DAVE

Dave looks flurried,
and worried.
his wrinkle lines,
assembling railway tracks,
rows of them,
haphazardly placed-
he plays with his hat,
cracks his knuckles,
finally decides to confront,
Jezebel.
Jezebel flutters coyishly,
'pick me up' , she purrs.
with a heroic effort,
Dave picks up Jezebel,
breaks her into two,
and throws her in the dustbin.
he sighs with relief.
the smell of nicotine remains on his fingers...

Sometimes

sometimes I feel I'm ready to write,
so I sit down , paper in hand,
try as I might, I'm unable to do so,
so I shift my position,plonk more cushions,
make myself a cuppa coffee.
I try to think of things to say,
envision the green birds twittering around,
take myself to the sunny south,
scribbles and dabbles-
false starts-
its all in vain,
and so I give up.
Yet, sometimes I am in the middle,
of a shopping spree,
or engrossed in my work,
when words pour out,
like molten lava,
delicious like the sprinkles on the birthday cake.
I rummage for a paper,
alas! the words slip away.
Elusive! this word play,
like the mist on the ethereal hill,
always there somewhere,
but always out of my grasp.