Another poem ?

To all Gransneters near & far,
Was your Christmas up to par,
Or did you revel in disaster
Wishing you were like the Pastor

Unlike a pastor, dear Bridgeit,
I rested here as does more fit
This sceptic who is far too old
To serve religion's wooly fold.

So with fried egg , tomato sauce,
Oil, frying pan I played the host
To self alone. Thus solitary
Yuletide passed without one "Merry!"

Still, any pity is misplaced
As I am one who, long outfaced
By time, prefers her quiet hound
Whose social needs are easy found.

''Tis good to hear
Ohh Alexa dear,
You were not fazed ,
But most demure, to..
Let the merriment unwind,
Without partaking of said kind
Happily in one's own repose
At least ones hopes, and does suppose

"Unwind" she says! Oh blessed sound!
That is the salve to many a wound

Alexa I fear, there is no one here
Just thee & me our words entwined
Twould be so good ,good as we are?
For grannie netters to subscribe,&
Join in with our diatribe , many a topic
Could we cover,with some input from another

Bridgeit, thanks for being here. I am new to making up poems. I thought that the communal effort idea would work. I'm not so sure now, because it seems to me now that the individual has to carry through her thought to the end, as individual thought.

The original couplet that I made up had no meaning for me except as a picturesque location, until I worked on it. I enjoy symbolism.
I noticed that some contributors extended the notion of weather, while others carried it into the Christmas theme. I'd have liked for others to work up their chosen themes.

It is work, though, making up a poem, and not everybody has the time or inclination. I go to a very small writers' group . (Gosh, a very small writers' group might be the background for a childrens' story just by mixing up where the adjectives go).

I find poetry easier than prose. The form of the poem e.g. rhythm or rhyme forces boundaries of what can be said, and the boundaries cause unexpected unplanned ideas.

Thank you Alexa , I admire your knowledge of poetry , pros etc, & wish you well with your writings. I on the other hand have little understanding of the subject other than to put together little ditties which I do enjoy , also de dum,de dum, style 'poems ' which I have written about all the closest people in my life, not to be read until I'm gone !!

I started to write a 'poem diary' about 7 years ago, recording events that stuck in my mind, and to make my wife laugh, when she was suffering with onset of dementia. I now have about 100 or so, and look back at some with amusement. So for that alone, they have been worth while. It was she, who originally used my pc to join Gransnet, and made several conributions up til 3 years ago. Now enshrined in my memories.

Thank you for sharing that with us Geeljay, & what a wonderful thing to do with your wife & have those memories to keep forever.

We thought it was forever, but forever didn't last,
And now what was forever, is buried in the past,
Nobody told us, it would last, but just a day,
A prescious fleeting moment,,
I guess life, is that way

That's really lovely & poignant Geeljay

Good Memories are so special
They links us with our past,
And even if they fade awhile
They still remain steadfast
Love will always stay with us
Such love endures and lasts

Poems aren't always easy,
Whether romantically squeezy
Or horror to make you queasy!
It just may not be feasi-
ble to write a good one
As I can't this Mon-
day, but it's fun
To have a try
So I did, sigh ...

Some two or three years ago, I took a writing class which was supposed to be prose only. Towards the end of the course however, our instructor decided to have us do poetry and we were asked to write a poem about memories, life, experiences etc. Most of my fellow classmates were seasoned writers and I felt way out of my league in general.

There was a lot of discussion about meter (iambic pentameter), cadence and rhythm which I vaguely remembered from my high school years and to which I never paid much attention. I did not feel confident enough and was embarrassed to submit. I feel more comfortable sharing it with you ladies now because it's more informal, not face to face and that's less intimidating

The following is my (draft version) poem. I called it "The Worry Wort" :

^I’ve an old nocturnal visitor who comes in stealth to steal my sleep
It calls itself the Worry Wort, when I try in vain to count my sheep
And every night my loved ones snoozed,
The more the rest I seemed to lose…
When Worry had to check the locks, the windows and the doors
When Worry cried "more coffee" as I paced the midnight floors
And Worry went to touch their brows when fevers ran too high
Compelled to check their bedside for every breath or sigh
And Worry queried, “What’s that noise?”
or searched in vain for missing toys
...And later Worry wiped their tears and feared their fears
Then curfews passed and Worry sat and waited on the stairs
Yet Worry never seemed to mind the why’s and where’s of my ‘bewares’
For Worry was the spyglass that magnified my cares
And when one by one they flew the nest and headed for the sky,
Worry was the one who never left or had to say good bye^

Constructive criticism will be most welcome! I also need to get all those poetic terms straight in my head so I can work on that as well. Thanks.

Thats brilliant Willa. Love it! You could have been writing about me and, I suspect, many other GN'ers. Keep on composing.
I wrote a 'poem' a few years ago for a GN competition but haven't seemed to be able to find another one in me since then :

She lies there, this tiny perfect thing - the image of my child.
Sleeping, cheeks soft and pale, her breath but a butterfly wing
No sound save the fall of my tears
Grieving in vain for her mother's childhood
times gone, the passing years .....

That is really beautiful Marmite! Your words capture the fragility of our most precious moments and how they seem to slip so easily through the fingers of time.

Thank you too for your kind words of support. I'm very insecure about my writing, so your compliment means the world to me. Don't stop writing either M. Your talent is always there....you just need to find it again!

Willa that was lovely.

Thank you too Situp.

Poetry is something that I use to make a point. The way I go about it is to write out what I want to say, then break it down into paragraphs, make sure that there's a definitive end before selecting words that say much the same but rhyme with one another.
For example, the reason I'm new here is because I have only just got an email address, I have lurked on these pages for longer than I can remember. My employer sends out memos, pay advice slips and intructions by email. He got so fed up with printing a hard copy off for me that he has coerced me into getting an email address, and with that, I can join in the Gransnet debates.
Here's the test email to my employer:

Here's my e-mail as requested,
don't ask me to respond,
I may not be from Essex
And I'm definitely not blonde.

All this faffing all this zapping
of scanners and bar code.
Leaves me dead in the water,
My head ready to explode.

Now I have an email
when I just wanted to be left alone,
But you know I'm always happy to help,
Just pick up the bloody phone.

My Godson laughed so much at the poem on his 18th birthday card that he kept it.
Knowing young men don't wait until they are 18 before imbibing on some alcoholic beverage, I certainly didn't, I sent this to him:

It's thine 18th birthday,
so have a ball,
but heed thou, this cautious warning.

If shouldst necketh
too much grog,
Thou shalt puketh
in the morning.

My classic car goes back to a time when we had no seatbelts, indicators were little semaphore arms and the doors, known as suicide doors, opened on a rear hinge.
My wife named the car Jessica, and here's an ode to life with an old car:

There was a time when motor cars
were serious fun to drive,
back then they didn't have seat belts,
which help you stay alive.

They had quirky things like
running boards and trafficators too,
those were little semaphore arms
that gave the direction true.

Jessica is just like that
in two tone fancy colour,
an MG of classic vintage,
a real beauty to discover.

There's nothing more that she prefers
than to show off in the shining sun,
and be photographed by one and all:
she smiles for everyone.

This classic car has survived the years
and not been torn asunder,
not for her, the breaker's yard,
her body parts to plunder.

Despite her years she's greatly loved,
her lines to be admired,
and she can still put on a turn of speed
to get the adrenaline fired.

Out on the highway she likes to go
and keep up with the traffic.
But serious problems can arise,
when all the cars are static.

The water in her engine boils
and out the steam comes hissing,
she doesn't have a temperature fan
but it's not exactly missing.

It simply wasn't ever there
like modern cars today,
there's so much missing with vintage cars,
it's the price you have to pay.

But for all her lack of equipment
and of technology,
there's something intangible this car has, this lovely old MG.

It's that distinct smell of old car,
of walnut and of leather,
a fragrance that's so captivating,
it doesn't get much better.

Then there's her style & grace & beauty
and class in overload,
but her greatest asset is the fun you can have, that comes by the bucketload.