Middle word poem

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Sometimes I just try to write random poems using the middle word of the suggested words on my screen… It can be interesting, or just plain weird. Here goes…..

X and I will try and get it done for you,

tomorrow morning,

and the rest of the week

after the rest of the week,

after the rest of the….

I need to get my head round,

the back of the building,

and get the detail and shading correct

on the way to the airport

to get the computer set up.

So I can take over the role

of the rest of the team,

at the end of the week

after the rest of the week,

after the rest of the week……

I need to get my Xperia by Sony today

and tomorrow from 10 till 4.

Tomorrow morning,

and the rest of the week

after the rest of the week…..

I will try and get it done

for the Brampton tomorrow morning

and the rest of the week

after the rest of the week…..

(the rest of the week seems quite important in this one)

Prevarication

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Why can’t I get things done?

I think and think,

Decide, then change my mind.

I wait till the time seems right,

Then miss acting on it.

Why? because I spend time thinking.

Then I think again…….

Too much to do, too little time?

But if I just started early…

Wasn’t so desperate to be perfect.

Took less thought and acted sooner.

Maybe then I could

Get

Things

Done!

But now…

I’m not lazy, not crazy, just hazy…

Stuck!

Sunrise this morning

The sun crept up and sideways,

Falling West And South,

Skirting tree branches and

Hopping over leaves.

Each minute, slightly higher,

Each second slightly across to South.

As the Sun reaches its Zenith

It falls behind low clouds,

Grey mist rising,

Now its afternoon.

Already going dark and freezing,

Sunrise forgotten in the crepuscular light.

 

 

At Etruria today

Grey day on the canal,

Leaves float,

Cygnets shelter from the rain.

Boats huddle near the bridge,

Wrapped in old tarpaulins.

Smoke drifts up from stoves

that sit below the water levels.

Tea kettles boil and whistle,

Stained hands make a brew,

wiping off excess oil on grubby teacloths.

Leaves create mosaics of moist greens and browns.

Trees splinter into the sky,

Bursting like fireworks

But wet black,

No sparkle

Just grey, wet, dank…

And beautiful.