A Sonnet for Sue

The poet girl is something pure
He says a sonnet write for Sue
That simply does not work for you
A pretty kyrielle I’m sure.

Friendship is often the best cure
My friend, a sister in my heart
She writes fine words that is her art
A pretty kyrielle I’m sure.

Tainted minds together endure
Dark moments come into the light
At last, my world has somewhere bright
A pretty kyrielle I’m sure.

The poet girl is something pure
A pretty kyrielle I’m sure .

© Jem Farmer 2008, all rights reserved.

The Nine Tailors

Church bells ring at Fenchurch St Paul.
A wedding, celebrated in true English fashion.
A time for joy before the out break of war,
Shattered by a thief, chased by a gent, so dashing.
Two villains caught, hard labour should even the score.

Church bells ring at Fenchurch St Paul.
So many struck down by that awful Spanish flu,
Family secrets, as the New Year bells chime.
Lady of the manor passes, what a to do!
Again, a gent and his man are central to this rhyme.

Church bells ring at Fenchurch St Paul.
Nine tailors toll this time for a gentleman’s passing mark.
To finally be at rest with his fair lady wife.
All is well until is found there a corpse, disfigure and stark.
Who will solve the mystery behind all this strife?

Church bells ring at Fenchurch St Paul.
Lord Peter is on the case, it will soon be solved,
With the help from his man, Bunter, always at his aid.
No villain will escape from them now they are involved,
But was there a crime? Who was the man found dead?

Church bells ring at Fenchurch St Paul.
Listen close they have much to tell.
A little campanology know how would be handy.
A church and its bells, things hidden in its well.
All clues to a gentleman detective, so dandy.

© Jem Farmer 2008, all rights reserved.

One Hell of Mate

Um err what! I think maybe I have lost the plot.
Been trying to battle with that damn writer's block.
Looking everywhere for a spark, a smidgen not a lot.
Would look in my box but can't open the lock.

My brain is asleep, I'm going absolutely mad,
so scarpered last night to my cold studio and paint.
The garden shed by torchlight is my own little pad.
Messed with colours opaque, bright and translucent.

That's a terrible rhyme Jem, for goodness sake.
Not going to even try with formality or form,
Give up... no way this is for Jeff, a hell of a mate.
So a 'poem' to give him a grin larger than norm.

Still messing with paint it didn't help much
but got a few sketches to build into to a frame.
Fantasy my art is an escapism if you need such.
Beats landscapes that all look the same.

Then just after lunch I sign on to AP, to look awhile,
There is Jeff, hooray, so click, I read all his stuff,
Like a jester is he, now I am guaranteed to smile.
I can never imagine our Jeff is in anyway gruff.

A contest, you git, now I got to try and write funny,
and I bet you are sat there snickering, you dastardly hound,
Waistcoat blazing bright, challenging this here hunny!
Maybe I should just write as I speaks as that's a weird sound.

So forgetting all sense, and rhyme too, I'll write as I speaky.
All I really wants to says is Jeff a big thank you babe,
For chirping me chipper each day when I'm down and peaky.
You is a gent with style and class, and one hell of a mate.

Hellfire and britches that last bit almost does rhyme
And it wasn't meant too, well slap my butt and call me Charlie,
Maybe the muse is returning, it's about bloody time,
Now I'm stuck what goes with Charlie ... maybe rusks of Farley!

© Jem Farmer 2008, all rights reserved.

Inner Balance

Fate deals the hand and we must play,
the cards so painful we must still lay.
Life out of sorts, lost and dazed!
If it ever becomes right, we'll be amazed.

No aces in the deck it would seem,
just deuces and threes nothing to redeem.
The odds are stacked against us so,
risks high, do we chance and go?

Two deuces, the lowest pair,
life just isn't playing fair.
It feels so complex, when will it cease?
Why can't you and I just have inner peace?

Our time will come, of that I am sure.
Our balance returned, at ease once more.

© Jem Farmer 2008, all rights reserved.

My Poet Guide

I have a guide in poetry, I do!
A poet guide who sees me right and true.
No spirit he, so real. A friend in word,
meter and rhythm, things I find absurd.

The sonnet played to elegant finesse,
musical rhyme, to cheer and does impress
a darken heart as icy cold as mine,
the warm embrace, with words as rich as wine.

My poet guide he sooths my fears a treat,
a gentle voice to help me hear the beat.
A steady pace, so kind, his words are wise,
he laughs not at my hopeless poem tries.

To Jeff, my poetic totem, thank you friend,
my time is up, she’ll assess, poem end.

© Jem Farmer 2008, all rights reserved.

The Poet Girl

There are many things I don’t know as yet,
But I do know that in you lies my friend.
No warning, that our lives were to be met,
It does nay matter how they come to blend.

A poet is she with a sense of rhyme,
Her verse gentle as a fairy’s love kiss.
Many an hour spent reading her words chime,
Fast becoming a favoured poet sis.


A mug of tea and a biccy we share,
As an evening spent in our natter box.
Then to our sleep knowing someone does care,
No secret I think this poet girl rocks.

Any idea my friend? You know it’s you,
There can only be one poet called Sue.

© Jem Farmer 2008, all rights reserved.