Month: May 2022

I said, ‘I agree’,
and such an easy email,
with positive words.

Who uses emus,
in the place of their emails,
they don’t deliver.

The hand gun ready,
tucked beside his chair, loaded,
and ready to use.

It’s an old Webley,
that’s a piece of junk really,
but it does the job.

Accidents happen,
and lines of blue and red lights,
told me that it had.

I took a detour.
and I walked up to a path,
that would get me home.

The smell of woodland,
in the rain is wonderful,
and enjoyable.

I got exercise,
the kind that stretches your legs,
and make you push on.

In a writing fix?
‘Listen to your broccoli’,
and it will tell you.

When you are writing,
do you stare at the blank page,
or consume with words?

Abba’s ‘Waterloo’,
is a catchy well known song,
rhymed with, ‘wanna do‘.

I took a year out,
I would never trade that in,
but would do some more.

Flowers call the bees,
with their petal colours bright,
and sometimes their smell.

I’m having a rest,
I don’t have to work too hard,
on a Saturday.

I must learn to run,
I say learn, but mean, do it,
if my trainers will.

I have told myself,
I need a better fun life,
work and my writing.

Friday morning rush,
not the train but the meetings,
crowding on my time.

I am driving bad,
but in my head I’m racing.
and drive like a pro.

Time just doesn’t wait,
and week after week I’m back,
at one more Friday.

Creativity,
demands it’s own poem line,
and will fill my mind.

I went dream walking,
through everyday scenes so strange,
yet familiar.

I was counting sheep,
and got to thirty seven,
when the shepherd came.

A couple of retweets,
and a smattering of likes,
could be called success.

Twang left the guitar,
no one missed it, but they knew,
that something had changed.

At eighteen hundred,
he packed his bag and left work
and walked to the pub.

Selecting the words,
and shaping the written lines,
and crafting your art.

Change is happening,
all the pages testify,
you’ve something to say.

I climbed a mountain,
simply to reach the summit,
and to say it’s done.

Music has returned,
and it is just glorious,
like ,so many friends.

The words find their way,
across the unmapped expanse;
an author to guide.

Timing is an art,
like well paced rhythms and rhymes,
woven in poems.

Old time melodies,
do inspire and remind me,
of lyrics superb.

Down at Nick’s café,
and that is when time stood still,
catching the blue train.

Working in the dark,
with the light of the keyboard,
searching for the keys.

The rain falls silent,
with just the hiss of car tyres,
and misty lamp light.

What a day it’s been,
an internal inferno,
with cream on the top.

A cosy bed calls,
and in fuzzy dreams I fall,
and the clock speeds up.

Just one of those days,
where you wonder where it went,
and where you have been.

Looking to escape,
but there is no way at all,
stuck with the in laws.

Hidden mysteries,
beneath the streets of London,
that go on for miles.

Some talk of monsters,
maybe ghosts that haunt the lines,
of the underground.

Tales of this and that,
and news in getting heavy,
in daily papers.

Monday looms ahead,
with the threat of a good day,
on the horizon.