old folk,
Having accusing fingers to & at them poked,
Poets are smirked at slyly with glances aside,
Comments behind whispering hands deride.
Poets never make any money at what they do,
Never payments made for their words that woo,
If published by luck, their tomes soon forgotten,
In bargain basement & church fete going rotten.
Poets, damned if they do & damned if they don´t,
Poets, blamed if they will & blamed if they won´t,
Give us a heart, a rainbow, a smile, a pretty flower,
You know you can do it, write it, it´s in your power.
Some folk want pretty words of good old sweet love,
Butterflies, kittens & the twee blue sky high up
above,
Other folk just want politics, blood, destruction,
death,
Maybe they want last words on life´s last gasping
breath.
Poets can´t keep everyone happy, they never get it
right,
Whatever they feel or pen, or consequently even write,
Is wrong, doesn’t rhyme, is acerbic, too long, short,
twee,
“To hell with the critics, it´s our words that sets us
free”.
We are a melancholic bunch, moody, morose & quite
dark,
We drink too much, smoke too much, walk alone in the
park,
We´re insomniac, high on substances, low on sunshine
& iron,
Scribbling eternally of loves, deaths, heirlooms &
scary scions.
We notice & see unseen things that others don´t ever
perceive,
Every word, every detail, we wait to hear &
hopefully to receive,
An insight, an inspiration to hit us, so we may
eventually divulge,
That inner aching within us, that grows like a sore
invisible bulge.
We write words of wisdom, of love, inanities &
many banalities,
Folk either “Like-Love-Hate”, or offer so many of
their profanities,
But they are “Our” words & we are not here just to
softly placate,
So let them “Adore-Laud- Hate”- & even if they
wish, sorely “Berate”.
Some poets are born, others through life, are self
formed & made,
We shed tears, we wail & woo & too often,
farewell we have bade,
I am guilty as charged, sorry, I´m but a humble poet,
for all my sins,
I am poet needing words like air, but a poet who
never, ever wins.
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