Of Writing

Some people are annoyed at me

And I suppose it is no wonder.

In spending hours in writing,

I’m leaving them to blunder

Through the chores

And all the dishes.

I dole out hugs,

Intermittent

Kisses.

But really,

It’s an awful ask,

To cease, desist, refrain

From task

Of writing what I have to pour

Upon these pages and

Many more.

The dam has burst,

It’s here to stay.

They muddle on

In disarray,

Mum has left

The kitchen sink,

I’ve disappeared

To write and think.

The truth is out,

They can’t decide

If mum’s depressed

And needs to hide.

When all I try

To say to them, is

I’m pouring ink from

Out of pen

Upon the whiteness

Of the page,

Please understand,

Don’t fuss

Or rage

At absence in

The living room,

I’m stoking fire

Of words

To bloom,

Like flowers

On the window sill,

I’ve not forgotten

Boy or girl.

But I am out

And this is it,

Live and learn,

Don’t give a shit

If ironing’s done

Or who hit whom.

Sort it out.

I’m in my room

Feeling freer

Than before,

Open mind,

Closed bedroom door.

What to say to

Those who matter,

I’m here beside you

But you must cater

To my needs,

When after all

I work all day,

Cease not at all.

In evening’s light

I spend my time

Fixing words

That want to rhyme,

Shaping thoughts

That form in mind,

Reliving dream

I have to find

To end the pain

Of silent pen.

I’m still here,

You’ll live again.

 

Video reading Of Writing

Places In My Mind

 

Daily Prompt: Blogger in a Strange Land

by michelle w. on October 12, 2013

What’s the strangest place from which you’ve posted to your blog? When was the last time you were out and about, and suddenly thought, “I need to write about this!”?

Photographers, artists, poets: show us STRANGE.

 

 

Not on a downer! And I know it’s now 13th!

Just thinking that all sorts of strange ‘places in our minds’ create the need to write.

 

Black hole

Engulfs

And swallows

Whole.

Belief

Belittled.

Buckled,

Aimless goal.

Devoured,

Dark

Abyss,

Devoid of light.

Diminished,

Dented days.

But still

I write.

 

Sparkling stars,

Unending joy

And flight.

Even then,

I feel

The need

To write.

Explore the Night

Awake again at 4a.m.

New disconcerting routine,

Disturbs my equilibrium.

What can it really mean?

 

Alert in mind, I light and write,

Fast and furiously,

While body, eyes demand more hours

In unconscious liberty.

 

Expel the words, take down the notes.

Try to keep it legible.

Later on today, I know,

I’ll make it more intelligible

 

 

Except this one, it came to me,

Not at 4 but half past three!

It’s going in my post right now

As is. Insomnia is such a cow!

 

I never used to wake at all.

I slept and dreamt till wake-up call.

And now I can’t get through one night

Without waking, writing. And some is shite!

 

Has anyone an answer to

This problem? What to say or do?

Except. I don’t know. I may quite like

Waking in the dead of night

 

When all asleep explore their dreams

And I explore my mind.

Selfie?

So this would be a selfie (just discovered what that is). Except my six year old took it. She knows her way round my phone better than I do.

So why?

I got my hair done yesterday. Grey strands gone! I rather like it!

http://klsullie78.wordpress.com/2013/08/23/onward-and-upward/ I enjoyed every minute.

And, Simon, http://isimonfiction.wordpress.com/about/ no one even questioned my writing in the middle of the hairdressers. 🙂

Image

A lovely relaxing time was had and I managed to do some writing in the hairdressers. No grey and a book review done. I call that a score.

Stealing Time

A new day arrives quietly in the small hours. No sunrise to herald its arrival; no light to show the way for those who await its coming. The seconds tick by slowly and sounds of a settling house interfere with the silence.

For those asleep the night is upon them. For one who watches, the morning hours are at hand; the hours when a body should rest and rejuvenate itself in sleep.

Only in sleep can the mind and spirit settle the cares of the day just gone – making sense of the madness that is life. In sleep the answers come unbidden.

To the one who will not or cannot sleep the answers are elusive; the questions foreboding. How will the new day work? What will it hold?

Without the rest to take upon the new day’s cares the minutes tick by endlessly and, although morning is come in the early hours, yet it feels like the longest night.

To begin afresh one must awaken.

And to awaken one must succumb to slumber.

How to close the eyes and mind to all that is gone and is yet to come? The mind will not rest, the eyes will not close until physical exhaustion dictates that it must be so.

Awareness of duty in the day that lies ahead pushes the feet in the direction of the place where heads must lay to rest.

And so, although the morning is here, the night begins.

Too short a night for true rest and rejuvenation, but time enough to replenish physical well-being for the activity that lies ahead.

To lie asleep the next day until body dictates wakefulness will be the dream, but only that, for when duty calls in the voices of those who cry for attention the body will answer despite its desperate need for sleep. And then the real day begins.

The wakefulness of the bright morning is harsh; the one which should herald hope in a new day.

Hope will find a way to penetrate the activities otherwise the body could not go on.

The pen can write no longer for to do so would deny the needs of those whose cares are priority. When the children call they must be answered. It is written so. The needs of the children must come before those of the parent.

Only sometimes, when all duty is done and love has played its part, can the parent relax and steal some time in the small hours of the morning when real morning has not yet come; when night still lies ahead and when, eventually, the dream of sleep becomes greater than the need for quiet time to oneself.