h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

I long to whine over written line
But curse this gift I’ve been given
To scribe mere words on paper sheets
Those that go down as crap
I’m not alone on a single quest
For many have the talent as I
Yeah some ne’er do know it
So scorn away if you must
But try remember this thus
Yours may not make this grade
And may be only classed as good


mine

The world now hangs on the edge of abyss.
The sun is now shining, nevertheliss.
The roses are blooming, the birds they do sing.
I'm hoping that no one will cut the world's string.

Beware the hairy bear,
that wears trendy flares.
And that eats pears and stares,
at the eccentric mare.
Who is playing solitare
wearing a headsquare.
The bear blares out,
that there isn't enough trout.
Making the mare laugh,
at the bear's gaffe.
As their is a table full of fish,
freshly caught and served on a dish.
The bear got very embarrassed,
and quite distressed.
So the mare comforted the bear,
with a share of the pears;
served alongside the fish.

There are basking sharks,
that make very strange remarks.
About arks that are built in the dark,
by larks that come from the amusement park.
Who bark at clerks and bright sparks.
that and get to embark on journeys to quarks,
that are formed in outer space space by Marc.

I am an angry young poet, full of spleen,
Ready to bash and crash this unrepentant world,
Through all its realms, seen and unseen.
I have my shield--ye clouds unfurled!

In ancient days, when poets talked funny,
And bread was somehow cheaper,
Bad poetry flowed as readily as honey,
And you could text it with your beeper.

But now, alas, constant texting has made
Us unable to read anything of any length,
As our brains to oatmeal seem to degrade,
And intellectual activity loses its strength.

So come with me now, torch and pitchfork in hand,
And what we do will be anything but bland.
And bad poetry will once again sound funny!

Today I am gentle and kind.
I'm also quite out of my mind.
I'm walking in pace
With the whole human race,
'Til my saneness I'm able to find.

Maude and Claude went on holiday abroad.
Where they could only afford half-board.
They played the harpsichord with their sword.
But it made them even more bored.
So they made a record for Lord Ford,
which struck a chord.
That he greatly adored,
and with one accord roared.
Earning them their best reward,
a full-board holiday at the Fjords.

Dragonbane, Fireweed, essence of pinks;
Mix them together, and that's what she drinks,
Day after day in O'Houlihan's Bar.
Then she walks home, 'cause she ain't got a car.

Everytime I have a drink it makes me wink,
and I then start to shrink.
Making me want to sit down and have a think,
about all things pink.
Then I see a link in the space-time,
which is so very sublime.
Looking at the leaves of the thyme and lime,
as I begin to mime.
Making it a psychic dance,
which puts me into a hypnotic trance.
Seeing the threads of the universe,
unravel into poetic verses.
Dispersed and diverse,
in this multi-verse.
The stringed effect that reflects,
through space and time as it connects.
To the past, present and future,
sown together by cosmic sutures.

I climbed a tree
The better to see me
But I was not there, not me,
I was up the tree.





by "Narcissus" (E. Gringe Faraday)

I'm a poet and I don't know it.


that's too good for news poems

Before I'm much too old
I must tell you of the boy
Who fished all day
And only caught a cold.


J.W.Shurker

Minimalist poetry's
The stuff for me:
It's short
And it's easy.


(J.W.Shurker)

Do yer ken John Peel,
sitting on a wheel.
Having a meal,
with a laughing seal.
That's full of Scottish appeal,
and wears clothes coloured teal.
Making John Peal squeal,
with joy as he danced the reel.
Joined by the laughing seal,
who John calls Neil.
That drives his own automobile,
as he likes the feel of the steel.
Driving along full of zeal,
with John in the back shouting his appeals.
Oh making it look so very surreal.

Half a leg
Half a leg
Half a leg onward
Into the Valley of the Dead and the Maimed,
Rode the six hindered.


Col. R.I.P. Sanders

Stuffed up words in a lousy letter.
Churned out rhymes and it don't get better.
Tried to be deep but it still looks shallow.
Like to be cool but I'm much too callow.

Life can be cruel.

Bodies break down but the world stays the same.
They change all the rules so you can't win the game.
But while I can move I will still want to play,
For its playing that counts at the end of the day.

I'm no fool.

I like that - it must be bad.

I walked to the sea,
to have a cup of tea.
As it was being sold for free,
along with sandwiches made with brie.
That was smothered with ghee,
making it full of postive chi.
It filled me with glee,
for my shopping spree.
Along with my friend Dee,
that came down from the river Dee.
She travelled on the steamships debris,
that was floating down the sea.
With one decree,
we went to the marqee.
For a tea dance,
that put us in a strange trance.
Making us think that we were in France.
But woke up in time, and make a few dimes.
As we climbed to see the play about grime.
That was plot was about crime and thyme.

Reg has a new car,
that took him to the wine bar.
Where he sang about becoming a superstar.
Talked to his imaginary friend, the singing czar,
every time he shopped at Spars.
About his proposed success in the bar,
where he has a few jars.
Got drunk with a skunk, that lived in a trunk,
that was filled with junk.
So it made the skunk decided to become a monk.
This made Reg very sad,
so he went and changed his rads.
Whilst clad in a kilt,
that made him wilt.