When we by words do seek, assail:
we oft do tread that devil's tail.
What grief is then our Holy Grail?
to kill the Pascal Lamb.

With the advent of Internet poetry and the multitude of poetry sites catering for collective advisement it would appear that a new breed of poet has now emerged.

In so much, that individual and group advice is often proffered regarding possible improvement to their posted work, which after several proposed adjustments generally works out fine for the author.

However, a certain poetry site promoter, editor and multi moderator has opted to take it one-step further by posting his work simultaneously on a selected number of such sites, in order to get a multitude of varied suggestions regarding its improvement, which in some cases if acted upon means that the original work is barely recognisable.

Having garnered the collective wisdom and suggestions of his peers to his advantage, he then solicits entry to a number of the group competitions (some of which are judged by notable poets) on the pretext that it is his own original work.

Some modern-day poets may feel that this is perfectly ethical, whilst others may differ in the observance of its principle.

To me it appears strange that the much-despised plagiarism and such blatant deceit can sit comfortably side by side without some form of censure.

However, whatever ones view; the same Editor/moderator does not seem to hold with any form of poetic criticism in his direction.

Upon posting my little ditty, I was immediately barred from his site.

Obviously, due to my observations, his assumed reputation had placed due consideration on the resultant decision.

My only available excuse, since it was never was intended, to be a work of art, was that it merely subscribed to what I describe as an awakening of the senses.

By George Sir! “The Seven Pillars of Wisdom."

He posts his poems on seven sites:
there waits on wise replies.
To choose the ones he thinks are best,
and then goes on, to win a prize.

It’s true that G’ may think it fun,
inform our world what he has won.
Forgets to tell about what’s done,
that makes him out a liar.

For there, he sits on glory’s throne
a couch potato in its making.
What scheme he seeks now to propone:
or aurify his authored faking.

There’s none who seek to climb so high
can ne’er be sure their fall be nigh.
For ere they land, that they should cry.
“ I’m back amongst the tatties”

As all good ditties require at least some form of a moral ending.

“Venite adiciamus magis unum cogitatione”

So let’s all join our hands as one
Sing out the poet’s chorus.
Wa’ ‘amongst us wid sae beat his drum
Tae look like some brontosaurus.

N.B.

My grateful thanks to S.M for the inspiration, he being G’s co-moderator, which with a typical Parthian shot described my previous window scratching efforts there as “Brontosaurus Dust”

The times are gone that nature share;
to leave us much that we compare.
How strange it is we now declare
“A man’s still a man for aw that”

Mor.