Laces tout
Laces tout
another pair bought
all tied up
said I'd stop.
Break them in
painful feet
new shoes on
no one to meet.
Bold logos gone
it feels right
not a single marketing
piece in sight.
Stacked up high
worn down low
my map is full
of places to go.
Laces tout
all tied up
another pair bought
said I'd stop.
From time to time
we return to sea
knowing I needed it,
yet it did not need me.
Tied to the pavement
from October to December,
waves constantly to-and-fro
regardless if I remember.
How can you forget
its ominous presence,
it's easy I say,
among the city's fake decadence.
I sink and I float,
hour passes hour
there's nothing like the sea
not even a long shower.
Every year
it's important to swim,
among the fishes and creatures,
that lurk within.
For when you forget
about the small fish,
that's when the sea
will consider you its next dish.
So I dip my toe
into its waves,
and try to stay humble,
try not to parade,
this small sense of strength,
I feel I possess,
because the sea simply laughs,
it's not often impressed.
I miss the waves lapping,
breaking gently ashore,
a sound worth listening to,
a noise anyone can afford.
For the sea remains free,
away from man's rule,
no colours or guidelines,
like the local pool.
When I next return
to the deep blue sea,
I will remember it,
I just hope it remembers me.
For the sky was worth marvelling at,
it's clouds,
moons
and starry nights
ever changing.
Much like ourselves,
to constantly shine bright
would leave us fond of the dark,
of night.
(written to Duval Timothy's - Go Without)
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.
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.
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.
I had rarely felt.
Just as a boat stuck in a work yard would feel.
Rust,
small puddles
all randomly collected on this
long forgotten vessel.
It had once begun its life existing among the seas.
The Sea was real.
It was almost certain of it.
Yet,
spatterings were the only whispers it had ever
heard of its existence.
Distant memories only scribed onto its keel,
faded paint its own cave drawings.
The other boats had been and gone.
News of their voyage
lost against the shores,
where the sand would lap up various tales,
keeping it all unto itself.
The beach was good at holding on.
The boat would sit there suspended for many moons to come,
or at least that's what it had thought.
(Inspired by Late – Nils Frahm)
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.
A bird stood in sand
is a confused creature.
Unsure of the waves ahead,
too tired to explore the grass beyond.
A sort of limbo.
Resting
while grains of sand
slowly mount on its webbed feet.
A subtle weight that goes
unnoticed,
yet soon becomes
irritating.
Over time the bird would grow to hate the substance.
Its head doesn't twitch.
Unbothered by the wind
it could gently handle,
deciding to greet it's impact instead.
Peace was no longer part of its life,
a distant memory of it's nest days.
Even flight was lost.
Not a freedom,
but a disdain for vast heights
and even bigger drops.
The bird stood in the sand,
unmoving.
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.
wear shoes, write poems 