Once he sits with pen in hand
Even though he has nothing planned
It is essential he writes.
Those thoughts that stay are good
Others he allows take flight
They may yet find a place to roost
Their time will come.
When that time comes to pass
He will write to the sound of a different drum
Not getting overly excited
That never assists the cause.
It helps him in his endeavour though
To step back and take stock
Then mind refreshed, head decluttered
Return to his writing desk
Read what is already penned
He being the sole judge and jury
On leave well enough alone or amend.
(c) Chris Black. December 2018
#Poetry #amwriting
~The Poet’s Poet~
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Published by Chris Black ~The Poet's Poet~
The published and unpublished manuscripts of Chris Black. A writer from Wexford, Chris has been writing and publishing poetry for over quarter of a century. September 2016 saw his dream come to fruition with the publication of his first book of Poetry and Short Stories titled Same Train, Different Track.
Preferred reading - Autobiographies, the history of the native American Indian and a vast array of poetry books. Continues to write by day and night by giving the sawdust a shake which in turn awakens the grey matter. - has an eclectic taste in music, spent 16 happy years as a radio presenter in a part time capacity while "slaving" away at the coal face now enjoying all that retirement has to offer and more. Tweets @CJBlack2012, on Soundcloud @ https://soundcloud.com/the-poets-poet-1 youtube @Chris Black-poetry-spoken word. You can find his "work" at https://chrisblack2012.wordpress.com If you do happen to drop by do let him know your thoughts, who you are and where you come from - He will in time also pay you a return visit. Thank you.
View all posts by Chris Black ~The Poet's Poet~
Today from the Man Shed 
Yes we are sole judge and jury of our own words
for betterer or worserer
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That is I guess Ivor until we release them into that cloud, then who knows. Happy Friday.
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I’m tired tonight Chris
I need a spark
I need a restart.
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Deepak Chopra . Journey into healing “Every cell is a miniature terminal connected to the cosmic computer”
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That’s a bright spark
A preview of tomorrows poem
A world debut for you
CONUNDRUM
The heart of the matter
A conundrum of chatter
I wrote a poem after a stroke
Who’s left to row the boat
Inside a brain covered with spots
There’s a sail full of mini-clots I know she broke my heart
But how does an infection start
There’s to be a deep soul search
My heart needs more deep research
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