Poetry

And now, the weather

At night came the time for rain,

for rain to trickle through my brain.

All day the sun had roasted it dry;

I’d stared absently into the sky

trying to chase down my thoughts

that flitted around, avoiding getting caught.

But now their wings are wet,

and in the direction of my head they set

just as I snuggle down to sleep,

causing my imagination to take a giant leap.

Poetry

Inner Art

Choose your canvas carefully,

not too large it might swamp you,

not too small so your vision spills from the sides.

Measure it, carefully, then study its texture.

Find all the bumps, irregularities

and note them down

so you can take extra care. You may

even wish to make them a feature,

and if not, then certainly don’t let them hinder

your self-worth.

Next, you must sketch out your idea,

adding to it once you’ve gotten used to each part.

Once it’s all clear to you,

you can add colour, add certainty.

Gently layer it on.

When the piece is finished, step back

and know that everyone will view it differently,

with no opinion weighing more than another.

Be proud of it, and let it show.

 

Poetry

Thoughts I had while eating chocolate spread from the jar

Scraping the bottom of the barrel,

those threads and fibres of ideas.

They’re no good, they say.

So I counter; I’m not scraping, I’m shaping,

crafting not a barrel but a watertight embrace

that I can shelter in as society’s laughter stampedes.

 

In my cave of solitude, while I wait for quiet,

those threads have been plaited into prose.

 

Like Tolkien, like Rowling – it’s all just the same.

 

No, it’s all just me. They may only see words,

but their children will see worlds.

Poetry

Writer’s pursuit

Where do writers get their ideas from?

All the world wants to know!

Do they sneak off to times gone

while we’re sleeping

and watch the goings on as a show?

 

Do they skip back and forth,

bartering in many different tongues?

Do they bundle old tales and morph them

into diverse, interlocking shapes

and hope the originals won’t see them hung?

 

Perhaps they come in dreams

drifting down rivers and across channels.

Do they filter onto pages in reams,

spider-fast ink overtaking the pores,

to at last become a slab of legible panels?

Poetry

Delirium

Night calls,

and there’s fire in the air.

My brain sparks with idea after idea,

waving aside the calls of Nod and Deep Slumber.

My fingers itch to write down

everything I see,

but they’re never fast enough.

Still, they do what they can,

and eventually they tire enough to bid

their partner

sweet dreams.