Purest of pages
is the blank page;
throughout the ages
it has come of age
and been defiled
by clumsy stroke
or inept word;
and likened to the joke
where silence is heard?
I went to write something for Sunday,
but, as Sunday never writes anything for me…
.
Then I read some other people’s poetry and stories – which I should do more often – and their words were good, great, wondrous!
.
Then I added a bit to a short story that may get even longer – if it finds out where it is that it is going.
.
Then I wrote, am writing, this.
.
Hot off of the press, but nothing to write home about.
.
Well, it makes a change from my quirky poems, don’t you think?
.
I shall get back to QPs later – probably.
.
As to the weather – it is very cold here, but probably colder elsewhere, so it’s just a comment and not a complaint.
.
Where ever you are – take care and stay safe.
.
I care for your well-being.
.
Graeme:)
Even before the poem was born
it had a provisional name –
whether it was a boy or a girl poem,
simple or gifted, wild or tame.
It was to be called ‘Poem’ –
nothing but the best for my newest birthing.
.
Anyway, Poem was born,
from my soul was torn,
arriving, screaming silently,
into the void.
.
Will Poem grow to be a leader of tribes,
a favourite of scribes,
or just a series of words
vaguely affirming the sanctity of birds.
.
We wait and see;
what will be…
will…
be.
It might be the only day of the year
when writing might not be writ,
or books not be read;
but I did some reading at four o’clock
all snuggled up in bed.
And writing has a moment,
when it just must be done,
and this is the very moment,
because writing is such fun.
.
However, if, today,
you do not write,
or read a word at all,
I’ll still wish you a merry festive time
as I pop on down another rhyme,
and listen to literature’s call.
I don the writer’s garb
(get dressed)
and scribe my words
(write things)
be they sad or droll
(random things)
until the muse flys off
(until my head hurts).
I’m always on my phone,
in the writing and poetry zone;
it’s good to be alone
with your thoughts.
At this moment in time,
I have posted upon WordPress
for one hundred and twenty-one
days in a row.
I have also read from my Kindle
for the past twenty-six days
(I miss a day, occasionally)
but, I have also read from my Kindle
for the past sixty-four weeks
(I miss a week ‘very’ occasionally).
.
I might have to thank a long list of authors,
and be thankful to a huge number of inspirational moments for the above,
but this is no place for speeches,
or peaches, as each is
inevitably, or invariably,
too long, under, or over ripe,
and very rarely at the correct
length, or ripeness for public proclamation.
As you can see from the above, writing is a thing.
Make of that what you will.
You know what I’m going to write,
even before I’ve writ it;
you’ve seen it all,
you know the path
my words will always take –
because I use predictable text,
and you know what comes next,
as originality I forsake.
I thought that AIW would mention
that
It has come to my attention,
that,
when I sit down
to try and write a poem,
I end up writing one like this one.
This also happens
when I stand up
to try and write a poem.
Maybe I shouldn’t sit down
or stand up
or write poetry.
Has this sort of thing
come to your attention?
Asking for an imaginary friend –
which, as a poet,
I do have.
I put
words upon a page;
it’s something I’ve done
for an age.
They might not be the best,
as good as the rest,
but, in them
my time
I invest.
 | Cynthia Praski on SoCS – Tape – #4… |
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| Cynthia Praski on SoCS – Tape – #4… |
| Words from a Lentil… on SoCS – Tape – #4… |
| Cynthia Praski on SoCS – Tape – #4… |
Graeme Sandford 