Imagine that, I’ve nothing to write.
I got up early and stayed up all night.
So I’ll make something up, if that’s OK.
I’ll probably live it some other day.
It could be happy or it could be sad.
It could be of some old adventure had.
I’m sure there’ll be others and why not.
Though most quite small, I’ve had a lot.
Perhaps a poet imagined that lives on a hill.
They’ll watch the sunrise and do what they will.
That might be good for a poem or two,
or maybe a love sonnet, maybe a few.
With these pages hands turned with time,
each face a story, each await their rhyme.
Each chapter has its title, the next to depend.
Tho thy tome grows heavy, I wish it no end.
I’ll imagine a tomorrow when something’s to write.
I’ll get up early and stay up all night.
On a street that shouldn’t be there,
there’s a house that shouldn’t stand.
Its front is covered in thorny vines,
out back a yard of sand.
The windows are always open,
cats all come and go.
There’s a dog that barks all night,
it’s really a horror show.
There’s an old car in the driveway,
but no one has seen it move.
A radio’s always blasting upstairs,
so someone’s got the groove.
The locals all say it’s haunted,
they’ve heard stories all their life.
Newlyweds had once lived there,
but no one had ever seen the wife.
Packages and mail get delivered,
but the trash never goes out.
Imagination fills in the blanks,
cos that’s what fantasy’s about.
I’m sorry I have no poem today.
I’ve actually started two.
But I have no endings.
So I’ve nothing to share with you.
Fortunately there are tomorrows.
Perhaps I’ll end them then.
Or maybe this is a metaphor;
for the fickleness of the pen.
Many things get started.
Only some will see an end.
But until there’s a conclusion,
a finish, we can pretend.
So I’ll pretend my poems are great.
They start off really well.
And I’ll imagine it’s a perfect day.
For the unknown we shouldn’t dwell.
If to paint you in my mind,
extra space I will find.
Many things I could forget.
Hit delete with no regret.
On the brightest wall you will stand.
There I’d stare, brush in hand.
Heart beats thumping, a flourish made.
Details cherished never fade.
In my head we shall dwell.
Sharing thoughts we’d never tell.
On my shoulders you will ride.
Our joy displayed in our stride.
The outside world no longer exists.
Boxes checked on all our lists.
Imagination will be our place.
My only vision is your face.
All our wishes will come true.
Our dreams are filled with me and you.
But a painter I’m not nor a thief.
Freedom’s greater than my relief.
For if to hide within one’s brain,
there is no future or life to gain.
Our time together on change depends.
Our tomorrows then will know no ends.
A pad in lap a hand set free.
A mind wanders for words to see.
Emotions enhanced, troubles relieved.
Time unconditional, imagination believed.
Notes of nowhere, deciphering dared.
Scribbles scrawl, reluctance repaired.
Visions doodle in a borderless plane.
Consumed is all in a leaderless reign.
In this instant our day’s to start.
The sun rises with imagination’s art.
Canvases unfurl forever changing.
Changes unfurl with minds raging.
Heads spin to lust and learn.
And the ageless age with every turn.
It’s time itself telling time.
By degree our world’s a chime.
A brushes stroke and all’s made right.
Then our sun will rise on another’s night.
Free is what we all want to be.
A future’s what we want to see.
Imagination’s what we want it to be.
Dreams are what we choose to see.
Reality is what happens to be.
We are what is our reality.
Most lives similar,
it’s how the stories are told,
that sets them apart.
Ships a pair moors by night.
Each’s a vision of the others light.
Tides are changing for me and you.
To time’s beyond when waves are few.
We each of passion, both pursuing free.
Findings shared, shared passionately.
An end to this poem, I have none or care.
For a future imagined is not really there.
does not affect the future.
It is the future.
Shades of each
More brilliants and bright
Less grades of blue
Colors don’t select
Blood red’s the same
The rain’s not to blame
If not for the pen
There would be nothing to hold
Treading sheets unknown
Took a walk on the
wild side and ran with the bulls,
limped home, crawled to bed