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 poetry
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.
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.
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.
April Poetry: Losing Time
Where had the time gone? He hadn’t lost it down the side of the sofa, joining the plethora of other pound coins which had been hiding there. He hadn’t accidentally thrown it away like that pair of football boots all those years ago. He hadn’t done either of those things yet he still couldn’t understand where it had gone. Most would stop looking, given up the search and rightly so, no one had ever found it again, or not that he’d heard of. Although something inside of him didn’t like the idea of giving up. It seemed wrong. even if it was the common route. He looked at his watch as if though it would speak back to him. He thought himself silly, the quiet ticking the only reply he was expecting. The room had an eeriness to it, the objects around him becoming blurrier by the second. They had lost meaning. He couldn’t recognise any of them, suddenly feeling like a stranger in his own house. He felt like he belonged less than they did. The objects sat there on their shelves, contempt with the days passing by with no sign of aging. No change from the moment they were placed there. Then he glanced at something that he did recognise. An old friend. The aloe vera growing on the windowsill. It had seen better days and could have done with some watering. The only other thing in this room that been neglected and had the signs to prove it, Green and dismayed like an old person staring out the window of a retirement home, longing for a change in their monotonous routine of tablets and bingo. Obviously, the plant could not play such games, but if did, it would have definitely been a snakes and ladders fan. The plant was closer to the human currently observing them, than the porcelain dog that had not sniffed once since it had sat on that bookcase. Which by nature, made it very un-dog-like. It was thanks to time that the human had once again taken a liking to the aloe vera perched on the windowsill. Forgetting all about the fact that he was lost, he filled a glass of water, gently pouring it onto the very thirsty friend of his.
Febuary Poetry: I Look Up
Far ahead
I look up
I constantly forget the
vastness of the landscape around me
so used to
the confined walls
of a stockroom
or the city scape
where man made
objects
cast shadows
or
keep you in a forever cycle
of want and distraction.
The air here is fresh
the sun here is striking
the plants here are emblematic
a green that implies
the soil is rich.
Not rich as in wealth
yet it can produce money
a yield providing a healthy sum
to allow for an addition to
your shelter
or a piece of clothing that
will undoubtably hold value for
many years to come.
I look up
And forget my surroundings
almost daily.
Each time I do so
my eyes try to absorb
the foreboding mountainside
without becoming
overwhelmed.
All around me
I am surrounded by stories
to be told
every insect or bird
the hero of their own
universe.
Who is worthy of telling
such a tale?
Who can comprehend the
Intricate relationships between
the people and the nature in which
they dwell?
Who can do such a landscape justice?
These are all questions
that require respectful consideration,
the answers of which shall befall
the person
that can relay the songs of the birds,
the buzzing of the insects,
the whispers of the village,
and the echoes of life
reflected within the colossal rocks
around me.
wear shoes, write poems 