I wonder if I  truly am a poet?
I put pen to paper and write some verse.
Whatever comes into my headfirst.

Does that make me a Poet, I ponder?

I consider what i write and what does it mean?
Am i truly any good i wonder, is that still to be seen?

I write about things I see, try to capture it well, if possible a little story I tell.
I write about my feelings for my loved ones present and past.
About my marriage, children and grandchildren and how we have a blast.

Does this make me a Poet I wonder?

I write about daily happenings in the news, some horrific stories, some written to amuse.

Am I truly a Poet?

What makes a Poet good?

Is it clarity of verse
Putting others not you first
Is it being able to write short burts, Haiku style
Long stories that make people forget for a while

I guess what i am trying to say
Is, do you put pen to paper to have your say?
Write some lines in a journal every day?
Write some verse, no matter how short?
Do the lines rhyme, of a sort?

Then welcome my friend

You are a Poet

You should celebrate and let everyone know it.

A Ghostly tale
Of a Girly Ghost
Who lived in a house where once her Mother would host,
the most wonderful parties you would ever find.
The table decorations and chandeliers would blow your mind.
She invited people of a higher class, fed them shrimp on a plate and champagne in a glass.
They would dance in each other's arms, to a 3 piece band and all their charms.
The party would start at half past eight and run into the night until very late.
Everyone wanted a ticket to this ball, they would pay the full cost of the ticket, and barter to pay more.
It was elegant and a bit of a bore, but the Ghostly Girl would have loved one more.
The girl was just sixteen and her Mum used to say she was too young to join in, send her on her way, to her room.  
The Ghostly Girl did recall, a time she was in her room one of these nights when a very loud noise gave her such a fright.
She rose up from her bed and decided to explore.
She was on the landing looking down when,
she saw several persons dressed as a clown,
Moving around where they shouldn't have been,
unaware they had been seen.
The clowns were getting drunk, being raucous, having a laugh.
They were spinning on the dance floor, falling to the ground.
Not caring for a minute if anyone was around.
They were telling jokes and poking fun, spraying water with a plastic gun.
They had on bright colour clothes and makeup on their faces.
Their shoes were 7 feet long and done up with bright coloured laces.
They were light and cheery and lots of fun.
They saw the girl and invited her to join in, took her arm and gave her a spin.
The girl threw back her head and laughed and laughed, she was feeling light, heady and giddy dancing to Duran Duran and P Diddy.
She tasted hot dogs in a bun, sprayed water from the plastic gun, danced upon the wooden floor.
It was everything she wanted and so much more.
The clowns, just before midnight sent her on her way.
Back in the present, she was wondering if her Mum had thrown a party recently and how it went.
She was a Girly Ghost it was no use to pretend.
The Girly Ghost would always be sixteen, always remain,
with blonde hair and lean.
She would always remain a child at heart and would miss her Mum's party's for evermore, looking down at them made her feel glum.
Hovering over the bed that once was hers, she remembered again the time with the Clowns, glad she had that memory too.
Forever she would miss her Mum and Dad, thinking of them made her sad, thinking of the Clowns made the pain go away, at least until the next day.
Little did the Ghostly Girl know her Mum and Dad were unable to stay in the house the Girl lived and moved away.
The Ghostly Girl continued to roam the old house night and day waiting for someone familiar to come her way, one day she knew they would all be reunited and the parties then would make her delighted.
To be back in the arms of her Mum and Dad she would be happy,  no longer be sad.
For now, though she roams, alone in the house, only kept company by some spiders and a mouse.

.
As his words flow like honey onto the page
with a nod of approval from a linguistic sage.
Long gone are the days when a woman's plays
would look at the poet with a romantic gaze.

His sad verse no longer makes her cry,
his love poems fail to lift her heart to fly.
Her attention wanders like a lonely voice
away from sanctuary, towards more choice.

And as his pen drifts across a blank page
he remembers the ladies, being centre stage,
the looks of adoration in a beautiful face,
deep pools of experience for his art to embrace.

Melancholic he dips his pen again and tries,
imagination musing her gorgeous ****** eyes.
But the words won't flow, so defeated he cries,
and arranges poets tears into convenient lies.


© Pagan Paul (2017/18)