Month: October 2022

The clock is ticking
and I’ve got a Friday thing,
with coffee to start.

Changing my mind back,
to writing something worthwhile,
from a work life pile.

The rain was falling,
in showers, slowly soaking;
the trees couldn’t help.

On the morning train,
the dawn breaks and people wake,
and the day begins.

Have you seen the rain,
it’s been coming for some time,
on these autumn days.

I’n breezin’ along,
and it’s a funky rhythm,
thank you, George Benson

I found an almond,
in my muesli this morning,
a welcome flavour.

Reading newspapers,
is only good for a while,
and then the cross word.

The ol’ Joanna,
with those oldies hammered out,
on those well worn keys.

Sweet sunlight’s shining,
and falling warmly this day,
in a pleasant way.

So two wood burners,
and an oven, those poor trees,
if we all did this.

Two thing define us,
our patience when we’ve nothing;
attitude when rich.

Spotify, one play,
I’m happy because it’s one,
and that’s all it takes.

Scenes are unfolding,
revealing the characters,
and nameless, they act.

I found some old tunes,
and they are rocking real good;
why’s it been so long.

One page at a time,
I’m reading them through each one,
and still updating.

Like a stream flowing,
the thoughts keep flooding my mind,
with stories growing.

The notes on my notes,
revealing a new freshness,
that can’t be ignored.

To me eight is late,
and that’s what I got today,
and it did feel good.

Some time in the gym,
and cut the grass, went shopping,
and now I’m writing.

I’m glad it’s Friday,
my to do list is growing,
and work’s in the way.

What does success mean,
not just a goal, there is more,
a process of change.

I’m changing myself,
just a little at a time,
you’d hardly notice.

Music’s a passion,
that wraps itself around you,
and seduces you.

The coffee mug’s stained,
and brown streaks adorn its sides,
the same mug today.

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

Mist rolled in today,
and the trees faded away,
and there was stillness.

I do like to write,
and sometimes I will read it,
but not too often.

The wind blowing free,
and the breathe you’ve just taken,
is a gift to you.

I wrote a poem,
it told me of a lost love,
and the scars I bear.

It is times like these,
the here, the now and today,
when you find you write.