I found your photos on the floor,
you clearly didn't want them anymore.
Family dinners,
and lots smiles,
newborn babies,
heartfelt goodbyes.
I saw your Grandma grinning too,
ones of you crying,
there were quite a few.
Laid to rest on cold concrete,
met by tne passing of stranger's feet.
Lines and wrinkles you once did know
Acting on an urge to let go.
I don't know why you'd throw them away,
it must have been miserable that day,
I've picked them up,
they're tucked away in a box,
climbed the ladder
up into the loft,
there the photos will wait for you,
but when you'll be ready I haven't a clue.
In truth I do not know your face,
we've never crossed paths before,
I've only really seen those eyes
looking up from the concrete floor.
Tag Archives: Reflective poetry
Shoe Poems 009: Another Pair
Laces tout
Laces tout
another pair bought
all tied up
said I'd stop.
Break them in
painful feet
new shoes on
no one to meet.
Bold logos gone
it feels right
not a single marketing
piece in sight.
Stacked up high
worn down low
my map is full
of places to go.
Laces tout
all tied up
another pair bought
said I'd stop.
October Poetry: skY
For the sky was worth marvelling at,
it's clouds,
moons
and starry nights
ever changing.
Much like ourselves,
to constantly shine bright
would leave us fond of the dark,
of night.
(written to Duval Timothy's - Go Without)
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.
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.
wear shoes, write poems 