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.
Tag Archives: 5 minute writing
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.
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…
January Poetry: Wooden Smiles
Smiles across the table
felt different,
more lines to count
between the ripples in the bark.
They had once grown tall
reaching for the sun,
realising it was not heat they were after
but warmth.
One found low down on the Forrest floor
where leaves had
began to wither and
yellow.
Light breaking
through the canopy,
beams more beautiful
to acknowledge
than the walls of light above.
Their smiles would speak of stories
most of which were the
ones they told before,
more and more unaware
that the remaining few that were so much
harder to share.
Their walls like the canopy
would grow thick and dense,
blocking out the light that was
always there.
From then on we let the beams through
and warmth with it,
allowing that which lay down below
the best chance to grow.
December Poetry: last day on the job
He'd hung up his boots,
unsure of where he fit against
the modern world.
Damn, he's not sure when he'd last felt one with it.
Time had a funny way of seeming real slow
but real fast all at once.
A puzzle piece led astray,
too far for whoever was putting together
the big picture
to lean over and grab.
He didn't mind the outskirts though,
where people were less,
fewer objects to fall into
and even less things to eat you alive.
A hat and pistol,
two items that'd sure stuck by him
the last few decades,
and he by them.
Late nights spent cleaning out the barrel,
polishing the chambers,
yet he hadn't shot anything more than a rattle snake
since he'd first wrapped his fingers round it.
Even timid Tom down at station 302
had shot a mountain lion.
"Better to have it and not use it than the other way around" his daddy use to told him.
Suppose the old man was right.
He'd be smiling up there knowing so.
This lowly trash can seemed like the right place
to leave the two,
a whole heap a nothing
since he'd handed in his badge.
Not a tear in his eye,
he wasn't one for big feelings,
wasn't big on anything in particular
if he was being honest.
Life had all but drained away,
just in time to spend his retirement years.
Life was funny like that some times.
Days ahead were for sipping on a cold one
in the sun
with nothing else on his mind.
At least that was the plan.
He didn't know what to make of it all,
but that didn't bother him,
he'd have plenty time to dwell on it.
As he walked away,
the floor beneath him felt lighter as
a single tear started to form in his eye.
A childhood spent playing
cowboys and Indians
was his sole thought in that moment.
Just like that,
a drink on his porch didn't sound too bad after all.
October Poetry: Tunisian Waters
The surface
was a series of small
mountain tops,
each less summitable
than the other.
A brief moment of existence,
a collection of fleeting moments.
The sun translated onto
a rippled ocean floor
where fish would embrace
the flashes of the big light in the sky.
Humans would try and mimic this,
falling short of truly acknowledging
it's power.
Stood in the shallow waters,
instead of swimming out
to where the earth's pull
became less obvious,
unable to enjoy
the feeling of flight.
June Poetry: Words On York
The history was palatable,
From the grass tucked between the cobbled streets,
to the cold faces of men
scribed onto the Minister walls.
It wasn't the first time that men managed to clamber onto
history through the labour
of other men.
The toil of forgotten souls who
spent days carving cold stone,
only for those inside to look
to the sky in search of theirs.
Friendly voices would echo against the cavernous walls of the Minister,
thousands of hours etched into sounds that would leap out onto the ears of eager-minded travellers.
"The word for apple is also the word for fruit in Latin",
beckoned one of the more lively tour guides,
another simple mistake that had managed to perch itself within culture for centuries.
Decades of musical references at once dispelled by a tentative historian,
his only hope be that more people spread the same message.
Upon entering,
One of the Fathers would utter words
in a moment of prayer,
people would sit in silence,
returning to childhood experiences when
older people were the voice of reason,
all of whom were looking for one small
moment to let go of responsibilities
and forget the family sat next to them,
most of whom were dependent on their strength
and guidance.
As the train drifted downwards,
the constraints would slowly fall back into position,
an unexplored city now less enigmatic,
a string of kind people
and good coffee
to thank.
wear shoes, write poems 