I’m happy writing poetry, I have a lovely time;
I like its rhythmic symmetry and all those words that rhyme.
But here is my predicament…now please don’t take offence…
it really leaves me discontent that poems must make sense!

(more…)

“I don’t like horses,” said Kate’s father, Ian. “They’re a big mess to clean up after, and the grooming and upkeep are something I’m not prepared to be burdened with.” He gulped his coffee from his cup making slurping sounds of frustration.

“But Dad, Uncle Ken left us his horse in his will. We can’t let it die or something.”

(more…)

I write for the sheer joy of writing.
Should I struggle to analyse that?
Some love the fish when they’re biting.
Some love the ball and the bat.
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