Here we are
Here and now
At
The penultimate page
What does this mean
For the next
Notebook
Does one think
I ought to be
Decisive
But to be honest
That’s not my style
Although perhaps
To have space
For longer poems
Yes that’s the one
Most days I would try to write a poem; it is a practice, as I suppose is meditation, or smiling, or watching the world go by
Here we are
Here and now
At
The penultimate page
What does this mean
For the next
Notebook
Does one think
I ought to be
Decisive
But to be honest
That’s not my style
Although perhaps
To have space
For longer poems
Yes that’s the one
I will travel
Find places to go
I will unravel
The wonderful feelings
Which made me so
Where to go next
Where to go now
The trials of the text
Amidst the wide-eyed mix
Of wondering how
All alone
With thoughts in a whirl
Yes, here on my very own
Writing, waiting for love
To gradually unfurl
Expectation
As if the day itself
Was part of a play
As opposed to one mind
Dictating events
Inclination
As if to wander
Was due to the joy
Found in unexpected places
Where time stood still
The page is blank
An open invitation
To begin the day lightly
With no overriding
Sense of purpose
Other than to enjoy
The beauty of being
The deliberate nature
Of breathing, of smiling
Of writing au revoir
I thought to go to Ely
To the stained glass museum
Instead, I stayed in Revesby
To smell the jet aircraft’s perfume
Also to watch the pilots
Coerce the birds from the sky