Wet toes

These last few days I have realised how much I hate snow. I love winter just not the snow. I must admit that it is does look pretty and fluffy, like white candy floss land with cotton wool hills. I dislike what happens when it touches the ground and transforms into freezing rivers and mini ice-skating ranks. Slipping and sliding and holding on to dear life is not my cup of tea. I want to be able to power walk to my designations and wear my pretty shoes that seems to always flirt dangerously with the ice. There is nothing worst than walking with the fear of falling. With feet planting uncertainly at every careful step.

Wet toes

I take off my boots to numb toes touching wood flooring
With warmth wondering to places unknown
As the inner depths of my being feels so cold

Walking snow pavements and tasting sky flakes
I try and focus on things of distraction
My head hurts from trying
I give up and look at the dirty snow I tread

I have worn the wrong boots
Suede ones that are not waterproof
My toes are wet or just cold
I am glad to be back home

The Bus

A very long bus journey and a sleeping baby was the ideal opportunity to pull out my notebook and think and write random things. Not to mention my past time favorite, studying people and pretend I know everything about their life. Below is one of the outcomes of 'the bus'.

The drunk

The youthfulness of his face
Hid the aged old eyes
Swimming in alcohol and lost
If his stubble beard was darker he'll look years younger
I say to myself

His green coat hugged him tight
And was a shield of protection
Not just against the weather
But people and life
And the voices speaking in his head
He didn't look like a drunk
As the darkness of his skin hid it well
But he was
I say to myself

The strong smell of alcohol soaked his skin
Vacant look on those loved eyes
The bottle of vodka warming his left hand
An aura of sadness surrounding him
He was a drunk
How sad and a waste of a God created life
I say to myself

Another sleeping poem called "Wanting Sleep"

Sleepless blues at for four in the mourn
Consuming a restless mind seeking bedroom bliss
Peacefully rocking to sounds of Maxwell
The jazz of neo soul moving through the shadows

Shall the forces of sleeplessness be subdued
And my tiredness submitted
To dreams of floating on cloud nine
And feet soaking in salty blue waters
Underneath a bed of white sands

Or opening the door to a voice saying
It could be you
And a million pound cheque in the post

Instead I find myself rhyming to the soft finger steps of keyboard pavements
As I update my status on a friend of the night known as facebook
Then I sigh

The park visit and sleeps

To the park, I went, the other cold day seeking some inspiration. I happily forced the pushchair against the wind and pondered on the sudden change into a scenery of winter. My son was wrapped up like a Christmas present and enjoyed every moment of the visit. The red leaves blew a singing tune and wet mud soften feet and drowned wheels. Trying to be a bit more creative, I took my video camera. But that creative smile was swiftly slapped of my face when I came home to realise that I cannot upload any of the images. My laptop does not have the right connections. A few days later and I am inspired by my visit. This is the outcome of many.

Sleeps...

It sleeps amongst the sounds of dogs voices and play
And bathes in the sky drops and dries soaked in sun rays
Year after the year the seasons slips by
At each ending it sadly whispers a goodbye

A goodbye to another symbol of growth and change
Of new beginnings and endings and wasted dreams
And births and deaths and life
That still keeps on ticking and running to places unknown

It rests so gracefully like a soft dancer performing in its sleep

The winds cannot penetrate its cold remains not within
Still it is strongly rooted in history and clothed in wisdom
Wrinkling a interesting pattern of age showing a life transforming

I watch it and smile at its creativity its longevity
Its ability to create such thoughts to mind
With words that has recorded
A prop in the backdrop of lives that continues on through the years

With no passing thought by others for it
Eyes just seeing for what it is
Not digging deeper and wondering about this old bit of tree as sleeps

Since four in the morn

My finger rubs my eyes with a serious contact of skin and I again find myself in awe of myself as it is six pm and I am still standing. I am still thinking. I am still writing. I am still doing the everyday boring things. I am still just being. If you have not figured it out yet, I have been awake since four in the morning. It's an strange feeling when you are awake before sunrise and sit in the stillness of the moment and watch the first rays of sunlight invade the curtain underneath. I just think how exciting it would have been if it was spring; to hear the harmony of bird song to the rhythm of the sun and insects buzz's drowning in the unkempt grass. I think that is the only good thing about spring along with the new burst of life from the greenery. I am more an autumn-winter girl myself. There is something refreshing about stepping out on grey pavements after the rain and smelling the aged bark with its hint of sharp dampness. Or feeling a bite of cold on cheek and nose, and fingers and toes just a right shade of cosy. I now smile to the patterns of my keyboard and think I am due for a walk in the park with my chocolate-sweet-print wellies. I have not worn them for a while. The last time was last year when I ventured out into cold darkness to watch bright colours light up the sky. And stand amongst crowds with fire lit laughs and heat warming faces. Within the backdrop of tree-wood shadows, pancake stalls, beef burger bars and smelly green builders toilets. I missed that event this year, I stayed at home consumed in an altitude of 'can't-be-bothered' and clothed in a 'chill-mood'. I sat on my deep cream settee with laptop on lap, glasses sitting on brow and a cup of red bush and vanilla and a spoonful of honey. I smile again as I think of Mary Poppins. My mouth starts to hum 'a spoonful of sugar makes the medicine go down...' I love Mary Poppins too. Her name alone floods my mind with childhood memories, a younger me snuggling behind my mums bent legs, near her bottom, on the couch in front of the TV. This childhood snapshot could be during the Christmas holidays or an evening where I have been allowed to stay up late in the dark room dancing to the screen glare. Not to mention the soft snores escaping from a sleeping mouth. And hands hugging a bowl of crisps. I have taken a pause and have come back to written this post. It is 8:30pm and I am still going strong, still focused, still awake, still singing a joy song.

What blog?

I am reading other blogs and keep getting inspired. It's strange how your mind can go from being 'clear' to 'unclear' in a matter of moments. Almost like how a blink can hide nearly invisible movements. A Dr.Who episode comes to mind of the moving weeping angels that move in the dark space between a humans blink. I think that has to be one of my favourite episodes. I keep asking myself 'where do I see my blog 5 years from now'. Or 'is my blog to be or not to be?' Please don't tell me that I am chasing dreams just because I have blog expectations and hopes and desires. Or am I just being distracted from my mission in life, writing poetry, and feel the very strong pull towards other creative sides of me. Which are many and interesting and go so deep. I think I need to stay strong and focused and on course. As neglecting creatives', because I have too many, is the story of my life and it is time for a change. I do not want to be a 'jack-of-all-trade' and never master one. I do not want to look back on my life and regret not investing or taking risks and leaping out of my comfort zone. My blog has already changed since its birth as I am here writing my thoughts instead of just style rhyming. Now that to me is quite fascinating as I never thought that this would happen. Sometimes you just have to start something and let that starting be a guide to other things.

Another neverending day

The day has finally come to a close or should I say I am just chilling down
and I just feel so tired still there are things to do for another day of course
Not only sleepy eyed but bodywise too
As I sit on my sofa I start to switch off

My Literary Journey

A friend said the other day 'thanks for inviting me on your literary journey'
It was the first time I thought I was going somewhere
Now I am hoping that my writting leads into a destiny unknown
And I am thinking of life's current stage and wondering where my road will end
This is the start of my journey

This book I am reading

The last few days I have been flying through a book
So captivated is my attention to the words forming
Images so vivid that the mind keeps on thinking
And wondering about its characters the setting
So saddened I feel towards the content of a slave ship called 'Zong'

And Fred D'Aguiar writes in the pages of Feeding the Ghosts...
"The sea is slavery. Sea water boils in its own current. Salt gives the sea the texture of fabric, something thick and close-knitted, not unlike the fine dust of a barn seen floating in a shaft of light. Sea receives a body as if that body has come to rest on a cushion, one that gives way to the body's weight and folds around it like an envelope. Over three days 131 such bodies, no 132, are flung at this sea. Each lands with a sound that the sea absorbs and silences..."

Our stare

You look at me I look at you
A challenge in the stare a smile in those eyes
I take note of your milk chocolate
You stroke my afro with familiar softness
And wonder how
Have we come to this like strangers in the dark
Like young teenagers just meeting and talking with a shy
Like golden oldies with lives lived to the fullness of youth
And risks taken with laughter
Angry moments ceased with a sigh

Sounds on the hollow train races by
Our hands brush in time with a jerk
Feet firm to the ground of love
Captured in a moment of bliss kiss
Colours sped past in a blur of locations
With it people and histories
Towns and cities
Laughs and cries

Still we stand imprisoned in our stare

Cry distant

A sound softly so woven within the fabric of the house
Whispering a shout and covering any hopes of silence
Craving its signature on furniture of old
Stepping into histories untold
Listening out an audience to perform its show
Dreaming the clapping replies and bodies stood high
Smiling internally towards a false acceptance
Recalling in ones self its existence
So insignificant and neglected
Uncoordinated its not
Forever it shall remain just a distany cry

Next lifetime

If I could start all over again I will take awhile and reflect upon the dreams of this life
Focusing on changing things into a reality that I know is no fraud
And maybe guiding events into a particular direction
Taking the left instead of the right and not slow down for amber light
Just sped a little bit faster
Hoping that there would be no disaster
Create a happier fuller life for me
So I would be able to recognise my mistakes before they consume me with guilt
Or a mental sadness that stays glued to my footsteps like a shadow
Perhaps I would be all that I was meant to be
I would laugh more
Enjoy more
Feel free more
Be myself more
And travel see a world where I was destined to be more
Experience newer cooler things
Get out of the brain dead by the same chapters
If only I could say I would live a next lifetime

Chilling to music

PS3 whispers in the background interrupting the melodies singing from my laptop
Eyes sting with a form of tiredness and I ignore the clock shouting out a lateness
This is my time trapped in a mode of chill
Whilst the sofa sighs under the dead weight of my butt and caresses its fat
My head nods to a voice gritty and soulful
I smile at my throat trying to get sore and throw me off track
Sickness not welcome not tonight anyhows
Leave me in peace so I can chill to music