Listen, if it can happen to the best of writers…
Becalmed By Neil Hamelin
I am becalmed,
I cannot write,
I feel no wind,
No ships in sight.
When words come,
It is a blessing,
But when they don’t
It’s so distressing.
Just need to relax,
Keep my sails steady,
And when the breeze comes
With my pen I’ll be ready.
I haven’t used a fountain pen for longer than I care to remember, and I forgot just how nice it feels. It is slightly more inconvenient than a ballpoint pen or a pencil, but I’m sure that I can learn to live with that; until I spill the bottle of ink, that is!
I found an old fountain pen,
Alas, it had run out of ink,
But I was lucky to find a store
Selling Parker’s famous black Quink:
Now I’m writing with that pen
And it’s oh, so much better,
Resulting in an overwhelming feeling
To write someone a letter.
I can’t remember the last time
I sent anything hand written by post,
Letters are typewritten then printed,
Although I use e-mails the most;
Not forgetting about social media,
Facebook and WhatsApp now the thing,
But the satisfaction of hand writing
Electronic communication can’t bring.
Under the jacaranda trees
In the soft dappled shade,
On a newly cut lawn,
With a lunch freshly made;
Sipping a cold drink,
Eyes gently closing,
The peace and the quiet,
Awesome and imposing.
Neon purple flowers
Occasionally falling
As the afternoon breeze
Now comes a-calling.
Butterflies float by,
Their painted wings flapping,
The dog missing their dance
As she lies quietly napping.
A drongo sits drinking
At the water fountain;
Watched over and guarded
By our beautiful mountain.
Our cottage might be small,
But it’s big on the giving,
It’s all we’ll ever need
For the life we’re now living.
I am always writing verse, jotting down ideas, sometimes on scraps of paper, sometimes on my phone. It can drive the wife up the wall, but I tell her it could be worse, much worse…!
The wife says I’m a nuisance always writing my verse;
But there are things I could do that I think would be worse;
I might have a car engine in bits on the lounge floor,
Or sit with a telescope watching the woman next door.
I could buy a drum kit, try to be the next Ringo Starr,
Or imitate Queen with an electric guitar;
Or invite mates round who’d all get quite drunk,
Being sick on her carpet, as we listen to punk.
Perhaps a DIY freak, carrying out home repairs,
With half finished jobs left waiting for years.
Or have a X Box, on which I’d play through the night,
Being invaded by aliens with whom I would fight.
I could be a model maker, sticking things I’d then paint,
With the smell of it all making the wife feel quite feint.
Or brew my own beer, taking over the kitchen,
Or sniff something nasty and form an addiction.
I could collect tarantula spiders that sometimes escape,
Or believe that I’m Zorro and wear a mask and a cape,
Maybe answer the door naked, giving callers a scare,
Or eat boxes of chocolates that I’d refuse to share.
I could be cyclist, wearing those tight Lycra shorts,
Or be a couch potato watching all sorts of sports.
So, you see, there are many worse things I could be,
Than someone who sits quietly, writing his poetry.
