This is a Persian verse form, but best known to me via Robert Frost’s Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening: one of my top poems ever.

I don’t know what it is about my friend Helen’s dog, Bell, that inspires me to write daft poems about her, but there you go. I’ll have to write one for Bell’s companion whippet, Charlie, soon, just to redress the balance.
I think, when writing in a dog’s voice, there’s probably no such thing as too many exclamation marks.

Fierce Creature

I get overexcited at the park!
So many sights and smells! Can’t help but bark!
My body trembles with adrenaline
And at each tree and post, I leave my mark!

I catch my human’s eye, and softly plead!
She kneels down and takes me off the lead!
I streak across the green, suffused with glee!
I really have got everything I need!

The world is mine! Of whippets I’m the queen!
But then the biggest hound I’ve ever seen
Is galloping towards me! Bloody hell!
To tear me limb from limb he seems quite keen!

I stand my ground, although my legs are shaking!
I hope that he can’t tell from here I’m faking!
And hopefully he’ll be intimidated
By all the scary growly sounds I’m making!

He’ll get me any minute now: I’m dead!
My snarls give way to whimperings of dread!
But just before my throat is in his teeth
His human grabs him by his giant head!

And here comes mine! I knew she’d rescue me!
She slips my lead back on! I can’t get free!
I strain and bare my fangs to scare my foe!
I’m sure I could have taken him, you see!

As it’s day 13, I thought something a bit macabre would be good, so here is a riff on Poe’s The Raven, which is written in Trochaic Octameter.

It was in the early morning, when the day was barely dawning
I was half asleep and yawning with my lady by my side
With the breakfast news on telly, tea and toast to fill my belly
And a kitten, rather smelly, sable furred and golden eyed.
We were waking up together, watching comment, news and weather
And the cat was batting feathers with a vicious velvet paw
When a man of haughty carriage, in a voice enraged and savage
Shouted “legalize gay marriage in this country? nevermore!”
I looked over at my lover (who had stolen all the cover)
And my hand began to hover over our remote control.
Turned it off, logged in to Twitter for a meme to make us titter
So the day would not get shitter. (We find lolcats rather droll.)
But instead we found petitions from the folks in our position
‘Cross the pond, all on a mission to secure their marriage rights
Where the state by state campaigning really must be rather draining
So we shouldn’t be complaining: over here we got off light.
We’ve a partnership, it’s civil, Oh, and yet it seems to shrivel
As the law says “you can swivel if you want equality,
“You can love each other, certain!
But we have to draw the curtain
If you homo rights are hurting those of the majority!
For you threaten our traditions: same sex marriage is sedition
And you can’t defeat our mission your ideals to ignore”
Though we’d love co-operation they believe we’re for damnation,
Hope to offer us salvation, but accept us? nevermore!
As we’re liberal, bright and arty the American tea party’s
If you ask us, pretty farty, for the air in there is stale
Though we’re scrabbling and snatching, many kinds of plots we’re hatching
But the door they’re always latching: as they hope that we will fail!
As a transatlantic pairing, nationality we’re sharing
As the UK is more caring: over here we both can stay,
But my darling wife’s a Yankee and her country said “no thank’ee”
Which we think is rather wanky, for we’d emigrate one day,
If the GOP and clerics would just stop having hysterics
For our needs are quite generic, so just listen: we implore
We’re not trying to be clever we just want to be together
Wife and wife, you see, forever, yes, forever, evermore!

This is a stave – which is a Scottish drinking song format.
I’ve limited my targets (cough) subjects to Sheffield poetry night organizers as I reckon they can handle it. However, if you appear in this poem and would prefer not to, contact me and I’ll delete your stanza.
Likewise, if you’re a Sheffield poet and you feel you should have been immortalized in verse, and I know you, let me know – at your own risk – and I’ll try to oblige!

Here’s to the poets of Sheffield town
At an open mic they can’t stay down.
To those with political points to make
To those who rhyme for rhyming’s sake
To those who cheerfully spurn convention
To be honest we all do it for the attention

Here’s to Turner, John. Always draws a crowd
He was on the scene before Words Aloud
Now he’s Speaking Easy, and what a perk!
He’s got student slaves to do all the work!
Well, he’s old enough to withdraw his pension,
He’s only doing it for the attention

Here’s to Skinny Stan and his merry band
Singing sea shanties upon dry, dry land
His poems of course are really tops
And nobody makes more use of props
An outrageous cheat with his rhyme and …scension
He’s only doing it for the attention

Here’s to Helen Mort and her faithful hounds
She’s just moved back so she’s doing the rounds
A published poet with bookings and books,
She deflects with grace all the envious looks
With a lack of smugness or condescension
But really she’s doing it for attention.

Here’s to young Joe Kriss with his Jesus face
Seems to read his verse in a state of grace
But he’s up till midnight (well, 3am)
Calling PROPER poets and booking them.
Will his famous friends trigger his ascension?
He’s only doing it for the attention

Here’s to Calvert-Toulmin – her first name’s Jude
Whose dramatic readings are frankly…lewd!
Though her true forté is erotic prose
In the Northern Lights inspiration flows
To each open mic she brings sexual tension
But you know she’s doing it for the attention.

Here’s to Roberts, Gav. He’s devoid of pomp
And he’s grafting hard to get us to ROMP
If you meet him once, you might think he’s shy
Till he’s on the stage screaming OCCUPY!
For his strong convictions he needs to mention
But really he’s doing it for the attention.

And here’s to me, with my word obsessions
Trying to use sestinas to fight oppression
Running poetry slams, to my own chagrin
For now I can’t enter, I’ll never win!
Now I’m scanning you all with apprehension:
Look – I wrote this song just to get attention!

This is a very poor example of the Burns Stanza or Standard Habbie. Particularly good for wailing and regret.

We come to you when we are ill
With colds, or viruses that kill
Because we know you always will
Be there to help
And that you’ll never send a bill
That makes us yelp

We come to you with broken bones
Because you’ll throw no sticks and stones
Nor make us take out massive loans
If we can’t pay
We are, when wracked with piteous groans,
Seen straight away.

Oh, friend on whom each one relies!
You’ve been brought low by Tory lies
That say “reform”, mean privatize,
Oh, deep disgrace!
A proud old institution dies
And is replaced.

By healthcare which is ruled by profit
Sees pound signs in each sneeze and cough “it’s
Necessary change?” Come of it!
This foul deed
By Lansley, (grey-haired, manky toff!) it’s
Simple greed.

We took your safety net for granted
At waiting times we moaned and ranted
But our perception now is slanted
Who could guess?
Too late, we know how much you’re wanted,
NHS!

A traditional tanka about seasons and weather and stuff.

False Hope

Unexpected heat
Raised our March expectations:
We took our coats off.
Oh, such naive, hopeful fools!
Now, cold settles in our hearts

This is my first ever cento. Apparently it means “patchwork” and is a type of found poem made of lines from other poems. First major departure from my comfort zone here.
Thanks to The Found Poetry Review for the suggestion.

Well let me tell you now:
I didn’t feel the aimed word hit.
Nor had I time to love.
Ten years ago it seemed impossible:
I should love
I should love to be loved.

Love, the reeling midnight through –
Does my twisting body spell out grace?
Give me your hand.
Make me laugh, weep and laugh.
What I feared has come upon me
The birthday of my life has come,
My love,
And I’m afraid it’s you.