Category: Just for the moment

The machine’s turning,
and out pops a load of words,
and the chapter’s packed.

Words drop temptingly,
from the fictional book vine,
entwining readers.

The book vine drops seeds,
Into the fertile ground below,
where writers spring up.

Picking up the leaves,
that’s fallen from the book vine,
writing out poems.

Strings of wordy pearls,
lovingly formed by writers,
adorning my shelves.

Tracing the letters,
that wonderfully appear,
to write their story.

The story flowing,
and my pen tries to catch up,
but just at the stops.

The notebooks page turns,
with a clear inviting space,
for words to gather,

The gather around,
and come together in groups,
five, seven and five.

Family and friends,
for the weekend what a joy,
must do that again.

Secret things I hide,
the books, the coins and the paints,
which I rarely use.

The driving was fun,
and it kept me on the edge,
and watching the road.

Back to work Monday,
that means buses, trains and tube,
and in that order.

The time has run out,
and I’m writing quickly now,
to beat the cut off.

The paper’s flying
back and forth is goes then back,
to come forth again.

A single word waits,
to just into the sentence,
to make it complete.

Grinding to a stop,
and a stand still, just waiting,
for if it should go.

The book has its worth,
each tattered page says something,
that crowns it a book.

Well the week is done,
and seven days makes one weak,
so I am resting.

The Commonwealth games,
have been great and good to see,
so many nations.

The story started,
once upon a time but then,
is was no fable.

My words fall silent,
as I ponder their meaning,
and they touch my heart.

My cup is half full,
or maybe it’s half empty,
or it’s just empty.

The day is warmer,
and the ice cream van drove by,
that I just flagged down.

Those boisterous clouds,
in the cerulean sky,
just bouncing along.

The world’s very tense,
how can these egotists,
think they rule the world.

Such beautiful words,
adorn the notebooks borders,
lush like spring flowers.

Investing in books,
and written by yours truly,
and almost complete.

I wish I knew how,
to capture fleeting stories,
that seek a writer.

I’m counting the times,
I have walked a long the beach,
now the sands of time.

I’m thankful today,
nothing special, just feel it;
there’s alot to do.

I need a suitcase,
to hold all my many things,
and give me water.

I am writing now,
and seeking words of beauty,
that have true meaning.

A simple question,
without a simple answer,
that really tests us.

Without interest,
just write any boring stuff,
or stop buying stuff.

I was travelling,
the train was easy and quick,
and so was the tube.

I am tempting fate,
by simply going outside,
fate is just my life.

There is no time off,
always more to do each day,
it’s never ending

I’m treasure hunting,
in my office, it is here,
something that I lost.

Notebooks say pick me,
‘I have stories and poems,
things you’ve forgotten’.

Butterflies fly by,
quickly looking for that thing,
on the summer breeze.

So quickly darting,
back and forth then it hovers,
just for a moment.

I’m counting the times,
I have walked a long the beach,
now the sands of time.