on papers of divorce after decades of union
just a cheap biro not even a cherished fountain pen
no more tears no more drama and the well is dried up
a reservoir of joy and the agony of separation
consigned to memories and pain of suffering
acceptance of impermanence and closure of delusion
the hope of liberation and new beginnings is still nascent
but the fear of the future recedes into a new dawn
mutates into concern and care for what is and will be
curiosity flickers from scented candles and incense
her perfume is fading and the wedding band has come off
as the vows of togetherness remain a shadow of promise
there is a rainbow of spiritual prisms faith and longing
for growth change understanding and intimate love
some sort of anticipation while staying in the moment
and deep emotions cannot change with the blink of an eye
they will have to live together until the house has been sold
are both still deeply in love while God had other plans
they wish to remain friends with the only benefit
of not destroying what has been a miraculous journey
from start to now inevitable finish and dried ink will fade
Tapping a biro against a mug
Waiting, but then it happens
We're closing for the day
God is sitting in my office
I've written a song for Bryan Ferry
Nobody but Bryan will do
But I don't know Bryan and
I have no way to get the song to him
Who is humming this to me?
I don't run away from the fire, I run straight towards it
I'm waiting by the phone
For the movie offer for my books
Me and Jericho, roof down, route 66
Undergoing much revision
Tucked away
right at the back
of my husband’s bedside cabinet
lies a brown leather wallet
The money is long gone
but to him it contains
something far more precious ...
My business card
from Radio Lollipop
a charity we were involved with
I turn the dog eared card over
and smile
written in faded blue biro
is my old phone number
This tiny little card
resulted in our first date
and eventual marriage
I have a lump in my throat
knowing he has kept it
for so many years
I the chalice
Overflow with letters
Sylabuls similes vowels
Fusing them together
Written by the feather
A quill in the past
Now on a tablet
Notebook with biro
The words still flow
Poetry is my muse
I try not to confuse
The words written to help
Society from destruction
People self identify
Freedom to ask WHY ?
Words have no agenda
Font can be slender
together are powerful
written words from poets
Inner thoughts of life
Not just anguish and strife
Subjects on any matter
Similes on a platter
Pronouns are historic
The chalice overflows
words above does show
Keep writing makes a glow
Except in the darkest room
In it a figure would loom:
No time to cameras zoom,
Present as clean: filthy room…
Does capture like a good pen
Pimples up to painful ten,
All the smoke-stained teeth of Ben
And proves not the cock a hen…
Mirror: the Steadfast Biro
Misses out not feared terror:
Things which mortify Sarah,
Even a typing error.
Eyes which had ceased to taste sleep,
The ones, no alcohol, weep,
Pairs upset by an old jeep;
Men who don’t sow but do reap!
A failure to watch one’s weight,
A leaving of things to fate:
One who’d for casual sex wait;
Also, who shall become great!
It hurts to note one's congrat has been ignored.
He later wakes up, who has long snored.
Fresh call for fresh congrat fingers are bored;
The pain from previous neglect had hit cord!
My Apology: Admiring Reader.
Don't quit your labour of being my feeder,
I love you only less than my late mum,
Last child still dealing with the toughest gum
And guess: Your guy is ever The Restless:
Gemini! To whom long rest is tasteless
For every hour, it's been Blue Biro;
Getting to a year I last used mirror.
Yep! All the days hardly I see myself:
Ten weeks now I last cleaned dusty shelf;
Much of a busy man, health not a help
And, trust me, staff delayed pay means a yelp.
With a rescue package that won’t pick up
Being steadily hit by a hiccup
And prices jacking up
Should we still treat him like a hero
Who has scored a shameful zero?
Still him obediently follow
And this taking to tomorrow?
Ourselves consoling with laughs hollow
And him sparing a ripe bellow?
Or isn’t the disappointing Hero
Some sort of Caesar Nero
A name penned with common biro?
I visited the Doctor today,
For the result of my husband's tests.
I was concerned about him
And wished him all the best
I had brought some blank paper,
And a couple of biro pens,
Lately, I've been thinking,
I may never write again.
My muse is disappearing,
Waving me goodbye,
I understand this,
And here's the reason why.
I have abused my muse,
In many different ways
Often I don't listen,
And my muse slinks away.
He thinks I am too old,
To comprehend.
Also, senior citizens,
Drive muses around the bend,
My husband stood before me,
Smiling happily,
I looked down at my paper,
And shouted out with glee,
I don't remember writing this
I wonder who that can be!
Close to a scandalous ten thousand,
A reproach to the late Reverend Townsend;
All with their advertising megaphones,
And big dreams-nursing microphones …
In my town of domicile
With odds one can’t reconcile
Which I had some time walked miles
With my job-hunting files
That rather handed me victorious counts
Of how their number mounts:
I tell you: A Religious Harassment,
An unendurable embarrassment;
Ten thousand, really a killing figure
For a town wielding not the circumference of Cairo
And herself not lending to vigour
Definable with honest biro …
I still maintain: gong hollowed-out halls,
No Rock Musician would try for his frenzied falls;
A good many of them: a late traveler’s tent,
Whose thanksgivings broadcast Satan’s intent …
Never could be God’s umbrella,
For the catholic Emmanuel and Emmanuella;
Nor altars for demonic exits
From Christ’s patronizing visits …
Christ’s salvation current;
Is unthinkable in rooms of high rent!
Would my poetry improve if I used a posh pen
A fountain or quill, as was used back when
People took pride in all that they did
Not like these days, anything for a quid
Where are the inkwells that adorned a poets table
Imagine a quill pen with a white feather if you are able
The poet or writer looked in charge of the situation
As he dipped the quill into the ink with a flourish
And wrote words of inspiration
The ink flowed freely as the poet wrote words
Hardly ever heard of or used
Words that tugged at heartstrings
To take in, ponder and muse
A fountain pen came next without the romance of the quill
It was a status symbol some people collect them still
You did not dip the pen into an inkpot
Instead, you fill the pen with ink
Sometimes it got too full and made an ink-blot
Fountain pens are not used today only by a few
It was the Americans that invented something new
Biro is the name of this pen used by everyone
They are a dime a dozen and are sold by the ton
They are very practical and convenient to use
Therefore it's not the pen that makes poetry flow
It's the imagination of the muse
Run it by slow
You hand me a biro
Say write a bio
not to buy though
Whilst I note
If I’ve wrote
and i quote
it a boat
and it put about
lass and lout
find doubt
mock and gloat
with no remote
my boat won’t float
so though in a coat
I'm soaked
While downloading some music
a thought crossed my mind,
of things that I learned in the past
when playing old music in various formats
which, sadly, were not meant to last.
I learned concentration when using a biro
to untangle a music cassette,
and patience when searching my reel-to-reel
for a song whose place I would forget.
And keeping my hand steady,
breathing quite slowly, thus making my
body relaxed,
when lowering the stylus on my record player
to land at the start of a track.
So my patience, control and nimbleness of finger
I've held up to the present day,
while all the young 'uns who want everything now,
have missed out on these joys-
Just press 'Play'.
Neat orderly lines of chairs
Rattling biro pens on sweaty palms.
An echoing hall of icy airs,
exhaling teens failing to stay calm.
A bald figure glares over nervous being through supervising glass,
you will find me right in the middle of a scanty class.
A graveyard of buried dreams.
.
I was made to find ''x'' and i don't understand ''y''
why, ''A B, A B'' was the only rhyme scheme on my answer sheet..
Why, i had to quote and live by the words of another man,
so i could secure an A, B or C on that last day.
Alphabet i might never use in life.
.
Hmmmm...
What if, I get an ''A'' in farming and ''F'' in mathematics??
Does it mean am brainless?
What if,
I can't spell the word ''vehicle'' but can actually fix it?
Does it make me any less better than you?
I can't stand these tests
designed to determine the worth of our mind.
Note: this write depicts the atmosphere of students, about to do exam. The prepared and none prepared ones; how both of them feel in the exam hall.
Let words burst from brain
and quill dances on sheet
Let ink drools on paper
and cute words form
Let school wrecks her head
and paper fills with words
And none head gives hand
for it is her way to read
Let class knows best
when biro dances without halt
and paper sags of load
and shouts I'm load
and eyes grin in pride
saying thank God I read
And she determines her progress
with ease she says I shall pass
Let low knows her weight
when eyes twinkle as star
and mind fills with dust
and biro is chewing gum
and paper blank as space
then she knows I must study
all the best in the hall
for I wish you all to pass
There was a young writer from Cairo,
So proud of his free flowing biro,
But he lost it in the sand
When a camel knocked his hand,
No longer his writing can flow so.
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