Moving to the slow lane

Oh the feel of those fast cars!

so long and shining-sleek,

those soft and smooth…

tight leather seats- laps

behind the power-steering.

Let’s not talk about the torque-

just watch me as I take off…

silver rims rolling in reverse-

perverse to ride with such speed,

not to mention the ultra-sound.

Racing like it was a marathon,

I’ve got to break the habit…

set up my cruise control,

got to act more responsible.

Fleeting pleasure-

not the measure of who I am.

Too many speeding tickets,

it’s no longer fun.

So I’m taking it nice and slow

Which one – wouldn’t you like to know?

I’ll stay with the automatic.

Settling down in the slow lane


Day 20- The Poet’s Billow Challenge: To blog or not to blog

Today, write an abecederian poem. It’s when the first letter of each line follows the order of the alphabet. So, the first line starts with A, the second with B, the third with C, etc. In the end you should have a 26-line poem.

A mounting disquiet all around

Blogging is slowly taking over

Concern that they’re losing me

Don’t spend enough time with them

Even when I’m there, I am not quite

Forever thinking of what next to write

Generous with my time over this

How can I justify to family and friends?

I feel inordinately fulfilled when I write

Joy in reaching all corners of the world

Kindred spirits hold me captive in words

Love discovered in rhythm and rhyme

My soul finds a new form of expression

New understanding of who I truly am

Offers me so many insights into life

Perhaps even realization of my dream

Question is how do I balance my time

Remembering  my  responsibilities and

Socialising in the real world. I still need

To prioritise time for everyone in my life

Understanding all of this, I still have space, a

Vacuum that needs filling with others like me

Who understand this need too, to break down

Xenophobia’s geographical historical barriers

You and I would never have met otherwise

Zealous in pursuit of this freedom to defend.

Love’s desolation

A pale moon guards the deserted house jealously.

Snowflakes scatter amongst shadows of skeletal trees,

padding the dim silence of shuttered windows and bolted doors.

Behind the walls, under a solitary desk lamp, tendrils of cigar smoke

curl towards the ceiling from a silhouette behind the desk.

Words fail him again.

Remnants of hidden love lie

Crumpled in the bin.