From the chimes of salsa playing out of a somewhat disheveled speaker
to the bongs and bangs of a local spoons.
"What you saying, film night?"
A retiree suggests as he himself sways among
a rather mock-extravagant carpet.
The thought of a few grown men sitting around the Tele in any sort of regular capacity is an endearing one.
Another re-watch of an old western or Kung Fu dvd
that has got pint glass rings printed onto it seems to be round the corner.
I might even watch a film now.
Not with the three gentlemen, although that could be a good story.
Tinny phone speakers play out the beckons of a football commentator,
another person on a grass pitch has kicked a ball in the right direction,
it's what it really boils down to.
Although everything can be simmered down to it's most basic - what's the fun in that?
Romanticise everything I say.
Or at least almost everything.
A man peels off his high Vis jacket as he steps into the pub,
perhaps a late commute home from the office?
I hardly think he's just clocked off from another shift as a lolly pop lady.
I guess he'd be called a lolly pop person these days.
Lolly Pop ladies must have a strong sense of fulfillment,
protecting future generations on a day-to-day basis.
I regret my choice of seat,
The constant waff of urinal cakes are not aiding this semi-satisfactory Guinness.
I'll probably leave in 10.
All posts by hamishcraig
Long Form Nike Dancing Piece
Having been interested in the potential of the Nike Jam, I wanted to explore the world from which the shoe came. Digging into the history, I stumbled across Nike’s venture into dancing and breakdancing. From cool old adverts to the undiscovered talents of Sofia Boutella, writing this piece was fun.
If you do fancy giving it a read then here you go: https://thesolesupplier.co.uk/news/breaking-new-ground-nikes-journey-into-the-world-of-breakdancing/
Shoe Poems 004
"I bet you couldn't walk
a mile in these shoes",
How would you know?
Ain't got the faintest of clues.
The dribs and drabs
of my daily life,
the seething pains
and never ending strife.
Yet I'll lace them up anyway,
cause I've got bills and rent to pay.
Not only that
but I've got people to see
that's the difference
between you and me.
Sure yours are shiny
and haven't a crease,
but I'll still be wearing my shoes
when I'm deceased.
I won't pass them on
they're mine to bear,
I'll be sure to look after them,
they're my only pair.
August Poetry: In Sitting
If I could sit among the trees,
I really think I would.
Enjoy the breeze that gentle thing
where the bark and branches stood.
I don't know where I'll go today,
but I don't mind a bit,
I think I'll ponder to myself,
and right here is where I'll sit.
Until then I shall move not,
no rush or place to be,
no one to call out my name
no humans left to see.
I'll drift away in mind and thought,
allow the rythme to take me there,
no focus point or book to read
just a thousand yard blank stare.
I look into an endless blur,
of black, browns and greens,
in hopes that one long thinking day
I'll discover the unseen.
A voice may beckon up above,
and give me word or prayer,
but till the day I hear that cry,
I think I'll sit right here.
Shoe Poems: 003
The shoes we lace up on our feet,
are funny little things,
they cause grown men to scream and shout,
and sometimes even sing.
I had a pair colours blue and red,
they really made me smile,
now sat in my dark cupboard,
I've not seen them for a while.
I spent and bought one too many,
it would be wise to stop,
but when you see them on the shelf,
I cannot help but stop.
I stroke my chin, convince myself,
I really need this one,
when I really need a holiday,
some sun, the sea and fun.
It's hard to wear shoes on the beach,
there's sand just everywhere,
but stood in my fresh new shoes
I don't think I'd even care.
So here's to no more shoes,
yet many trips abroad,
to stop buying as many shoes
to that you have my word.
August Poetry: Southwark Park
I sat here a year ago,
in Southwark Park
that early eve
when time felt slow.
Today it's noisy,
and you're not here,
yet thoughts and memories,
keep you near.
Crack goes a cricket bat,
the roaring of a plane,
children scream on and on,
playing all the same.
The trees remain just as loud,
whispering away,
muttering about the creatures
whom in the sunshine lay.
The plane drifting up above,
in between the clouds,
it's sound circling down below
in amongst the crowds.
On the grass lay many leaves,
as they did last year,
crunching underfoot just the same
had you been sat here.
Cricketers yell here and there,
chasing a little red ball,
it dots about the circled pitch,
that makes them cry and call.
I sit here by myself today,
observing those around,
no longer in that little bubble,
that felt so safe and sound.
I like this park,
Southwark park,
I think I'll come again.
Perhaps next time not alone
but with a marvellous friend.
shoe poems 002
I once bought a shoe,
without the faintest of clues,
about how they'd fit on me trotters.
To my surprise,
they were perfect in size,
so now I feel a lot hotter.
shoe poems 001
leather, lace and rubber,
the places you'll discover,
with shoes on your feet,
so steer clear from your seat,
and you'll be moments away from each other.
Random writings: Training Day 34
Some of my best thoughts take place on trains.
That's not to say I can't think anywhere else.
Words come easier when you're not rooted to one spot.
A harmony with my ever changing mind.
I just saw a tractor going abouts it day.
The tractor doesn't care about what nikes are on the shelf,
but should it?
I'd be more keen to purchase one of it came with a sick pair of trainers attached the bottom,
then again I'm not the target market,
Nor could I afford one.
I was in a park yesterday and heard the wind rushing through the trees.
psithurism.
I had to Google that. I saw it on a tote back once,
Isn't that sad.
That snapshot in time was the most peaceful I'd felt that weekend,
gazing at the murky canal waters only gave me a minor snippet of that feeling.
I passed Stocky P
No one calls it that apparently,
a missed opportunity if you ask me.
Everything is better in life if you make it rhyme.
Not literally everything, especially not crime.
You see?
We're stopping at Crewe now,
I wonder what the charity shops are like.
Books rich with local history or live laugh love pillows,
Either would do at this point.
This train isn't as fun now that's it's stationary,
my thoughts are slowing down.
London Euston inbound,
Suitcase wheels against the ground,
people turning their head around...
I should stop now.
May Poetry: the snail and the peg
"How's it holding up" asked the snail.
"Can't you tell?"
"Not really, I'm a snail"
"You don't say"
"I don't like to race to conclusions either"
"Makes sense, guess we're not cut from the same cloth"
"What do you mean?"
"Suppose things are just a bit slower down here"
"Maybe because there's less of a breeze?"
"Yeh, but also I don't constantly feel like I'm hanging on by a thread"
"Must be nice"
"Why'd you say that?" asked the Peg in return.
"Feel like I've always got the weight of the world on my shoulders."
"You don't say, what's the mortgage on that thing anyway?"
"Mortgage?"
"Nevermind. How're things back at home?"
"Alright, just trying to balance it all is getting quite difficult."
"Are you taking the mick?"
"My life does feel like a joke at the moment"
"Feel like you're being hung out to dry?"
"Exactly, not like I've got eyes on the back of my head"
"I hear you."
The two continued to talk for the next few hours, wooden smiles slowly extending across their faces.
wear shoes, write poems 