Not a Hope
To write an ode is her intent,
But inspiration, heaven sent
To those of a poetic bent,
Has quite forgotten where she lives;
An oversight that always gives
A chance to better poets than she
To craft their entries, while she sighs
And wonders why she even tries.
Her pen is chewed beyond repair
And nothing beckons but despair.
Her friends evoke both place and time
In part or para or half- rhyme.
She knows their poems can’t fail to chime
With any judge of modern verse.
That’s not her style, for she is cursed
With love for both full rhyme and metre
And something strongish by the litre
To drown her sorrows when they beat her.
Although my views on modern poetry ruled this out for first place, adjudicator Carole Bromley praised it highly for its wit and tight structure.