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A Spider Wrote This

Poetry By: dibbledabble
Humor



After the dark clouds of my last poem, here is a little sunshine.

See if you can guess the end before you get there.


Submitted:Jul 25, 2012    Reads: 40    Comments: 13    Likes: 6   


A Spider Wrote This

Why can I only write in the morning

Only write when I am stretching and yawning

As I question this, the answer is dawning

An opinion on why, I am quietly forming

I cannot write as the day is retiring

When my mind is junked up and tiring

I stare at the page and nothings inspiring

If only the bard was around for hiring

--

In the evening, I cannot be a liar

I cannot even write a poster or flier

To others I go to read and admire

Wait for their words to set me afire

Gaze from my window at the church spire

And its bird sat perched mockingly up higher

And pray they are the catalyst to inspire

But my keyboard skills remain dead and dire

--

At lunchtime as I sit down to eat

And concentrate so hard on a literary feat

My thoughts sink like the Spanish armada fleet

I've eaten strict diets of high protein meat

Attempting to wake my brain from its sleep

But roast beef, lamb or even mutton sheep

Does not make lunch break a learned seat

No, midday as evening I must admit defeat

--

I have walked the length of the river

In search of something wordy to deliver

Like Wordsworth's lonely cloud I do wander

In the name of poetry, nature to plunder

Not sun, wind, rain or lightening and thunder

Can inspire enough to stop my fictional blunder

How can nature and verse be so asunder

I have to admit I'm forced to surrender

--

There are those who can sit on a beach

Gaze upon waves, for their thoughts to reach

Write with fervour as can a missionary preach

I'm devoid of ideas as germs and bleach

Dr Seuss in the sand found his Sneech

Such wonderful rhymes he wrote for to teach

Some help over here Doctor I beseech

Though you've gone, some words can I leach

--

From a Shakespearian play or clever witty sonnet

To Beatrice Potter and her rabbits in bonnet

Whilst their reads are a much needed tonic

My thoughts are slow and not booming sonic

Whilst others shine bright I am blankly moronic

For Byron and Keats my love is platonic

Is my failure to create becoming systemic

Don't stand to close it may be epidemic

--

Ah but the morning is so very different

Words blossom and bloom like a rose resplendent

With the coming of dawn thoughts become independent

Freed from their chains ideas are something magnificent

Dreams, wishes and desires once more become relevant

Expression in words a gift that's heaven sent

Time at my keyboard is time well spent

I am a humble soul and mostly decent

So cannot lay claim to what I present

--

Who spins these thoughts living inside my head

Perhaps that spider on the beam over my bed

Slipped down from his place by silvery thread

Crawled into my mouth and into my head

Just look back at what you have read

Eight words per line I have thread

Eight sentences per verse I have just fed

And eight stanzas to this rhyme, enough said!

By Dibs (and Sid the Spider who last night was sat on the beam over my bed and this morning he was gone whilst my muse wide awake catching words like flies)





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