Author: Pontvert

It’s not what you say,
but how you tell it, speak it,
even when you write.

The summer falters,
and the rain falls in showers,
and really pleasant.

I told it my way,
and they did not understand,
and heard something else.

I told it plainly,
may a point to make it clear,
now they understand.

The things they call me,
I can not repeat them now,
what is in a name?

It’s Moody Rudy,
or Silly Bily, Fed Ted,
or something like that.

It has been a while,
and it feels like a long haul;
time to get away.

I know I can stay,
and keep my nose pressed flat down,
on the work grind stone.

Laughing out loudly,
and one of those that grab you,
and almost hurts you.

Crying with laughter,
unable to make it stop,
grateful for this time.

Watching a good film,
late into the midnight hours,
and drinking coffee.

It ended so late,
and the washing up waited,
and had to be done.

Travel down the road,
it’s the only way to go,
on foot or by bike.

Riding up the hill,
feeling the burn in the thighs,
and that sense of hope.

Shadows on the walls,
the patterns of the trees leaves,
blowing in the breeze.

Summer rain falling,
brings out the slugs and the snails,
for a little while.

Summer days so long,
they’re lasting a while longer,
without sunny days.

Complaining again,
it rattles the quiet mind,
something’s left undone.

The mug keeps hugging,
feeling the heat of the tea,
and in turn is hugged.

Page after dull page,
she reading the draft novel,
knowing what she wrote.