Borrowing someone's towel is as human as it gets,
Each other's basic recognition that sleeping wet is simply no fun,
Not to mention getting your clothes wet.
A premonition between the two that an intimacy will be shared.
The Human Towel exchange is a magical thing,
Sparsely shared,
Especially now-a-days.
When I'm older I want my towel handovers to be fun.
A nice moment shared when grabbing a 1998 Wimbledon towel from the other person,
A simple chuckle as they read the year on the frilly textile,
Before rubbing it all over their naked bodies like the bar of soap before it.
Share more towels,
If you can
Although not too many
As there are nasty things floating about.
Tag Archives: Abstract Poetry
September Poetry: Dishwasher
I was in that moment, more conscious of being alone. No one to share a to-and-fro with, merely a gentle breeze as my companion, one that ad been there for quite some time, walking hand-in-hand consoling many a sole that spent its time on earth as one. This was and is a moment that people will share when letting others into their home. Happy to have guests but less inclined to enjoy washing the dishes after they’ve left. Although that’s what dishwashers are for.
June Poetry: Solace In Silence
The quiet times were always the loudest.
The grass would whisper,
the trees would coddle together,
preparing a surprise for the
humans' senses,
protecting the sun from
vengeful eyes
with its patchy branches.
Specks of light would
rush through,
a result of the trees position
among the sea of tall grass.
Both would bend to the wind,
days spent admiring the power
of a being that only
existed in passing,
reflecting on its fallen members
in a jovial compassion.
Neither the grass or the tree
would linger in its disposition.
The sun would shine regardless.
March Poetry: Last Bus Ride In Manchester
I found a ticket in my
coat pocket the other
day.
It was a bus ticket
from Manchester.
I’d paid cash.
"Piccadilly,
where dreams go to die".
Lots of things happen there
some good
some bad
all rad?
My bad
Hey dad …
I’ll stop now.
I don’t exactly miss that bus,
its shuddering presence,
the questionably warm back seats of the lower deck.
They'd always smell like a years-worth of engine fumes,
stored away into the
hard wearing abstract pattern.
That
or an ill-kept Henry Hoover,
which I suppose is a small price to pay for comfort,
especially when considering the chilly temperatures of Manchester's winter.
The bus ticket was probably one of
the last things I bought in that city.
Although I’ll no doubt buy more in future,
chugging up and down the surprisingly straight
Oxford Road,
with it's mixture of grandiose and less-than-grand architecture plotted along
somewhat randomly.
Buses are an interesting place,
Reminds you how slow life can be
when you’re stuck in a traffic jam with
everyone.
All suspended in thought … well
not all, but most.
Some would rather shout about it,
announcing their thoughts out loud
hoping someone will join in,
which they seldom do
if they have any sense.
Let bygones be bygones.
and let people who shout on
buses do their thing.
Good rules to go by in life.
Here’s to the next bus journey I inevitably take in Manchester because of an unsurprisingly 'sudden' downpour.
February Poetry: what happened to the uncertain?
What happened to the what’s? the why’s the where’s the wear and tear the “are those grey hairs?” that long empty stare as you slump up the stairs underground moving sound another screech lacking speech the please do not stare the “please mind the gap” the brief open air the scurry the grind a fresh cup of coffee that rush of caffeine in that static chair as you stare into a moving screen full of mice that are off for the cheese in tall towering traps suspended in the air soaring above for those soaring past underground tired but sound.
Janurary Poetry: W.I.P
He’d often stare back at himself in the mirror, wondering who he was that day. He knew where, but as he grew older he found out that mattered less. The sun gleamed in through the frosted glass, warming his skin, reminding him of the human necessity for warmth. That first sip of coffee was also something he routinely enjoyed, almost as if anything birthed from the earth’s soil had an integral consistency. Even if, humans seemed to be doing their best to interfere. For now, the coffee remained good and as for him, things were a work in progress.
October Poetry: A Silent Room
She’d been sat in that dark room for hours, the streetlights creeping in through the blinds like ants. It would not be the first time she would spend an evening alone, the echoes were quieter that way. Reflections of a loud and jarring energy from her P.E teacher who was adamant on using the school’s megaphone at a constant rate. ‘The weakest are always the loudest’ her Mum would say. Why then did she always flock to the class clown, the brash, the cocky, the arrogant, the overly self-assured? Was she predisposed to like weak men? Her father wasn’t weak. If he was he certainly didn’t show it. He was a quiet man after all. The corners of his armchair slightly worn away, inanimate objects playing audience, the orchestra his fingers reciting any complex emotion onto the paisley embossed print of the chair cover. You could often tell a lot about a family by not what they owned but by the condition of what they owned. As a young girl she’d speak her mind when noticing the small details etched into the objects in her friend’s houses. No wonder she stopped getting invited over. Every time she did that family would end up arguing. She always thought that she had been cursed with the power of being overly observant. It had brought nothing good to her life. She wished she could choose when to notice things like everyone else. However that wasn’t the case. So she sat there, in that dark room, giving her mind a much needed break whilst her eyes were adjusting to the light, or lack thereof. It would only be minutes before the details encased within would whisper their secrets into her ear yet again.
September Poetry: large coconuts, small earth
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.
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.
wear shoes, write poems 