The Pen : a short fiction as prose

He had to write

before considering the ocean

or smiling at rainbows

for in his pen

lived his capacity

to see the joyous

its blue ink

indifferent

to the evil in this world

5-7-5 (take one-hundred-and-eighty-eight : a minstrel’s wish)

Hang all the poets

their words have been the ruin

of so many lives

A one minute rhyme that isn’t about a banjo

If I had a ukelele
I would cover it in jelly
and sit crossed legged on the floor
with it resting on my belly
and if I played a savory song
I’d smear it up with cheese
with pickled onion chord charts
resting on my knees

5-7-5 (take one-hundred-and-eighty-seven : stop press)

from old newspapers

the dead look on the living

with secrets to share

Unfinished Poem Using Bits of Other Unfinished Poems

her eyes spoke loud of mischief

a sparkle in each glance

her voice it promised music

to which a kiss could dance

her laughter painted colours

bright hues upon her lips

ideas formed within me

wrote with her fingertips

Discovery

We journeyed on a rocking ship

out behind the stars

to a paralysed universe

that turned out to be ours

where all the laws of common sense

and decency and such

in the long and short of it

didn’t mean so much

so I’ll take our rocking ship

and point it up and down

then maybe with a little luck

We’ll find some common ground

Commentary

fuckwittery’s the norm now

of this we can be sure

yes there were fuckwits in the past

but today we’ve many more

5-7-5 (take one-hundred-and-eighty-six : the seed)

let me sow myself

not only in your being

but deep in your soul

Sluggish

snails are slowing down I hear

and don’t move quite so fast

as all the former gastropods

from the dim and distant past

The Scribbler : a short fiction as prose

Each breath 

and accompanying

heartbeat experienced

from the first time

he kissed her

he’s duly noted 

in an exercise book

He has a library planned