On this Peruvian mountainside
that lays a million years old,
where kids grow up under the sun,
where the best of stories are told.
Of the brave and weary,
of the old and meek,
of characters sad and funny,
of those which from betrayal reak.
A history threaded from a cultural cotton,
where narratives are spun,
with tales all worth passing down
stories of lost soles that have only just begun.
A tree grows up and up,
earning a place among the tilt,
next to them people of the earth
toil among centuries-old silt.
Pineapples, yuka and potato,
sit in rows on rows
a man perched upon his rake
watching as it grows.
His wife inside the house,
prepares the rice and beans,
she boils a soup, a tasty soup
in her husband's eye a gleem.
Here tradition lays frozen in time,
spare the mobile phone,
destroying a way of living slow,
from many decades and millennia ago.
How to survive the blazing sun
and the blistering snow,
all this and more could soon be lost,
with an undetermined cost.
The market every Saturday
is where you'll find this change,
Yankees, limas and Trujio Pilson,
all sold at a range,
"4 soles por un kilo"
shouts a lady behind her sack,
it's filled to the brim with seeds,
a seriously nutritious snack.
Scatter them around the pigs,
and the chickens too,
each pecking at the ground,
bidding the passers-by adew.
Look up from the concrete slabs
you'll see mountains up ahead,
each one taller than the last,
a day of trekking will have you wishing for your bed.
Yet here the old climb narrow paths,
with lungs full of air,
no panting or sweat on their brow
or cramping in their calves.
Strong feet and a straight head atop,
from years of working tough,
a mindset that the west has forgot,
with hands anythint but rough.
Here is where true freedom lies
in the mountains of Peru,
where a family grows with each crop and a hearty stew.
Tag Archives: 10 minute writing
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.
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.
April Poetry: A good read
He'd found himself
nestled between the pages
of a book again.
The grand ceilings
and gentle mutterings of which
vibrated through the wooden shelves he was leaning on had always comforted him.
These keeper of books had
existed long before him,
and they'd likely exist long after,
save for a fire...or worse.
At that point he'd become distracted by
the swaying of a summers dress,
carrying embers of the chaos that
existed outside the library walls.
The heat today was somewhat unbearable,
the books and archaic paintings gatekeeping
the cool air that drifted in between these walls.
He looked up from the hem,
her eyes meeting his for a fleeting second,
she seemed too focused for fools like
him,
driven by an inate sense of pride,
or at least that's what he'd told himself.
For all he knew,
quiet book dwellers were
far from her usual type.
Returning to the familiar feel of the crumpled pages,
his heart beat began to calm once more.
Gliding his finger across the wrinkled
edges was as close to physical connection
he'd come across in the past
24 hours.
A book could hardly reject it's reader,
at least not verbally,
an experience he'd hardly want to
live out again.
One was enough embarrassment to last
a lifetime.
If only he'd been as good with words back then
as he was now,
not that it'd matter in the slightest.
He'd have still failed to
squeak out a retort even if he'd
had had an Oxford English Dictionary at hand.
Anyway, it wouldn't have been gentlemanly
to bark back,
he was better than that,
or so he'd told himself during the
late hours of night.
Big Ben and a Pint of Guinness
Since moving to London, part of the proverbial dream has been to enjoy a cold pint of Guinness while taking in the bongs of Big Ben. It may seem silly to some, one not even worth having according to others, however, I look past this just as you should. Of course, it is not the dream, the one that keeps me up at night (perhaps it did on one occasion), those are somewhat more personal.
As I was heading home after hoovering down the tastiest of lunches in what I was told to believe, was the only Costa Rican restaurant in London, I suddenly realised how close I was to Elizabeth Tower. Having stopped at Westminster, I checked my watch and knew it would only be fifteen minutes until Big Ben’s hourly chime. I impulsively got off, narrowly avoiding the closing doors. I felt like I was the star in an action film, like if Jason Bourne was trying to maniacally hear the sound of a clock. Perhaps a plot suggestion for the kids version if they ever fancy rebranding.
Stepping out of the station, I spotted a pub, a mere hundred metres under the gaze of the Golden Tower. With less than fifteen minutes to settle myself and grab a pint of Guinness, time was of the essence (pardon the pun). £6.95 later and I was sat on the nearest seat possible, giving myself the best view of the historic building. Next to me sat a tourist couple feasting on a portion of fish and chips, an apt detail given the overall context.
Three police motorbikes would race past at 16:56, their sirens only adding to the anticipation, a piercing noise that risked swallowing up the moment I was here to witness. Luckily, things quietened down in the minute lead-up, an understanding among the crowd of people that they too were about to hear the oldest sound of London itself.
The chimes rang loud and clear, a noise that captured the attention of those below it, a feat it had proudly carried out for over a century. Caught up in capturing the video, I lost the magic of the first set of chimes, allowing myself to fully appreciate the deeper bongs that had long been a part of British culture. Whether it was on the BBC news at 6 PM or one of the many BBC archive documentaries, it was the first time I could remember hearing its magnificent chimes in person – a memory I shall never forget.
Now I can neither confirm nor deny that this is the exact pint glass I photographed alongside Big Ben. All I can say is that this particular glass of squash tasted a lot more refreshing than usual. Make of that what you will…
March Poetry: We Exist
We exist on the periphery.
The road less travelled,
where the sheep tend to sleep,
and the cows will always graze.
The sun still shines here
like a cheap jacket,
warm but not fulfilling.
We exist on the edge.
Where shadows are cast,
the wind still blows here
its face unseen
but always felt.
I exist on the last ledge of mankind.
Where one step would see me drift off
into a black abyss,
flying past stars that only exist
in blurry photos,
ones printed in big textbooks
where people try and understand
the painted world around them,
moments before the artist
swaps the canvas,
and we all must start again.
We exist on the periphery.
wear shoes, write poems 