Wrote two poems this weekend – one on Friday, one on Saturday, with two different views of the writing life….
Happiness is, Today
An hour to kill accompanied by
A beer and slice of Spanish omelette
Before a sunlit window,
With a notepad and a nice pen,
And a world within one’s head.
Writing requires a time machine
Left on pause, or absence of another:
Together, time is taken from being or growing;
For all its claims, writing is not life.