This post has been brought to you by writer’s block, and a lovely evening at an acoustic music session at The Old Anchor. I quite often end up writing here…when I can that is! It’s not for a want of ideas I can assure you. Please let me know what you think and as always, enjoy!
Of Writer’s Block
I want to write of falconry,
And literary critique.
Of mystery cats with stumpy tails,
For ideas I need not seek.
I want to write of new friendships,
And limping down a mountain.
Of adventuring in foreign climes,
I’m a veritable idea fountain.
I wanted to write for the past year,
And would sit with pen in hand.
Of ideas I wasn’t lacking,
But they wouldn’t come out as planned.
I want to keep on writing,
And end this long hiatus.
Of writer’s block no one’s a fan,
It always conspires to frustrate us.
That last verse is being a pain still, but it’s so nice to get something down rather than have a hundred ideas and a hundred blank pages because they won’t transfer.
Sometimes when I try and write, all I end up with are a random collection of one verse poems. One lunch time I was trying to write something new for a friend, and managed to, along with five randoms and the start of a longer piece I’ve been mulling for years. Enjoy!
I really am quite hopeless,
At entitling my rhyme.
But it’s for the excellent reason,
I forget to at the time.
Today is the day of the solitary verse,
But I suppose that it could be worse.
I could have written one ten pages long,
Or more scarily tried to make it a song.
If the world was like cake,
Spring would be the mixing,
With hot summers the oven in which we bake.
Autumn’s cooling and berried decoration,
Winter frosts dust sugar on what we make.
I’ve been rather lousy at answering e-mails and comments and the like of late, I really have no excuse, sorry. I shall have to do better this year!
This one is a pretty recent write, and appropriately, I have around four versions floating around the place.
Is a Poem Ever Complete?
Is a poem ever finished,
Is what you’ve just penned,
Really the end?
Do the words and lines in your mind,
Reach the page without change,
Or would that be strange?
Or is the idea still fluid,
And your poetic decision,
Subject to revision?
When they’re written down in ink,
Or typed up so neat,
Are they complete?
Are they ever?
Every Tuesday I play for my pool team. However, for various reasons, I will often be rather early to matches, and find myself with an hour or two to kill. This past Tuesday, I decided to take a drink and find a nice peaceful spot by the river and canal to write some new rhymes. So I sat, and I doodled, and I sat some more and found myself at a complete loss… Which led to me noting down random thoughts and lines until this appeared. Enjoy!
Lost for Words
Oh the irony of it all,
A poet lost for words.
So there’s nothing left to do,
But sit here spotting birds.
A wren or two are followed by,
Several wood pigeons so fat.
As the swans glide by I realise,
A rhyme was written just like that.
Twenty miles seemed like a good idea. Rather, coming to the end of ten miles, doing a second hike with another friend seemed like a good idea, and that ended up being another ten miles. However, having literally just returned from this hike, I’m now nursing some very sore legs and suspect I shall pay greatly for this tomorrow, and for the rest of the week. I didn’t have anything prepared, and my black book has gone walk about. Let’s see what happens…
My Favourite Words
Who says dictionaries are a bore,
When they’ve words like petrichor.
The smell of earth after rain.
Then there’re mendicants,
Beggars (with raggedy pants?)
In need of some change.
Flibbertigibbets you can’t count on,
They’re a flighty, unreliable person.
Flitting around as they please.
But the best of all is sleep,
Slumber so peaceful and deep.