Owning the moment,
A master at large,
Effortlessly making,
Each one of us laugh.
It’s the tip of the iceberg,
We see on the stage,
Not the talent and toil,
That begins with a page,
Up with the sparrows,
Pad and pen,
Seven mornings a week
From five thirty a.m.
When the mind is fertile,
Full of ideas,
Expectations are low,
Cos nobody cares,
At this point in the game,
When the thoughts start to form,
Begin taking shape,
And an artwork is born.
But what happens next,
Sorts the pros from the rest,
Do you file it away,
And move on to the next?
Or do you plant that page,
In your mind like a seed ,
Let it grow and become,
A rock opera on cheese.
Or a poem for the driver of a mitsubishi colt,
An Ode to a Ginger, or a Trump revolt,
A song about loving somebody else,
Taking lonely tonight,
Leaving LA for self,
Respect and renewal,
Like phoenix from flame,
Golden locks flying,
A genius at play.
Tim Minchin, you’re a wonder,
Clever as fuck,
Keep telling stories,
And don’t ever grow up!
© Lisa Nimmo 20/04/19
Lisa Nimmo is an author, poet and mum of two teenagers, based in Wellington New Zealand. To receive more poems like these direct to your inbox, enter your details here: