Month: February 2021

Another day gone,
it was cold and I feel old,
even though I’m not.

And marbles do roll,
dropped on hard floors, very well,
going everywhere.

I found an old friend,
a camera I once lost,
and found it today.

My eyes are so sore,
too much screen time for Thursday,
what will Friday bring?

My fountain pen’s back,
in full flow and writing stuff,
a little cocky.

Well that is it now,
the words don’t flow and won’t rhyme,
waiting for their turn.

The carpet flew off,
it took to the air flying,
until it got cold.

They blamed the cobwebs,
that build on the web space,
or the internet.

Who know how it works,
the cogs that spin the spiders,
crawling over webs.

I regret a lot,
mostly the things done today,
or rather, not done.

The coffee tastes good,
hot and hitting a good spot,
that ‘ll be my mouth.

Work uninspires me,
and drags me backwards slowly,
drowning in work mud.

Just one more attempt,
to write a perfect haiku.
That is what I think.

A day in darkness,
this site was locked out and gone,
by some fiendish app.

I got it all back,
with just a telephone call,
and a mug of tea.

Discouragement reigns,
from all quarters and some halfs.
I’m digging me out.

Don’t mind the rubbish,
these scattered words and haiku,
blowing in the wind.

The pen leads my hand,
making letters to appear,
as if by magic,

Ink flows in the groove,
that the pen nib scribes and crafts,
and rests where it dries.

The pen won’t look back,
nor will it correct its flow,
for there’s no mistakes.

The page holds it still,
and capturing each letter,
and words as they form.

At last it does stop,
it pauses and with a sigh,
says, ‘Replace my top’.

The wonder of it,
this unstoppable passion,
that flares and burns out.

The wheels on the bus,
do go round, I would hope so,
Or that is my stop.

Little miss Muffit,
did sit down on a spider,
and killed the poor thing.

London bridge’s buring,
the road feels hot in summer,
along with fine girls.

A ring a ring a,
poses for the noses then sneeze,
and we all fall down.

Work, work and more work,
I could do nothing for sure,
and maybe just shirk.

I can not do that,
I am wired to keep working,
it’s the way I’m built.

Nuts and bolts and stuff,
knots and cogs and bits of fluff,
that make whurring sounds.

I am not clockwork,
I often miss the hour chime,
and can’t keep ticking.

Warm in my office,
and snow is falling outside,
not quite wonderland.

A mug of coffee,
waits, hot and steaming, close by,
for that first taste soon.

The mugs sides are hot,
so I hold the mug handle,
for that first hot sip.

Sipping the coffee,
over the top of the mug lip,
cooling it enough.

I can now taste it,
bitter at first, then better,
then the after taste.

Sunday morning thoughts,
what if, I say, I had won,
once, that lottery.

We are where we are,
and the hoping continues,
in our daily thoughts.

What is on my mind,
a clown, a frog, a lightness,
that blinds my senses.

Spiralling they come,
just like spiders from their webs,
thoughts of silly rhymes.

I losing it now,
the trace and track of writing,
so I let it flow.

The river runs deep,
they say that about someone,
that doesn’t say much.

I have much to say,
and wish that I could find more,
that was making sense.

There are hidden themes,
woven, with care, in the seams,
that need unpicking.

Someone calls me now,
their voice distant and from far,
but I hear it clear.

Then the silence comes,
like an emptiness, so still,
with nothing to feel.

The meter’s run out,
followed by a few pounds coins,
that rolled after it.

The tank was empty,
apart from a lot of air,
that kept it breathing.

Half empty, half full,
in the balance they’re the same,
but they’re not the same.

I’m a half full guy,
I’ve been waiting for the rest,
but that’s it for now.

The pen has run out,
and it followed the meter,
so, good riddence too.

Now, I will be blunt,
and I’ll come straight to the point,
that is how I am.

I am not backwards,
in coming forwards, you know,
that’s the way I walk.

Do you like quirky,
the weird and the wonderful,
wrapped in a poem.

Fried battered poems,
taste good with a can of coke,
and a few cold chips.

Good for a small snack,
peanut poem sandwiches,
but cut off the crusts.

A poem salad,
good for a weight loss diet,
hardly any carbs.