Poetic Licence

 

I hold a poetic licence.

This entitles me to lie

And practise my hyperbole

Until the day I die!

 

My licence grants permission

To use some figures of speech.

It’s like a new space mission

Across the creative universe,

Seeking sibilant planets,

Like Saturn and Mars, which are

Far beyond my reach.

 

My anthology boosters have

Failed to fire and I’ve fallen back

To earth with a (cliched) bump!

 

 

This licence allows for alliteration,

Bouncing balls across the beach

And I’ll splash you when I see ya,

Cos that sounds just like the thing it is,

And it rhymes with onomatopoeia.

 

Symbolism, enigmatically, takes a

Quill from her pocket to

Tap me on the shoulder

Pestering me to deploy

Personification.

 

       Thought I’d write I haiku

      Not that difficult I thought

             But you can see I

 

Hold onto this licence erroneously!

 

Poetry lacks remuneration-

So, it’s nothing like a licence

To print money!