Memory Buffer Full

There isn’t half some rubbish
goes flowing through my mind
If a doctor could examine it
I wonder what she’d find?
I really wish I could channel it,
try to make things better
Or even sit upon a chair
and write my Mum a letter

The taps are always open
it’s like an endless flow
everything get’s washed away
and my ideas never grow
I tried hard to stop and meditate,
like that Buddha fellow
But I didn’t reach Nirvana
and it only made me mellow

Technology isn’t helping
my message box is full
I’m gonna change my identity
and go and live in Hull
Or maybe California
where they say the living is easy
or up a’top a mountain
where the wind is nice and breezy

That at least would clear my head
and help me concentrate
But then I’d miss those little chats
and coffee with my mate
Perhaps I need some time to think
and clear my mental bin
Then with all that space I make,
I could fit more rubbish in

Peter Roe
All Rights Reserved

Is It Too Late To Be Writing Poetry?

I’m tired and I just can’t stop yawning
It’s stupid o’clock in the bloody morning

We will just have to wait and see
If it’s too late to be writing poetry?

I really need some divine intervention
perhaps an elixir of lyrical inspiration

I drifted and snoozed and finally slumped
and only woke when my head got bumped!

Perhaps a surgeon would do instead
To remove this keyboard from my head

The Worlds Gone Digital But My Mum’s Still Analog

We have entered a new age of digital information

That demands our time and unlimited interaction

Our smartphones with all their chirping and squawking

Have us clicking and ticking and tweeting and talking

Our personal information, our words and our thoughts

Are sent through technology as ones and as noughts

And our social calendar is not defined any more

By an impromptu, but analog, knock on the door

The world may had gone and caught the digital bug

But my arms are still analog and my Mum needs a hug