Tag Archives: Writing

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.

Today’s Ask is Today’s Task?

Today’s Ask is Today’s Task?

What? Am I to write today?

Shall it be from a moment in my travels?

Or will it be from a kindly-offered prompt?

Poetry? Dialogue? A Short Story? A N Other?

Will it be funny?

Or shall I eschew the humour?

Who knows?

I await Notification from above, or around.

G:)

More about Stewart Taylor.

More about Stewart Taylor.

Stewart Taylor spoke into his loud-inhaler, “Come out, come out, wherever you are; with your hands held high – we have you surrounded!”

Which was a lie – there was nobody above them, and nobody below them; they could have escaped either way.

Stewart turned to his second-in-command and asked the age-Old question, “Why are we here? I don’t mean ‘here’ as in ‘here’, but ‘here’ as in ‘here’. Unluckily – or luckily, depending on how lucky things were – his second-in-command was an Ikea bookcase, a one Billy Flat-Pack, who rarely, if ever, swayed in the breeze enough to say anything contentious. Billy was currently being silent on this, as upon all matters.

Stewart spoke into his loud-inhaler once more, “You do know that I have better things to do on a Saturday morning than surround a crooked operation like yours?”

There was still an unearthly silence from the empty building.

Things were likely to get out of hand if nobody intervened – nobody did.

Three weeks later, Stewart turned himself in for the wasting of time in a built up episode of town.

The judge was lenient and sentenced him to two paragraphs.

“I had an idea.”

“I had an idea.”

I had an idea

a brilliant idea

for a poem

or a story

or how to solve World Poetry

(or ‘Poverty’, probably);

then I lost it;

I didn’t back it up in my memory bank;

or scribble a note for later –

I have the idea no longer,

and only a vague notion

that it was not about suntan lotion.

This happens.

Well, it happens to me.

Sometimes, the idea returns.

Well, once in a moon that is blue.

Never mind, it’s ‘on with the day!’

“What do ‘you’ do…?”

“What do you do…?”

What do you do

when you have no words

but somewhere to put them;

have words

but nowhere to put them;

don’t have words

and

nowhere to put them

even if you did have them?

Wait for the time

when you have words

and

somewhere to put them?

Maybe.