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.
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.
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,
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 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,
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.
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;
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.
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:)
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.
Graeme Sandford 