Author: Pontvert

The light is so bright,
and I close my eyes, then squint;
silhouettes approach.

There is much to do,
and if I don’t do something,
I can’t do it well.

I’ve lost track of time,
the thief of time, time itself,
that stole much from me.

I struggled today,
to wake up and start my day,
and I took my time.

There is much to do,
and if I don’t do something,
I can’t do it well.

The night fell silent,
and darkness covered the land,
and it was quiet.

The moon waves goodbye,
with a fine waning crescent,
but the clouds hide it.

The moon disappears,
just for a day, then returns,
on its other side.

Some friends come and go,
and some stick like a brother;
some you never meet.

Sunday slips away,
and the plans are halfway done,
but gave way to fun.

My chapter seven,
held me back said, “Look at me,
don’t leave me like this!”

I woke at seven,
and I crashed into morning,
dazed, I staggered out.

Reading newspapers,
and battling through the broad sheets,
to find the crossword.

Sleep over took him,
suspending reality,
with dreamlike fiction.

A rainy Sunday,
in the sky, lightning flashes,
and thunder rumbles.

I found an old draft,
and read it with interest,
noting some good parts.

Reading the gravestones,
and some can tell a story,
here at Kensal Green.

Crunchy nut corn flakes,
with cold milk and a teaspoon,
and good anytime.

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