Month: September 2020

Liking ninth of ninth,
It has a charming ring too,
And that satisfies!

The tickitty tock,
Of the restless, racing clock,
So still on the wall.

Meetings to cancel,
Creating time, for more work,
Yes, for much more work.

Trapped in my office,
Held captive by the workload,
And endless meetings.

But life must have more,
In it’s hidden lifetime store,
Is it meant for now?

I dig down deeper,
Hoping to find something there,
Then I hit bottom.

I’m whirling around,
And lost to the spinning ground,
Though I’m still standing.

It’s all just a blur,
Had it’s moment to occur,
Now, it’s fuzzy past.

Picking up pieces,
That have fallen to the ground,
And arranging them.

Sunday is just fine,
But dreading the week ahead,
So stressful and hard.

Time is running on,
I can’t catch it, nor can you,
What then will we do?

Please do not gamble,
They say it’s a wasteful sin,
That you cannot win.

The sun felt so warm,
This morning when I felt it,
Warm my cold body.

Just to let you know,
Autumn’s stumbling, nearly here,
But summer holds on.

My direction sense,
Tells me I’m going southwards,
In truth it’s just down.

Funny but it’s true,
The moon is with a planet,
High up in the sky.

The day was better,
I got some needed rest too,
And watched a good film.

It’s sad it is gone,
Like many that went before,
Day break and sunset.

It feels very cold,
To my bear feet outside there,
In the cool night air.

Caught in a time walp,
No escape from what’s real,
Unable to feel.

The ceiling is flat,
I lay around on the floor,
What up’s really down.

It is time for bed,
It is time for a coffee,
Or something stronger.

Casting my lot in,
Now that I’m home and got in,
to going to bed.

The trains didn’t come,
And the planes did not fly by,
That single flower.

Heavy clouds float by,
Drifting on the evening breeze,
And blend into night.

The weary one came,
Dragged by the weight of today,
Pulling him down hill.

The water ran fast,
From the tap into the bath,
Feeling the edges.

The summer holds on,
Desperate to warm itself,
For a day or two.

The writing has stalled,
The poems they struggle on,
None with conviction.

The battle lines drawn,
Tell a sorry tale of war,
And their great mistakes.