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.
Tag Archives: Nature poems
October Poetry: A Mountain in Peru
On this Peruvian mountainside
that lays a million years old,
where kids grow up under the sun,
where the best of stories are told.
Of the brave and weary,
of the old and meek,
of characters sad and funny,
of those which from betrayal reak.
A history threaded from a cultural cotton,
where narratives are spun,
with tales all worth passing down
stories of lost soles that have only just begun.
A tree grows up and up,
earning a place among the tilt,
next to them people of the earth
toil among centuries-old silt.
Pineapples, yuka and potato,
sit in rows on rows
a man perched upon his rake
watching as it grows.
His wife inside the house,
prepares the rice and beans,
she boils a soup, a tasty soup
in her husband's eye a gleem.
Here tradition lays frozen in time,
spare the mobile phone,
destroying a way of living slow,
from many decades and millennia ago.
How to survive the blazing sun
and the blistering snow,
all this and more could soon be lost,
with an undetermined cost.
The market every Saturday
is where you'll find this change,
Yankees, limas and Trujio Pilson,
all sold at a range,
"4 soles por un kilo"
shouts a lady behind her sack,
it's filled to the brim with seeds,
a seriously nutritious snack.
Scatter them around the pigs,
and the chickens too,
each pecking at the ground,
bidding the passers-by adew.
Look up from the concrete slabs
you'll see mountains up ahead,
each one taller than the last,
a day of trekking will have you wishing for your bed.
Yet here the old climb narrow paths,
with lungs full of air,
no panting or sweat on their brow
or cramping in their calves.
Strong feet and a straight head atop,
from years of working tough,
a mindset that the west has forgot,
with hands anythint but rough.
Here is where true freedom lies
in the mountains of Peru,
where a family grows with each crop and a hearty stew.
August Poetry: In Sitting
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.
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.
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.
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.
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