I am sat at a table of wood

I am sat at a table of wood
on a wooden chair,
this is the kitchen
where no one is cooking anything
and nothing reminds me of life too much.

I have my laptop and my coffee mug,
the one with the crack that is not a hair,
and here is where my story has to write itself,
while outside blackbirds, dust
and autumn clouds can fly around. I do not see them.

I need no more than the crack that is no hair.
What if it was? Whose was it? Why is it in my mug?
Of goes the mind, away
from all that’s wood in my kitchen.
Stories write themselves this way.


Comments on: "I am sat at a table of wood" (10)

  1. There is a certain isolation in inspiration…the price writers pay so that others may feel our dreams…

    Very much enjoyed πŸ™‚

  2. “Stories write themselves this way.” As does an old shoe, old photo, chair, or cup with a hair line crack.

  3. I like this Ina. I can picture this scene clearly!

  4. Inspiration – what a remarkable thing … no fireworks or trumpet fanfare needed. Love this, Ina!

  5. We look for inspiration in the stars but all the time it is right here, all around us – the chorus of our everyday…Your poem is beauty in simplicity Ina…

    • Hi John,
      thank you very much. There is so much! The difficulty is to keep focussed on what is important perhaps.

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