Parky Poetry

My clock’s been changed by Parkinson’s -

of quivers, shakes I was aware,

less so, new contracts signed in bed

as kicking strikes out in my legs.

Insomnia (plus football kit)

brings overtime for laptop dance,

as I smith words, play poetry,

fill overtime as versify.

Keen adolescence woke once more -

a pensioner who writes - the key

that board replacing scrawling ink

of unintended curlicues.

So screen time my horology,

collective poets, company,

the new hangout, Zoom Open Mic,

together slur and shuffle through

our poor creative all-style works,

amazed no longer lost for words.

We read, write on a level plain,

all ages struggling through the pain

barrier to craft Parky lines,

and learn the value of a like,

as fellow pilgrims’ hearts affirm.