lighting up time

trees are toppled                                                      

tinsel tucked away
baubles buried
deep
in boxes
under our stairs.

lights, illuminated,
are eliminated

and extinguished as

electricity exhales,
happy to take a breather.

spiced orange scents
linger
to remind us

of mulled wine warmth

and midwinter mirth.

in a city of lights

plunged into darkness

we are now the candles:

high on a hill

all that is left

brief

but burning bright
staying lit
shining strong
flickering on.


Posted for Poetry Jam: Candles and Poets United

New Start

Joseph arrived here a little revived: a new start is what most people long for and as his ship came ashore, a burning, alien hope welled up inside him. From Egypt, he had edged gradually towards these shores, having left his Sudanese homeland several weeks earlier.

Each port had been a stepping-stone towards a new continent where abundance caught his eye, like grapes clustering from every branch in a vineyard. Liverpool to Glasgow had been the final leg. For the first time since the blackest day, his life began to have possibilities again.

But walking down Hillend Street on a cold November morning seemed a million miles from the shores of the Red Sea. Reaching his destination, he was swept, abruptly and unexpectedly, by a surge of emotion for his people and his village. The freezing air seemed to punch his face leaving him breathless and numb...

He walked slowly towards the restaurant, checking his gangly stride as he glanced down at a small piece of paper. Recognising the restaurant’s name in the scrawly handwriting in front of him, he edged through the heavy, silver door into a bright red and yellow room.  Joseph asked the man behind the counter, in his best English, about the waiter’s vacancy. As a prerequisite of his claim for refugee status, the job centre had insisted that Joseph apply, even although he had no previous experience of this kind of work.

"So, when can you start? We're in a bit of a fix with winter flu and that..." said the burly owner, appearing suddenly through the set of beaded curtains that hung to the left of the bar. He rubbed his greying beard with one of his huge furry hands, as he waited for a response.

Joseph was taken aback by the speed of his success, having expected a more thorough interview with questions about his background, or at least a mention of his accent. When he revealed his willingness to begin right away, the owner’s bushy, grey eyebrows curved upwards in half-surprise, but he seized the moment nevertheless, throwing Joseph a notepad and half-size pencil. A short while later he was ready for action.

Feeling conspicuous in his checkered apron, he moved slowly towards the window table to take his first order.
"The chicken curry," ordered a sharp-suited man, even before Joseph could utter a word.
"The chilli," spat out his female companion.
"And a Budweiser."
"Me as well."
Finding the accents difficult to understand, Joseph was forced to ask his first customers to repeat themselves. Slowly and grudgingly, with little eye-contact, they did so.

Bewildered by their lack of empathy, Joseph trudged back towards the kitchen, his hands shaking. As he pushed the red swing doors to deliver the order, what he saw made him feel physically sick.

Back home, his drought-prone climate, like a cosmic roulette-wheel, had chosen to curse with a poor harvest for the past three years. Joseph had witnessed many families struggle to survive: many fathers, once strong and proud, becoming shadows lurking in fields, divining rain, scratching around for the slightest sign of enough grain to ward off total despair. When none appeared, the burden of responsibility often became too much....

Now Joseph’s eyes were fixed on a chubby man of medium height wearing an off-white apron, stained and unkempt, with a shaven head and matching stubble. He was repeatedly turning the half-eaten contents of several plates into a large metal bin. The bin was bulging with enough food to feed the children of his village for a full week.
"What will you be doing with that?" Joseph managed to ask.
"Hungry mate?" grinned the cook. "Don’t worry-you’ll get your meals for free. Only the best for the staff of All Weathers!"

Giving him the order, Joseph left the kitchen.

As he walked between his designated tables and the kitchen, during the sluggish hours of his first day, thoughts crept through Joseph’s mind like unwelcome visitors. This is the land to which he had travelled? The inhospitable wind seemed to whisper the character of its inhabitants-an arrogance and lack of recognition of the wealth and well-being that was pouring out of every shop window.

Yet, Joseph sensed despair, in spite of this; in contrast to the joy-filled community that had been his home for these past twenty-five years. He felt an atmosphere of hopelessness in this refuge. With these thoughts came a sense of guilt, as he thought of those who had helped him greatly since his arrival here only three days ago.

Joseph left his new employment at six thirty, having unburdened himself of apron, notebook and pencil. The day had been an eye-opener, and by the end of his shift Joseph felt tired and was functioning on automatic pilot. Walking almost robotically back out into Hillend Street, he silently manoeuvred out into the black night.

His temporary accommodation was a ground floor flat on the other side of the town. At a steady pace he had made the journey to the town centre that morning in around fifteen minutes. Now, however, as fog began to fall, Joseph realised, for the first time, that he was unsure of the direction in which he should go.

Following the written instructions had seemed so easy during the hours of sunlight, but as he wandered methodically through the waterfall glow of lampposts, he struggled to find any clue which would tell him where he was going. He walked on, feeling more and more uneasy. Darkness had come quickly, chasing away any signs of life from the streets he walked on. Like a restless ghost treading the same ground over and over, unable to rest in peace, Joseph merged with the mist. He was lost.





You may wish to read more about Joseph. Here is where his story begins:　
http://nd-mitchell.blogspot.co.uk/2012/04/unforseen-arrival.html　
　
　Posted for Theme Thursday: Rebirth 　
　
　

Haiku from the EK Centre 22/12/12

Busy and buzzing
Mall in a fast forward loop 
Bodies grabbing gifts.
           ----
Window wonderland
Victorian heartstrings tugged
Fake heartwarming snow.
           ---- 
Shoppers go shuffling
Monkey arms, wilting flowers
Trying to keep faith.
            ----
Keep cool in the queue
Angels may be serving you
Waiting for their wings.
             ----
Try to stay civil
If bells, baubles and Buble
Are not quite your thing.







Posted for Haiku Heights-Snow
(I realise I've taken a slight liberty with this theme!)

18/12/12 from 13.13 @ Strathclyde Park

Encroaching,
marching on their own two feet,
an army of mercenary mallards
are
besieging,
beseeching me
to be fed
until,
realising that i am ill-prepared,
they are
retreating,
reproaching me
for lack of foresight
and lack of bread. 

Trudging on empty stomachs
in solitary single file,
waddling into water,
their V-tides rippling from webbed feet,
they are troops
in green camouflaged berets,
reforming their formation
gliding the glassy surface,
swimming on in sadness.

Still wishing to be their general,
i walk into peace time
where stark proud trees
are resolutely waiting:
red-veined shrubs
whisper coming Christmas
as dewy grass is glistening.

At the dam,
crashing its crescendo,
warlike water eddies
towards the quiet truce
of the relentless river,
until
the magnetic cry of gulls
is turning my head;  
hovering and hollering
a call to arms
that reaches shore.

In the distance
the army of ducks are advancing,
embarking from the loch
towards their own happy ending:
a Dunkirk where
all that's waiting is
a couple bearing food.

Swarming from the water,
giving full allegiance,
standing to attention,
around their feet,
they wait
and eat.





Posted for Poetry Jam: A walk to remember

The 10pm Sky Guide mash-up

good luck garfield

idiot minds

question bullseye

spooks tonight

celebrity hell swap

psychic eye

europa teen mom

cop squad guy

naked jamie

uk tings

fleetwood jingle

shanghai sings

ghost soillse

dexter fly

rugrats giveaway

c.s.i

wife swap taggart

under siege

bargain scandal
pawn disease
graveyard airplay
mourinho dance

upfront vegas

a league of trance

texas e news

springer mac

cleveland baywatch

ghostquake jack

sex and spartacus
nightly sands
true grit diary
in god's hands

What if swans..?

What if swans,
Their necks of stretching, swivelling periscopes,
Were well-intentioned,
For a second,
More Lisa Kudrow
Than tetchy Brachiosaurus,
And, forgetting that they had to threaten,
Extended you a kindly glance?

What if swans' mouths,
With rows of tiny gemstone teeth,
Glistening in the sun,
Spoke words of peace,
Without a hiss,
And thanked you for their daily bread?

What if swans' wings,
Beating rhythms across the wind,
Were really wrestlers' arms,
Chest-pumping,
In their mock triumphant show,
Their
Insecurity,
Tangled under rising feathers,
Hidden
Deep below?

What if thirsty swans,
Their orange bills ready and willing,
Though perfectly poised
With downy bottoms in the air,
Suddenly felt despair,
And went
From upended half-submerged corks
To toppling white Titanics,
Sucked and sunken under there?

What if swans were just like us,
Looking out for love,
Trying hard not to curse,
A weekend visit to the pub,
Tired, black-rimmed eyes
From nine to five,
Commuting in their fine white suits,
You'd see them on the bus...






Posted for Poetry Jam.

la playa

bodies making sand connections
gritty grains grip sunscreened limbs
fresh seawater, skin transluscent
flickering pages gather wind,
facing south,
losing doubt,
tides roll in from Africa.

oriental genies pop up,

hands grant stubborn sinews calm,

shape-shift salesmen trudge to silence

conjure watches down one arm,

on the shore,

breakers roar,
tides roll in from Africa.

rows of blue sombreroed sunbeds

palm trees dance as horses crash
shell collections clear the sea out

tiny feet now make a splash,

all the while

Marbellan style,
tides roll in from Africa.

posted on poetry jam and poets united

Morning Manifesto

Notice the birds. Recognise their song. And join. Click minimize. Smell the salt water and consider where sea meets shore, sifting order from chaos. Watch a dog scamper for a ball with undivided soul. Make yourself smaller. Be astonished by the repeating waves. Scan a horizon line and some headlands. Try to understand  seagulls. Feel patterns being swept onto sand as swirling clouds step aside to introduce sunlight. Click minimize.

Restore yourself down. Consider the cycle of flowers. Reject worry. Look into the blue and watch the daytime moon balance in silhouette. Forget details. Feel small. Breathe deep the sky into your tiny lungs. Concentrate on footsteps: bodies held by gravity, bass drumming lightly against an orbitting planet. Held in space. Sample the growing swell on the shore. Pat that passing dog. Let the sand caress your footsteps as a plane slides past above you. Click minimize.

Accept a sunbeam on your face. Walk slowly. Ask yourself why the air seems so pure today. Watch a dancing robin. Be joined in the movement as birds pirouette through air currents. Accept the joy of their flight. Let a fly land on your hand. Walk beside a golf course and listen to the echo of order. Click minimize.

Life is not a tall order from the ground. Marvel that all you can see is a glimpse. That you are eternal.

Click minimize.

Finally, attempt to grasp that you are small but beautiful...  

Posted for

Theme Thursday and Imperfect Prose

Charlie says

I take myself a quick look round to check everything's hunky dory.

Sure enough it's all the way I remember it. The little notepad at the side of the bed; the white plastic biro; the long blue sofa; the bright menu for the room service nosh.

Tonight's window view could be better: the old factory wall ain't what you'd call inspiring, but it'll take more than that to get me down.

They always stick the bathroom right there next to the door don't they? Funny thing, but it's like I'm drawn straight towards the taps. I love the whoosh that surges around the room when you turn them on. It's diamond. It's like they've got a natural spring supply somewhere on the main road or something.

As it happens, this one's got a nice lived-in feel: the bath's gleaming white at the sides, but down the bottom of it, it's lost a bit of its sparkle. Some scratches on the tiles too and the lino's seen better days, but to be honest, I find rooms like this one reassuring.

I love the little rectangle of soap that's always there on the sink. Wrapped up like a personalised gift. Carefully I open it and grab hold like it's a mobile. I let my fingers run across the smooth surface. Then I hold it to my nose-there ain't no great scent to it, but no matter. Just having it left for me makes me feel like I'm at home.

I guess you've noticed how there's always that message stuck to the tiles? The one about putting your towels in the bath if you want em changed? Help us to help our environment it says, but what they really mean is help us to save us some cash. Quite right. You don't want to be wasteful-it's why our country's in the state it's in. Millions of little bits of wastefulness all add up. You've done it yourself. Under Blair we was all letting it slip through our fingers-never thought it would ever matter. Anyway, the towel thing don't affect me. I'm only ever staying one night, but if it were two, I'd always re-use. Just so's you know. 

Once the water's piping hot, I ease myself in. I'm in there like a liner launching off the quayside. The heat surges through me and I settle down, enjoying the quiet. I'm calm. I'm calm. I let my mind wander through an evening to myself. Soon I'll be lying on the bed flicking through the channels. I'll try and find me a football match if I can. Always love the chance to see a live game. I can still remember the thrill of it when I was a youngster. The FA Cup final or an England match. Sitting on the couch with dad, scarves round our necks. Brilliant times they was... 

I dry off then slip under the covers and scan until I find a Spanish 2nd Division game. I always wonder about them geezers in the studio. How they landed firmly on their feet. Nice suits. Flashy teeth-whitened grins. All for being blessed with the ability to kick a ball across a few blades of grass. A few years of running and now all they have to do is talk. Set up for life they are. Can't imagine John Barnes celebrating a night at a Travelodge...

Still, I'm a happy man. I'm warm. Took me a couple of weeks to save for this here night out. I usually book em up in advance at the library computers. It's cosy in there and if you're clever about it you can follow the deals. Got this one for nineteen quid, didn't I. Makes me smile. I'm having the time of my life. It's a far cry from a night dossing I can tell you.

Tomorrow I'll be back round my patch. It's a good one. Meet loads of folk coming out of the Tesco. Most of em just blank me, but just enough of em give eye contact, and one or two'll stop and buy the Issue. Helps when they smile. Makes a difference.

As soon as I get back there, I'll start saving for another night like this. Tell you what-meet you back here two weeks from now? Maybe speak to you then...


Posted on imperfect prose

Curiosity

hot on the wheels of
alien paparazzi
peace on Mars is snapped...

posted for haiku heights #159

A day in Alnmouth

The pearl of a recent "family and friends" holiday is finally found after a series of rather damp, rainy "stay indoors" sort of days. When the dry weather arrives, with the sun even threatening to pop through the clouds, we head for the village of Alnmouth, situated on the beautiful, unspoilt Northumberland coastline. Ours is not the first visit by Northerners. Previously named a new town under Norman rule in 1150, it was apparently destroyed by Scottish invaders in 1336. Hopefully our brief sojourn will not do too much damage...

There are few signs of destruction as we take up position on the golden shoreline, stretching for miles as far as the eye can see, with the postcard-friendly Coquet Island standing stage right of the horizon. A cool breeze pulls the children into the fast approaching waves: over and over as if being rewound, then fast-forwarded, their brightly coloured wetsuits hop in and out of the lolloping white breakers.

I am holding a "Thomas the tank engine" kite and the strength of the wind provides a constant tug on my hand. The pull is reassuring, as if I'm somehow plugging into nature via the kite's string. I imagine a surge of natural energy, as the wind's current pulses through my body and transfers back to earth via the icy, lapping waves that I'm kicking through. The buffeting sound pounds relentlessly on the kite's plastic. Waves trip to shore and the refreshing smell of seawater is somehow reassuring.

Away from the water's edge, one man is having trouble breaking in a black pony. Like a bronco in a rodeo, she fusses and swishes her tail, unwilling to let nature take its course.

After more paddling, some stone collecting and the important discovery of a snail, we are ready for a simple beach lunch. Sharing sandwiches, we pin down our travel rugs in the face of an increasingly blustery wind as clouds are sent spinning across a clearing blue sky.

Soon the sun is shining as we indulge in a spot of  beach cricket, where the main challenge, at first, is to ensure that the stumps remain upright. We wedge a red boulder against them to keep them intact and soon the ball is free-wheeling away from the bat as a youngster hits a crisp cover-drive across the flattened sand.

A short stroll around town is next on the agenda. We head down Pease's Lane towards Dandelion Cafe, whose bright yellow logo has lured us magnetically away from a more traditional coffee shop. Straight ahead of us as we walk is Alnmouth Village Golf Club. A golfer professionally sizes up, then sinks a long putt on the beautifully manicured green. As if he's just won the Ryder Cup, he collects multiple high-fives from his playing partners.

Sitting in the bright conservatory of Dandelion Cafe, we sip lattes and munch through some large slices of cake, comparing notes on how relaxed we feel. The children are happy to mix cake, ice-cream, water and sachets of sugar into one stupendous, scientific experiment, whilst the "grown-ups" reminisce and mull over  bygone days.

In the bar, local artwork, all vibrant blue skies, remind us of the present and we head back outdoors to catch the rest of the day. As we walk back along the gravel track, dissecting beach and golf course, the swell of the breakers provides a perfect soundtrack.

Soon our cars are swallowing us back into the pace of modern life and we are heading back to complete the last part of the holiday, but the day spent in Alnmouth has been one to remember.

posted on theme thursday- recollections.