Her attempts at writing were unfruitful.
Stark white page sneered and called her mean names.
Loser, stupid, dummy, idiot….
She stared at the page.
Writing was not a big deal.
Lots of people did it.
The thin blue lines stuck out their tongues at her.
Maybe tomorrow she told herself.
Her muse gave her the finger.
Maybe tomorrow my ink won’t be sticky
A verse will take shape as it flows
I’ll see what I’ve written and won’t be too picky
From now on it’s anything goes
Maybe tomorrow I’ll write about sorrow
Keep ‘funny’ for some other day
My pen will find ideas to sneakily borrow
No copyright shall bar its way
Maybe tomorrow my pen will advise me
By writing two letters: ‘A.I.’
My scruples tell me I could never agree
So, maybe I’ll pass that one by
Maybe tomorrow my pen shall not wander
Alas it shall write not at all
Integrity isn’t a value to squander
A man and his pen must stand tall
Maybe tomorrow I’ll find inspiration
My pen shall be truly enthralled
I’ll write a whole poem, to my consternation
Lest my pen should be quite appalled
Maybe tomorrow my pen will run loose
With notions, some free and some weird
Maybe my pen will shrug off all abuse
And write silly stuff less afeared
Maybe tomorrow I’ll have an idea
That my pen can pick up and run with
About an aardvark that went into IKEA
I’m a poet… so live and let live!
"it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God" Luke 18:25
How rich must I be to give all that I can?
To help ease the suffering of my fellow man.
Those that are homeless & constantly hungry.
To give all that I can , how rich must I be?
Always food on my table, what I call quite well to do.
The woman on the street for her next meal not a clue.
I know I should give as much as I am possibly able.
What I call well to do, always food on MY table.
Maybe tomorrow, I will see if there is anything I can give.
Or maybe someone richer than I will offer help for them to live.
I don’t actually have enough to do much to ease their sorrow.
I will see if there is anything I can give, maybe tomorrow.
my cup of honesty tipped over into the spillway
I watched her get sucked under the rocks
there was nowhere to turn
no savior was coming
I had to release my preconceived ideals
maybe tomorrow I told my mind
a tiny leaf floated past me
Every emotion is free, and all encompassing.
When I awaken, I feel restless.
Rather than restful.
I toss the blankets aside.
As if they are constricting me.
It’s morning.
And I’m questioning if I actually slept last night.
Or if I just assumed I did…
Either way, I think I was dreaming somehow.
I must have been.
What had just made sense in my head-
Is now uncertain and starting to scatter.
Well, there will always be the next night.
Until then, I’ll just stumble through the day.
Feeling fuzzy.
Feeling like the universe is caving in.
It’s night.
And I’m questioning if I was actually awake today…
Maybe tomorrow
I'll find my feet
Yawning in my old tattered slippers
And my head in my hands
Apologising for dawn
Scorned by silence
Maybe tomorrow
Who knows
I'll understand
And find my way back
Maybe tomorrow
I'll write
Maybe i'll while
About something new
or something blue
Maybe tomorrow i'll have
company
And will not feel the need to share
Or perhaps i'll just put my ears to
good use and listen for a while
Whilst the sun remains day
The day, I felt the heat upon,
After I saw the morning gone.
I knew the time was coming soon,
Only a little after noon.
So there I stayed and waited so.
My feet had not a place to go.
It will be soon, I made a vow,
Only a little time from now.
Hours passed and hours spent,
I stayed and watched the day’s descent.
Needing to wait a little more,
Only a little after four.
It never came, no, not today,
For I must wait another day.
As this one comes to a close,
We’ll see how tomorrow goes.
Maybe tomorrow I say as I lift the garage doors
I do not want my neighbors to see this hovel
But one runs over to see if it is a garage sale
Before I can close it.
She points to something she wants.
I give it to her.
Another runs over to ask to borrow my lawnmower.
That frees up a space I could use to sort, out of the sun,
so I tell her, "Keep it as long as you like."
Some teenagers walk by and laugh, pointing.
I want to stick out my tongue, but that would be childish, right?
I do it any way.
They laugh harder.
My husband comes out. "Find any mice yet?"
This really makes me want to clean this mess.
I remember last summer when a bag started moving
And a fountain of mice rose to the top and flowed out
Running in all directions.
I close the garage.
Maybe tomorrow.
Or maybe not.
My hair needs cut, and it's not going to do it by itself.
I'm raggedy, and wild, untamed, unkempt, a little dirty.
I'm in pajama pants, have not brushed my teeth, and my breath is atrocious.
My art studio needs cleaned, I have lost four hammers in there; I used a knife this morning.
I'm a dreary, sorry, unapologetic mess of a woman.
This is my sloth-mode; it happens more and more lately.
There is only one cure; I have to make one move in the right direction.
Pick up a box of junk, put away a towel, brush my teeth, just one thing.
I know this, and yet here I sit, wishing for a cleaning fairy, an elf that likes to brush teeth.
I look around and sigh.
No one is coming.
Who is going to see this mess?
No one cares what my hair looks like.
Maybe tomorrow...
The moon settles into the midnight sky
the pale light strikes my skin
a glimpse of dark torture
Silence in its most splitting form
alone i stand in the narrow river of life
echos of the past clamor about
smiles and tears anger and love
they touch the soul deeper than any fortunes can
i have been down i had a beautiful life
silence escapes giving way to the beat of my heart
maybe tomorrow ill find the way home
perhaps the path will soon be clear
the moon settles into the midnight sky
the pale light stands with me free to break the darkness
I'm hopeful that maybe tomorrow will be better than today.
I just know that maybe tomorrow you'll see the error of your way.
Maybe Tomorrow you'll say all the things that Ive so long to hear.
Finally there will be a smile in place of shedded tears.
We will wake up bright and early and start our lives a new.
This time unconditional love with have the condition of just me and you.
At last we will forgive and forget our mistakes of yesterday.
Maybe Tomorrow would have been perfect, if it wouldmt have become today.
When I go to work, at the start of the day,
I ask of myself, “Will I earn my pay?”
Will I give them more than’s expected of me,
or the absolute minimum they need to see?
No matter how old or how tired I get,
I’m sure if I try there’s more life in me yet.
I’ll meet every day with new vigour and speed,
and try to give more, than the ‘least’ people need.
So what if it leads to an earlier grave,
while wrecking my body my soul I will save.
But hang on a minute…. my advice, I will follow,
though I’m too tired today, so ‘maybe tomorrow’.
Ivor G Davies
With the boss pulling and the workers pushing, with the Square Wheels on the wagon and the round wheels in it:
The boss views the path.
Roll forward faster better.
Maybe tomorrow...
The Sun had left the horizon
Far behind when I awoke
To face another pointless day
Being destitute and broke
Got up off my friends sofa
Went and made a cup of tea
Had a look through an old paper
Just to find a place for me
Saw a few that might be ok
But I could never pay the rent
Without job and accommodation
I’ll end up living in a tent
Maybe I could have tried harder
In the classroom years ago
I did not think I’d end up here
How the hell was I to know
I even served my country
But that does not mean a thing
Only when I need some shelter
I can some old mates ring
I don’t want to be a burden
And it fills me up with shame
That I have to seek their help
When they are not to blame
I keep looking on the bright side
At least I still have legs to walk
Unlike some other poor soldiers
Who are too shell shocked to talk
Maybe tomorrow I can beat the Sun
And wait patiently to see her rise
To fill my life with her warm embrace
And her ever changing endless skies
Time is turning
no
hands
on
the
clock
Branches blowing
I
am
not
moving
Winter is passing, new growth is showing
I
am
not
changing.
Maybe Tomorrow.
©Holly P. Moore
March 2013
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