Tag Archives: Writing

Saturday Morning’s Alright For Writing – revisited.

Saturday Morning,

like every other morning,

is a good time for writing;

and, seeing as how

it is Saturday Morning now,

(well, it was when I wrote this)

I shall write these words

(and maybe more)

upon high ground,

as it is quite dangerous

writing upon the shore,

due to the rain and the wind,

that is there,

and the possibility

of opening Death’s door

and walking through;

if the tide should rise above my head,

I would have to stop writing,

and start being dead.

#NationalPoetryDay

Every day is a writing day

for me;

whether it be a day

when any writing gets done

or not

Is another thing,

and why I write my prose

in poetry format

is anyone’s guess.

Yes, I know

it confuses the reader;

but,

it also confuses

this already considerably confused

writer, too.

Give me a prompt

Give me a prompt,

or a subject to write to,

and I’ll write you a poem –

or, at least, I will try to;

I might not succeed

in penning a classic;

but, I’ll give it my best

‘Park & Ride’

to the island Jurassic –

whatever that means.

Sunday, not a poetry day?

I tried to write a poem,

something, anything;

but, nothing could I write;

so, I went for a walk instead,

to consider the nothingness

in my head.

Less is More? (more or less, that is).

I have written less today,

than I did yesterday;

hence my surge in popularity

today.

Should I continue the trend,

or amend my writing

to allow peaks and troughs?

If I continue to write less,

I confess I would be non-plussed

if my stock was still to rise;

I would have to surmise

that if I wrote nothing at all, ever,

I could be famous.

Or infamous…

Whatever.

Saturday Morning’s Alright For Writing.

Saturday Morning,

like every other morning,

is a good time for writing;

and, seeing as how

it is Saturday Morning now,

(well, it was when I wrote this)

I shall write these words,

and maybe more,

upon high ground,

as it is quite dangerous

writing upon the shore,

due to the rain and the wind,

that is there,

and the possibility

of opening Death’s door

and walking through;

for, if the tide should rise above my head,

I would have to stop writing,

and start being dead.

I used to write…

I used to right

a thousand wrongs

in every single one

of my songs

And now I write

about what I write,

or writ, or wrote;

how every word,

is, or was,

of little note.

I was gifted a pen

I was gifted a pen,

and some paper,

new boots, some mud,

a scraper;

all the things

that I would need

if I were to write,

within,

and upon,

the countryside,

indeed.

When you feel that you ‘have’ to write… something.

When you feel that you ‘have’ to write… something.

After a few days in the wilderness –

or even one –

it becomes a requirement

to scribble something down;

even though it may be short

and of little literary worth.

‘Peas on Earth!’

Or the like.

I’ve got a bike;

or had one,

or will have one,

or won’t –

as ‘cycle’

I don’t.

Having writ,

I am then able

to remove myself from

the table of writing,

and get on with my chores,

there, inviting,

“What chores?”

you may ask (you may),

and I may reply,

“Why, thank you, mine’s a pint!”

or maybe I won’t.

I didn’t write a poem, yesterday.

I didn’t write a poem, yesterday.

I didn’t write a poem, yesterday;

well, I did; but, it wasn’t very good,

the muse misfired,

and the poem wasn’t as good

as I’d desired.

I have written one today,

about not having written one yesterday –

even though I actually did.