zone in the zealless
year on year
(e)xcavate the x-factor and
walk with the weak.
voice the voiceless
understand the uninitiated and
try to teach tolerance.
share sunshine as you shoot down the shameless,
receive the reckless,
quieten the quarreler.
practise peace:
offer openness
nurture the needy (as you)
motivate the mocker (and)
learn to live with losing.
keep calm.
jettison the juvenile,
invite the ill-at-ease inside to invert the introvert.
hand out hope as homework. heal hatred.
guard the grateful
forgive the foolhardy
enliven the effortless; educate the eager.
deactivate the defeatist; defuse the derogatory; disarm the destructive; drive their dreams.
choose to challenge the challenging and
battle to break down bitterness.
alleviate anger: absolve the abuser; advocate for the abused.
(and after all this: be the architect of their ambitions, the artist of their aspirations...)
(NOTE: This poem uses the Poetry Jam prompt of "Rebel/Breaking all the rules". Having previously written an A-Z poem, I went for the Z-A inversion here. I chose my job as the inspiration for this poem, since teachers deal daily with would be "rebels without a cause". To my mind, however, most teachers are a breed of people who, like so many caring professionals, dare to rebel against the me-first social norm of our times. Instead, they give themselves for the future benefit of so many. This one is for you if you are a teacher, or if in what you do, you contribute to the welfare of the adults of tomorrow. Keep inspiring and believing in them!)
Also posted on Poets United
Monday, 21 January 2013
Tuesday, 15 January 2013
polaroids of soundbites of internal monologues go walking
holly is holding firm
on branches lit
by tired sun
bowing low down
stirring this soup bowl
round
seagull sky clacks out
insistent on union
commuter cars
yo-yo back
to the place where
they've come from
ducks in two flanks flee
on water rippling sapphire
free
bring George and Lennie out
for at least the twelfth time now
ear-muffs and poodles mix
small boy does scooter tricks
green fields in technicolour
rise to anoint this
a drinking swan dabbles on
a slither of cutlass moon
marching like Stansfield
stalking prey in Leon
trapped in this symphony
soothing sphere turning on
dating dependency
trying to hate no one.
on branches lit
by tired sun
bowing low down
stirring this soup bowl
round
seagull sky clacks out
insistent on union
commuter cars
yo-yo back
to the place where
they've come from
ducks in two flanks flee
on water rippling sapphire
free
bring George and Lennie out
for at least the twelfth time now
ear-muffs and poodles mix
small boy does scooter tricks
green fields in technicolour
rise to anoint this
a drinking swan dabbles on
a slither of cutlass moon
marching like Stansfield
stalking prey in Leon
trapped in this symphony
soothing sphere turning on
dating dependency
trying to hate no one.
Tuesday, 8 January 2013
sweeping statement
waiting for the perfect tidal wave:
a soul tsunami
knuckle whitening
cataclysmic change.
waiting to inhabit second earth:
send out satellites
bursting full of
shot or sought self-worth.
waiting to discover smoother roads:
while trudging through
the ruts and ridges,
rocks and broken bones.
waiting for this masterpiece to form:
as broadening brush strokes
slosh the canvas
staining sky in storm.
sweep though Sarayu
swoop
and whisper revolution:
send virgin snow
to bloody ground
fresh landscape dream
without a sound
sweep pneuma through
breathe deeply
to refresh reveal renew.
Posted on Poetry Jam
a soul tsunami
knuckle whitening
cataclysmic change.
waiting to inhabit second earth:
send out satellites
bursting full of
shot or sought self-worth.
waiting to discover smoother roads:
while trudging through
the ruts and ridges,
rocks and broken bones.
waiting for this masterpiece to form:
as broadening brush strokes
slosh the canvas
staining sky in storm.
sweep though Sarayu
swoop
and whisper revolution:
send virgin snow
to bloody ground
fresh landscape dream
without a sound
sweep pneuma through
breathe deeply
to refresh reveal renew.
Posted on Poetry Jam
Thursday, 3 January 2013
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.
plunged into darkness
we are now the candles:
high on a hill
all that is left
brief
but burning brightstaying lit
shining strong
flickering on.
Posted for Poetry Jam: Candles and Poets United
Thursday, 27 December 2012
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
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
Saturday, 22 December 2012
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!)
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!)
Tuesday, 18 December 2012
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
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
Saturday, 8 December 2012
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 scandalpawn disease
graveyard airplay
mourinho dance
upfront vegas
a league of trance
texas e news
springer mac
cleveland baywatch
ghostquake jack
sex and spartacusnightly sands
true grit diary
in god's hands
Wednesday, 28 November 2012
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.
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.
Wednesday, 24 October 2012
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
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
Thursday, 4 October 2012
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)