I’m feeling lucky,
as I turn the page and look,
and well, there it is.
I did go walking,
the sun was warm like springtime,
and the bird did sing.
It is a strange thing,
one moment working and then,
out in the woodlands.
My poems are crap,
they flow like bile from my wounds,
a needed release.
Seventeen of them,
syllables that is, no more,
So test them and see.
The rhythm is key,
the patterns are beaten out,
in each of the words.
I expect good news,
to pay the bill and the debts,
and leaving something.
We are all dreamers,
caught in a world of nonsense,
promises unkept.
I’m not a cynic,
nor a realistjust me,
with my happy thoughts.
