How hard is it to write in formal… In sonnet form with proper metre? A few short words written in rever… A rhythm that must not be let pete… And a story, usually of love
Blossom blew off the tree And there goes life I thought As I walked my dog and he limped… And tried to muster a small shower At every lamp post and tree
Wings of wax and feathers plucked From your breast (not literal, min… But it sure felt like I was flyin… We’d laugh and you’d call me Icar… Always in danger of being
An image of foul fancy plagues me. A crowded desert of concrete; I see it all through artificial ey… Argus, though none sleep now. No… Wild eyed, we speak silence and
Come then Pluck at my flesh! You can’t damage my liver As fast I can Have you seen what I drink?
I craft torn worlds immeasurable, Glades of hilly plains over the mo… Mere dreamed memories shape fantas… And! Points unfinished; begun wrong. A…
The tactile brush of pages across… Trace memories and images of thing… I hold here in my hand a collectio… Concentrated emotion holding more… Another, and I can cry again at t…
Staring at the cracked pavement saving my eyes from the sun and the scene of flowers tied to a lamppost; can of Stella shoved in amongst
Time passes, And our each allocated space and s… relative to the rhythm of lives being lived alongside ours. Strength and sinews fade with sick…
Soaked pebbles and tip toeing pede… Train stations, cold bricks and co… standing in the platform Smiling at beauty sometimes smilin… I’d read Nietzsche and Kafka and…
I am no word-smith I am the anvil Beaten with a hard And heated hammer Scolded by others’
Wandering from point to point And stretching our legs We do what we do And we lay our eggs But no matter how large
I wonder who decided on the big tv Saw a nice hill and thought, I co… Dig it up shuffle it to the side a… Shit why not Add some seating too
Through trouble taken, and confidence shaken, through stress and pain, hard work yet little gain, I have fret endlessly.
I spy a wrapper on the floor A small thing, hardly a major chor… And yet, no - it shall remain and cause strife and no small pain… It’s just a wrapper - but who’s?
