My Poem “The Penny”

I found a penny on the ground,
glowing metallic brown,
shining in the light of the sun,
and it was because of that
golden light from above
that brought this penny
to my attention
and made me reach down
to retrieve this symbol of luck.

Somebody’s loss, my gain,
and an opportunity
from which I never walk away,
nor ever overlook,
because I have always
believed that finding a penny
and picking it up
was a fast-track way
of receiving good fortune
for the rest of the day.

I am someone who
sees the value of something
beyond what it is monetarily worth,
and instead I like to believe
the story, the rhyme,
and the superstition
that a momentary encounter
with a copper-colored disc,
and the lowest denomination
of most of the worlds currencies,
can lead to something wonderful,
unexpected, inspiring,
and a perhaps life-changing
set of future circumstances;
however, that hope and that belief
probably comes part in parcel
with being an optimist like me
who sees a restorative glow
to most things – even those things
as small, hard to lose, and seemingly
worthless as a simple penny.

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My Poem ‘The Rhyme of the Constant Writer’

There once was a writer called Mark,
who, more than anyone,
loved a walk through a beautiful park;
he wrote all-day, everyday;
and when he wasn’t writing, he was thinking;
who could write an entire short story
about the memory of a beautiful Summer’s day,
or a sonnet with thirteen lines
that perfectly and succinctly
expresses exactly what he was feeling.
When he was not doing his job,
Mark would write poems –
even when, and especially when,
he was in a library,
or walking around a bookshop,
Mark would have so many thoughts
and ideas running through his mind,
he had to write them down anywhere he could,
as fast as he could,
before they left him again.
To this day, Mark still wonders and marvels
at how inspired he is,
almost every second of every day –
and where all the inspiration he uses comes from,
not even Mark truly knows.

Mark was a writer who had his favourite things
that sparked his creativity,
and like most writers, and like most people,
Mark had his own unique routines;
Mark just loved creating and writing
all kinds of stories, and even as a boy
Mark was imagining places
where he had not yet been.
It was a preoccupation for Mark
to look around and ask questions,
and to make connections;
being in his own world
was where Mark felt the most comfortable,
because he could make something amazing
and magical in his mind,
and be a true master of invention.

Mark was someone who went somewhere everyday
to chase the light and answer the call of inspiration;
every morning when he woke up,
Mark would look out of his bedroom window
and be so enthralled by what he saw –
everyday it was like waking up in another dimension.
Mark regularly sat down with his favourite
caramel-coated coffee,
and a slice of lemon cake,
and would spend hours writing poetry,
and feel like he was still dreaming
even when he was still wide awake.

Mark was a writer who loved being a writer,
but Mark was also someone who loved
watching films at the cinema;
Mark loved books, and must have read over a hundred;
Mark was someone who never had a moment
when his mind was not, in some form or another, in over-drive –
even as he was drifting off to sleep
in the dark in bed at night.

Mark listened, Mark heard;
Mark observed, Mark learned;
Mark was a peace-maker,
but Mark was also a fighter;
Mark was at his happiest,
and at his most inspired,
when he had a pen in his hand
hovering over his notebook,
and writing the rhyme of the constant writer.