The poet is that kind old man You met while on the train The poet is that little kid Who’s eating grass again.
The poet is the waiter At that coffee shop you like. The poet is that triathlete, Riding on her bike.
The poet is your teacher, The poet’s your mate Steve, The poet is those singers At your door on Christmas Eve.
The poet’s Mrs Johnson Who lives just two doors down. The poet is that little girl Who never seems to frown.
The poet’s that man over there, The one wearing a turban. The poet’s that posh-looking type, Swirling down his bourbon.
The poet’s Daniel Radcliffe, And the poet’s Brian Cox. The poet’s Keira Knightley, The poet’s Megan Fox.
The poet is the President Of the USA The poet’s the Prime Minister, Of the old UK.
The poet’s black, the poet’s white And brown and red and blue. Your mum, your dad, your gran, your dog And maybe even you.
Poet’s Note – I came up with the idea for this poem at about midnight one night. It was inspire partly by a strange poem about an elephant from the 1970s childrens TV show “Bagpuss”, mostly in terms of structure.
My muse is like an excitable dog. It catches sight of totally random things and starts yapping and running around and wagging its tail and WILL NOT STOP until I write a poem about it.My poetry is sometimes based on personal experience and sometimes on other things. Aside from that, I enjoy video games (My favourite game series is Mass Effect) and the popular television show My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic.
Of splendid thrones of gold or treasures manifold Of jewelled caskets or lavish banquets Of Emirs and rajahs Of Sultan and Shahs Of kings and queens Of rulers and emperors Of sparkling crowns or flowing gowns Of their subservient stewards
To put words down on paper, That can give a memory life. To recreate a moment passed, Long buried deep inside. To compose a verse so eloquent, It can cause a heart to break. And lead the reader to feel
As we begin a journey so uncertain, you and I made one in a world of ours. Our thoughts and emotions to share, our pleasant moments together to cherish, and our pains and sorrows to endure. I pledge my unflinching
Like everyone else, A poet has dreams Dreams to flow within the letters of the words That lead him closer to his destiny He is partial To imagine What the neural network Across the brain cannot Even if he was
It is autumn grapes are bleeding. The orange color seeps into your eyes. Will you shut the green lids? You, start reading backward. Atavistic instinct to dig up the severed hands? Your house, died in the flower bed. Seeds were