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.
Tag Archives: Life Poetry
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.
August Poetry: Primrose Hill
The city lay in front of everyone,
a model village to them,
they had never felt so big.
A city that once swallowed them up
with its’ big skyscrapers and wall art
now seemed all so small.
“London eye, London eye”
a little child called out.
A large spinning wheel now
fit between his two fingers.
He tried pinching it, but it wouldn’t seem to
move.
A panorama of symbols
filled the landscape,
from edge to edge
a focus point merely blurring them out.
They would never disappear.
Sprawled out before them,
an extravagant banquet.
A feast fit for royalty.
often gobbled up by
those who sat
in quiet halls
in which ceilings remained
inexplicably high
along with their standards of life.
There stood as many cranes as there were
high-rises.
A future that pointed towards
the sky,
hinting at growth,
but only in the literal sense.
What was the cost?
Soon the skyline would be full
each building bigger than the other,
a concrete competition.
Yet,
the people wouldn’t change,
staying as they had been,
even shrinking.
An earth that could no longer feed them
through the greed of those sat in their vast spaces.
They would carry on starving
as the towers
would gorge themselves on
the sun that reigned above them,
casting a shadow amongst those
that built them,
that birthed
these monstrous
Giants of the sky.
August Poetry: Brazil, Books, Beaches
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.
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.
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.
July Poetry: the moon that smiled
I hadn't seen a smile like that before, Not round these parts, It felt like something familiar. What's worse was I never saw it again. I never felt it again. Not in that way at least. It didn't bother me though, At least I knew that feeling was out there somewhere on this earth. Like how you can see the moon, but will never experience it up close. Appreciating how it makes the dark slightly less scary but will never get a chance to truly say thank you. That was her smile, A memory I would reflect on whilst walking the streets, whilst in the shower, whilst carrying out the mundane tasks of life. That's when I remembered. That's why I'm glad, I saw her smile. Even if it was just that one time.
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.
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.
wear shoes, write poems 