Wooden Verse

 You might be a weary traveller

Or tourist down the road

You might be party rabbler

Who needs to lighten his load

Well might the words unravel her

And let down Rapunzel's hair

For Poetry is the great relaxer

It has time to stop and stare

You might be loose like a canon

Bowling down the street

Or you might stand by your stantion

And never move your feet

There is a poem for everyone

For each a line or phrase

That sends the heart in all directions

Like a new sun's rays

And if but just one word

Might linger on your lips

Then lightness as if of a bird

May begin to swing your hips

And if in a restful moment

The thought bird does return to rest

Upon your troubled shoulders 

then from its presence you can learn

For nothing may ease the soul

Then the sweet honey of a line

That is you can have my money

If I can take your time

Do you think that I'm a fool

To want the things I want

To throw away the lines from school

Like water from the font

Well, welcome one an' all

To the writer who's on pont

Now lay down all your tools

And hear the things you want

Swimmer's cave

 while I was still young

I loved the truth and the gun

And all the youth poured

Out

Like gushing juice

From Over Niagra

Niagra, viagra

I have some vision of Las Vegas

And the nights are gone

But spent in Wild passion with you

Except

I was someone else

And perhaps

That dream is a book upon your shelf

But one day, some day

We have to live without

The confines of the pages

And book spine

I gave away in a glance

All the sea shells of youth 

That yet lie washing up

In the tide

I give you these cockel shells

nautiless, to listen into

And what you hear are echoes

of a sea I once swam in

Between the ears

 At last it came that I saw the light

The frazzled one of dawn

Too many nights of being alive

But at least I have been born

And seeing you

I brushed my hair

My fingers like electric eels there

Carried your thoughts and dreams

Into my consciousness salmon swimming stream

I fished for you

Down the years

And thought I caught you

Between the ears

Hearing me

But when I heard you

And your poetry

I had to leave

abandon

All the false dreams of youth

And ill pursuit

For you write a line

And it's not cute

It's searing and real

And it shows how you feel

I lay down my pen

And rest my case

These bones

 I am a skeleton poet

I have to have lived and died

To write again

Get hold of my bones

Lay them in a line

Try to figure out the sense

Where did I come from

How was this thing arranged?

Everything was blown up you see

When he died

He had to write himself back into life

They rearranged his pieces like a puzzle

A shoulder blade from India

A collar bone from Bangkok

From England his muzzle

A thigh bone from the Russian step

And a rib cage from Mexico

It all came together

An Everyman

So they say

This skeleton poet

Who came to read on that summer's day

He is gone now

Into the grasses

Under the earth for to recline

Forever and a day

Maybe in rebirth you will find

Him writing poems

Again

About this or that or other

About how they sold the Times

About how he loved his mother

And what would a woman

Skeleton say back?

Shake her bones

Rattle the bone sack

Tell us poems are things of clay

The flesh has wrought desire

But words are the bones that hold fast

After the music has been burnt by fire

Poet Laundrette

 Bring in your dirty poems

We wash them all here

Clean dry your poetry law suits

That are crimes against literature

Rinse off your underwear

And iron your socks

Each have a poem in them

Don't look so shocked

What! You never knew a poem could hide in your pants?

At the bottom of your pockets

Down in the Hugh Grants?

Steam press the creases

That's where poems love to hide

Each crease is a line

Ready to ride

But you've got to be quick or else they'll escape

They'll slip out through the stitches and run down

The drain

You'll have  to use the best in Poetry washing powder

Poetry non bio you better beware tho

There is an enzyme that will wash them all out

The stains of the day -Poemase or Versal

That leaves stories in shirts so bright that they shout

Cleans out the rhymes

Leaves only the prose

all tied up in time

Clean as your nose

Let me tone down the colours for you

Let's not make them all grey

Poetry is an art form but 

It doesn't pay

That's why I'm the poet laundrette

Ready with a story and a cigarette

Just never did wash

The garments of the Poet Laureat

Does this sound familiar

Poet’s Corner

We wait we wonder

We wonder and we wait

He is sat in the corner

Staring up at Heaven’s Gate

Saint Peter was a Poet

The Poet’s shuffle, reassemble

Like Penguins until a new one of their number

Is in the corner

The warmest part for to create

We shall speak in tongues

With the Ouija-board the muse we shall summon

Come speak to us from the other side

Oh Muse of the other world

Spirit from the dark side of the moon

Is it Monday? A bold but confused Poet name Henry Hymn

Prophesized

The day of the mons, the Monads

The Moaners and the Mona Lisas

Who leased her? Who Owns her?

This spirit of the wind of breath?

Her Mongrel Gods barked the Major Dog

The King of Canis over the Caspian Sea

Who hung his jowls on the table top

His Moustache bristling with the Confidence

Of the Landed and free

What phantoms have called you here?

Do these walls have ears?

Only in the corners spoke the old guy from behind his beer

Only in the corners do the Poets hear

The muse

She whispers through mouse holes

As soft as mice squeak

As clean as a ski slope under drifted snow

As dry as a desert island

Said Saint Thomas the retired Priest

 Haling back his Hale to heaven

Each present gift of manna

A hail stone in the eye of the muse

Like David and Goliath

He draws his sling while enemies

Surround him

The promised land is within him

And She walks in his pastures green

Where he lays down with her

And Jesus looks on saying this

Is not what He had in mind

Beyond this at the end of the evening Adam turns up with

His Apple half chewed

And Eve is already there

Saying I’ve been waiting for you with my muse

Is Poetry what you intended by your fall

Temptation was just over the garden Wall

No said Adam I admit I walked out

Of Eden’s gates

Poetry is not the lost key, its just another way back

But it for now will have to do