Tag Archives: Writing

My Prompt For Today?

My Prompt For Today?

Where is my prompt for today?

The thing that will jump into my path –

It must be on its way.

The anticipation is eagerly anticipated,

the expectation is expected soon;

shall it be brought by the bounteous birds

who sing by the light of the Moon?

Nah! Too late for that, the Dawn Chorus has passed us by.

How about when I’m walking the dogs, I can be found on the lanes;

inspiration can hit me then,

or at least the inkling of an idea,

a morsel, a tidbit, some grains.

Oh, where is my prompt for today?


The Writer

The Writer


I am a writer..

And, yet, I didn’t write anything today.

Or yesterday.

Or this week.

In fact, the whole of this month-

and the one before-

are completely writing free.

It doesn’t bother me.

That’s because I am a writer.

Writing is what I do.

Or don’t do-

If you see?

Writing means the world to me.

It’s a life-choice, not a hobby.

Writing is everything.

And, yet, I have written nothing today.

Or yesterday…

‘Carry On Writing’ #LWG 5-minute exercise

“Carry On Writing!”

Sid walked into the room.

Kenneth, Kenny and Babs were sat at various tables reading the latest script

Babs has been cast as Elizabeth the First, Sid as Sir Really Rather-a-Wally, Kenneth as Lord Waltzinghome and Kenny as King Philip the Poor Second of Spain. The guest actor who was to be portraying a youngish William Shakeshaft was Ian Lavender.

The script called for many doublet-entendres and a smattering of smut and innuendo. This was obviously no surprise.

“To be or not to be…” exclaimed Ian, as he entered the room.

“Is this a dagger that I see before me?” Asked Babs. “Not ‘arf!” she laughed raucously.

It was going to be another one of those days.

The Writing is…

The writing is on the wall;

the door of the telephone box;

across the face of the dentally -challenged poster girl;

Above the A32 on the Sangupiddy Bridge;

on a random fridge, abandoned at a kerb side;

upon many pavements around the world;

and upon this page.

Keep writing;

for without writing…

PS Not that I am encouraging graffiti – I’m not – but, writing is an expression of thoughts and ideas – and those are good things.

(Poem 24 – The Finishing Line Is In Sight) 25 Poems in 24 Hours

Poem 24 – 23:00 16-05-2017

All out of phrases

But, his game he still raises

To run for the tape

In hope of escape

Tiring, he stumbles;

For a breath he bravely fumbles

And lunges

And falls

And lays still.
The crowd is hushed

An ambulance rushed

And they gather around

This brave athlete

Supine upon the ground.
They offer support

But, of life there is nought

And his quill lays broken

Beside him, a token

Of what he promised to do.
“One last gasp! Was all that he needed;

But, the warning signs weren’t heeded.

And he positively speeded

To try for that tape.

And now he lays breathless

And wordless and speechless

With nary an arrow in his quiver to shoot.

“Was it all in this vein?”
“Could he have ended his reign?”
“He should have worked through the pain.”
And the near-corpse opened and eye.
His lip trembled a word

They listened, some heard,

The word, it was

‘Water.’ They brought him a glass.

They dribbled some twixt

The crack of his lips

And he drew in a breath

And time seemed not to pass…

But, it did.

And with a will that was found

He rose from the ground

And travelled the distance

From there to the tape.

The crowd cheered ‘Huzzah!’

And witnessed a star

As it crossed the Heavens that day.
And, now, looking back

We just smile at our lack

And his braveness in ending at last

So here’s to his glory

That I’ve told in this story

Raise a glass to that hero of the past.

Dream Sequences – Part 2 (a story in creation)


NB please read Part 1 first at: 

Dream Sequences (a story in creation) http://wp.me/p1MjHq-1jS via

thank you


Part 2

Henry’s mind considered these things during the waking hours; to the detriment of his paying attention to his work and his driving skills – which were relatively called into question ‘twice’ on the way into the office; ‘many’ times ‘in’ his office; and ‘three’ times on the way back – once with almost disastrous consequences for an intrepid motorcyclist on a courier ‘Mission from G.O. Deliveries’ where he, the dispatch rider, had almost met his Almighty Employer.

Henry parked his dilapidated Ford Belligerent in an unusually empty space only a hundred and fifty yards from his flat, and ventured away from sanctuary and towards the quietude of the public library.

Henry was pleased to see it still there; he always assumed it would become a cut-price something-or-other overnight and his refuge from society’s babble would disappear like a traffic warden’s cologne after he’d photographed your car V.I.N. number not three seconds since you’d parked and popped into the newsagents for some Aspirin.

Henry found a table with seat near the Motoring section and dumped twelve back-issues of Exchange and Mart upon grubby surface.

It took him the effort of retracing eight issues before he found what he was looking for.

1926 Bentley, 3.0 Litre, British Racing Green, yada yada yada… up for auction at Rialto (Automobiles) Auction Rooms, Tuesday 7th, lot 458, estimate of £300K-£320K.

Henry whistled – and received a look of disapproval / approbation from a nearby librarian who was replacing ‘Humbly’s Diesel Engines of the 1950s’ or some-such tome.

‘Well, that detail was right.’ he thought. ‘A 1926 Bentley in reality looks just like the one in my dream – apart from the colour.’

Henry could have Googled this information in seconds; but, being of the sort of disposition that feels a book to be paper and words first – any other format (if you must) is a poor second.

However, finding A.R.P. might require a little of today’s modern-magic. He knew that needles in haystacks were a mouse-click away when the Interweb was put to use – Henry replaced the E&Ms correctly (in chronological order) and decided ‘now’ would be the time to seek out ‘Warden’ for any truths in ‘her’ story.

Henry had not had any dreams continuing his encounter with this enigma of a pretty, young lady who ‘they’ called ‘The mechanic’ or had that been a joke? He tried to visualise her face; arrange her features in proper order; remember her hair colour, style, length, but he was hopelessly hopeless at that sort of thing unless taking detailed notes at the time – which he hadn’t.

Not having had any more chances to gaze upon her smiling face, Henry had just taken to noting down the words spoken and the detail of the… the what? Hardly a date. She had been a knight in shining armour to his broken down damsel in distress – then she had galloped into the sunset without as much as a: ‘See you Tuesday; Rialto? Seven?’

Today was Tuesday. The 7th. Rialto! Where were the Rialto (Automobile) Auction Rooms?


NB how do you think it’s going? No dreams in this bit; but, that is fine IMO. G:)

We Do What We Can


We do what we can
Sometimes that relates to little
Or nothing
But we have something
When we do words.