The world’s not that big.
Sure,
it can take a while
to get from one side to the other,
but that don’t make it big.
The only thing that makes it
big,
are the people in it.
The ones who strive for a
happy life,
a simple life.
He would sell coconuts on the
side of the road,
the Pan-American highway to be exact.
On the border of Ecuador
he would see the various faces of the world
drive by.
Some would even stop for the green,
hollow things stacked up on his plastic table.
It was from a rickety old chair
his grandpa had once sat on,
where he would watch
it all pass by.
He had never strayed too far from the
four legged, wooden thing,
lay between his legs.
Too afraid he’d find the edge of the
world and fall off.
Grandpa would always say,
“Come back soon Nestor,
and for goodness sake make sure you
don’t fall off.”
Everyone used to think he was crazy,
they’d chuckle when he would
mention anything about the edge.
Soon enough
the same people who laughed
headed off in search for another
corner of the earth,
never to be seen again.
no letters,
no messages,
no nothing.
Soon people stopped laughing,
their ears pricking up every time the old
man would start
spouting wisdom.
People laugh at what they don’t
understand.
I used to do the same back then
and maybe too much even now.
However since he passed
I stick to the chair,
the coconuts before me
and stay well away from that edge.
The world is smaller
than its own stories.
The world is smaller
Without Grandpa and his chair.
Tag Archives: 10 minute poetry
September Poetry: Conflicted Movement
She said, “I’m upset you didn’t dance with me”, my englishness held me back. Reserved, too proud to dance. I stood there on the side lines watching the people have fun, fighting an urge, embarrassed to break the rigid paper mache mask I am still wearing. It is made of yesterday’s headlines. I remember hearing the local band, Humans together bringing the world something profound with their music. I was with my family, yet again I felt it, my soul being illuminated, my eyes begin to water as I pay witness to the joy of people feeling free. It’s part of the culture, accepting the bodies imperfections in how it sways and flings to the pulsating sounds of the music. “I’m upset you didn’t dance with me” I acknowledged this with a great sadness. She wouldn’t have known. We connected through a similar background, certain values ingrained in us through growing up. She moved her hips more freely, was this because she was a girl? a poor excuse. she’d been less exposed to the rigid culture that held so many of the brits back. “keep calm and carry on” “sit tight, it’ll be over soon” “stiffen that upper lip” How can I enjoy the freedom of salsa or the soul in cumbia when I have constricted my limbs of movement or my heart of expression? Flags are free to move however they so choose. The wind encourages them every day, but the long, white pole they hang off reminds them of the duties they must represent. The union jack dances the same way the peruvian flag dances in the wind. I choose to be formless, free to move but not forgetful of what, or who, I am.
September Poetry: a ziplock bag
For the most part,
he kept his heart in a zip lock bag.
That way less people would
ask him if he had one.
A question he grew tired of.
Course he had one.
Silly question.
It was like asking the sky if it was blue.
Yes, sometimes it looked grey,
but even the sky got tired
of being the same colour.
He would leave it
sat next to him
when eating his lunch
at the local park.
The pigeons would bob their head
and move in closer,
thinking if they lingered for long enough,
they'd get a piec;
his heart an escaped crumb
from a loveless granary loaf.
They didn't know any better.
Neither did the children who would
stare as they were dragged past
by their mother's hand.
'Anyone told you it was rude to stare'
I'd think to myself.
It was no use however,
Children were curious beings.
They probably wondered why
I was feeding my heart to
the pigeons,
the pigeons wondered why I
wasn't.
Regardless,
it sagged over on itself
looking disgruntled.
I should have probably
written my name on it,
across one of the semi translucent
white lines,
just incase I did ever misplace it.
How long could I go without it?
There are lots of people wanting
a replacement these day.
Suppose I never got it back,
that wouldn't be ideal.
What if the sky never turned blue again?
Would the birds refuse to sing?
One thing for sure is that
the pigeons would still be hungry.
August Poetry: Brazil, Books, Beaches
I dream of Brazil, I dream of listening to bosa nova music in a café whilst eating my breakfast. I lift up a cup of warm coffee, a taste unfamiliar to me more than a few months ago but one that now greets my lips like an old friend. The novel I’m reading is sat on the table, much like I’m sat next to it, resting yet again until I breathe life into it or more so, until it breathes life into me. My pulse tempers as I flick through the pages, my mind anywhere but here, any time but now. I place the book down, pausing to stare at the frolicking waves to my side. Out there, there is nothing for miles, no land for mankind. Good, keep it that way. Leave the fish to swim, whilst I finish this cup of coffee.
August Poetry: Brazil is Blue
The skies seemed
more blue
in Brazil.
The birds seemed
more flighty.
Unwilling to land
or even comprehend
the idea of closing
their wings.
To do so would be unjust.
To do so would mean that
they were no longer
souring.
A part of the clouds
Overhead and the
Fish that naively
swam below.
So many of the two legged beings
seemed happy.
static on the hot sand
that stopped the Sea in its footsteps.
To them being still was
part of life.
a life they so often didn’t question.
So few knew what it meant to Soar.
so few cared to find out.
They left the flying to the birds
and the dying to themselves.
The skies seemed
more blue
in Brazil,
but the people died all the same.
August Poetry: 4 legs and a seat
That chair in the corner looks comfy, he thought, or more, he had thought and continued to think. Its brown leather had been worn in but by who? The previous owner? who was that? he wondered. It looked so far away, like it had hopped backwards only moments before. It’s almost like it’s scared but it’s a chair, so that’s not possible. If it were it would make noises Or give some sort of Impression that is was. Suppose it did look a bit frowny, come to think of it. “Tea’s ready” Who’s this?
July Poetry: a misplaced sofa
All her life she felt like she was abstaining from something. the adult magazine that stood readily available at her local supermarket had almost guaranteed her moralistic downfall. She was young, too young, but she remembered how she’d felt. Perhaps she would have forgotten had it not been for her parents shouting, cold brother, constant slamming doors. Every day there seemed to be a ‘who could be the loudest’ contest at her house. it was too disorderly to be called a home, although it lay host to a whole heap of problems that imbedded themselves in the purple dining room walls and tht horrible green sofa that her grandma had left behind. It seemed so out of place in the context that surrounded it but still she felt like the sofa had more of a place in the mother’s heart than she ever could. Perhaps that’s why she never took to it like a new born baby sucks all the attention away from the older sibling. It wasn’t even comfortable, that was the worst part.
July Poetry: the moon that smiled
I hadn't seen a smile like that before, Not round these parts, It felt like something familiar. What's worse was I never saw it again. I never felt it again. Not in that way at least. It didn't bother me though, At least I knew that feeling was out there somewhere on this earth. Like how you can see the moon, but will never experience it up close. Appreciating how it makes the dark slightly less scary but will never get a chance to truly say thank you. That was her smile, A memory I would reflect on whilst walking the streets, whilst in the shower, whilst carrying out the mundane tasks of life. That's when I remembered. That's why I'm glad, I saw her smile. Even if it was just that one time.
Throwback Poem: Walking [06.21]
Today I enjoyed walking
The slowness of it
Giving me time I needed
Even wanted.
The surroundings help
People walking by help
Not literally
But like characters in a movie
Other stories in motion
Most likely never engaging with one another
At least not in my case.
I don't mind,
I make friends with the buildings I pass
And the song in my head.
They're company enough.
July poetry: a cities people
Sirens scream past
like and ice cream van
looking for the spark in
children's eyes
when he hands them
over a sense of joy
packaged in a pyramid
of cold, sugary bliss.
Birds carve the skies above
like the butcher artfully,
following lines in the dead animal,
lay in front of him.
It's blood
a river
flowing off the wooden workbench
full of etchings
that falsely portray
the presence of nature,
yet only reveal the use of a
cold,
sharp, metal blade.
A taxi cab,
turns off its glowing sign,
telling the world
it is once again full of purpose
although the sigh from the
driver would suggest otherwise.
A life long education
of street names and landmarks
makes him the closest thing
to the City,
not the men in suits who sit
in powerful huts
and navigate their post code
pretending to do good.
A chef wipes his hands after another shift being done.
He spent most of his day
in one spot, one location,
hesitant to break from his role
whilst
tomatoes from Cornwall,
truffles from Italy,
cuts of meat from Argentina,
all passed underneath his own very nose.
He would have the world at his
fingertips,
although his feet refused to move
more than 5 meters away,
the occasional pause to
fill his lungs with smoke.
The ingredients in his kitchen
were forever at his mercy
yet they were more well-travelled
than him.
wear shoes, write poems 