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.
Tag Archives: Abstract Poetry
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.
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: why passion?
why do I get teary when I eat good food?
why do I get emotional when I hear a wonderful piece of music?
why do I get overwhelmed when I see something beautiful take place on the screen before me?
passion.
simply put, passion.
that glimpse into someone’s soul.
a snapshot of their most
ideal self.
their best creation.
where body, mind and countless of hours honing in that skill comes into
play.
into fruition.
it lays before you in whatever form
it belongs to.
it says
“here I am”
“this is me”
all at once
in a nicely packaged,
consumable form.
if the person on the receiving end
has the capacity to admire the beauty that lays before them,
then that results in something
equally as profound.
acknowledgement.
a response
“I see you”
we say back.
not directly.
more often than not,
through a lack of words.
sometimes we miss this.
we walk past it.
a man playing a violin in the underground,
we catch the distinct smell of an extravagant dish,
we aren’t present enough,
to acknowledge its beauty.
and that’s okay.
the world is full of missed opportunities,
just make sure that when you
feel it,
that overwhelming,
profound beauty,
just sit with it.
let it stir inside of you,
let it draw out any emotions that
it so chooses.
surrender to it.
or choose a life without it.
July Poetry: Underfoot
I hope to see the hills. I hope to see rolling hills. Ones that seemingly never end. Ones that I can't find the words to describe. I know there exists such feats of nature out there. I've seen it with my two eyes. Where the land has been untouched by the ignorance of man. Where I feel lost to time. Yet cannot seem to spend enough of, round these mountains that wind. I felt the hills below me, Undulating, Without sin, Innocent as the cries of a new born child. I felt all that and more, Simply under my feet. What more could I have gauged had I lay down, Peering into the blue skies above With an empty stare. It is there that I know what it is to be human, Where things made sense. I hope to see the hills again. I hope to see them rolling.
June Poetry: An Upset Uber Ride
I cried in an Uber once. It seems silly thinking about it now. To be honest it was years ago. I probably wouldn’t do the same anymore Or so I’d like to think. Why didn’t I just walk home? It would have taken about an hour, roaming the streets of Bristol In the dark didn’t usually scare me. Why the quick journey home? Subconciously my mind was looking out for me I suppose, street lights and emotional instability aren’t often the best of combinations, unlike a glass of lemonade on a hot summer’s day. Maybe a glass of lemonade would have solved all my problems? They do say ‘when life gives you lemons …’ Nonetheless I ended up in a strangers car, One I pair for funnily enough. He noticed I was leaking water from my eyes, ‘Everything okay?’ he asked softly. ‘Not exactly’ I replied. ‘Don’t worry, everything will be alright’ A slight chuckle finishing off his sentence. I always remembered this moment, Almost three years later. That is the most vivid memory of that night. It is almost as if he’d seen this exact thing before, whether or not he, the uber driver had lived this feeling out himself or that he had been through the same experience with this previous customer. Or perhaps he only picked up those who needed consoling? I wouldn’t have been surprised, not only was his driving smooth but so was his demeanor. I remember getting out the car, feeling cured, less leaky from the eyes and more present in the moment. The confined space of the car forced our two opposing energies to balance out. I can’t remember his name, I wish I could. Whoever you are I’d like to thank you. To tell you that what you said was true, Everything will be alright. So the next time, (if there is a next time), I’m crying in an uber, I will say those very words to my future self. A self that once again has forgotten how alright everything is.
June Poetry: a gust of thought
Fleeting, often times my creativity is there one second and gone the next. You follow the fluttering wings of a butterfly and try to capture it in your small, youthful hands only to open them and find it’s not there. Did it ever exist? The question floats off much like the butterfly. If it was even real. You stick your tongue out pulling your waterproof hood back as you do so, finding a lack of water droplets available to bounce off the edges of your lips, opening your eyes you see the sun shining bright unlike it was just a minute ago. These quick changes of state happen all the time, forever around you. Who are you to criticize the direction of the wind? merely adapt, embrace this change of direction and of thought or cease to exist in a world full of life and creativity. With each face of the mind, make sure you look it in the eye, no matter how quick its glance.
June Poetry: The Fearful City
The City seems to drag me down, it’s grey and big, and leaves me with a frown. I try and smile, for those around, but that just drives me, towards a sound, a noise that I can seem to hear, a noise to make me disappear, into a background where the rest dare follow, because no one likes to be swallowed. They walk in Suits and all, hoping they too don’t fall, for the City is not too kind to those, who are so rude and turn up their nose, they are so brash and some even daunting, unlike the shade of red who seems to be flaunting, her God-given right to look cool and suave, She sticks to her own lane, And paves her path, for the City cannot reach certain ones, who know their own worth, who stick to their own guns, so keep your head up and look onwards, as the city can see those who look downwards, you’ve been here a while, you do belong, the city is listening, so sing out your song.
wear shoes, write poems 