Six Years On...

It's been six years....
Six long years.

So much has happened, so much changed.
More than my words could ever hope to record.
So many moments, feelings, thoughts, memories...
I close my eyes and touch on just a few. 

But now...
Now, I would like to start again.
Start again? Or continue?
Very different meanings.

Pick up a pen,
Open a blank page,
And let the words flow...
If they still know how to.

Bryant -- 23.08.10

Tripoli Airport - Libya

Little boy,
With bright, wide eyes.
Wobbling along,
Eyes filled with wonder.
Bumping onto the floor,
Bum first.

Bustling, busy waiting room,
Filled with voices,
With bodies,
Filled with heat.

Straight up again,
He totters up to the next person.
Eyes widening further,
Taking in more mysteries.

One year, two months,
He is discovering crowds
For the first time.
Eyes constantly looking,
Face beaming,
accompanied by a cheeky little smile.


Plane from Libya to Ghana

His father and mother,
Friendly.
Trustingly,
Passing their son to us.

A family of three
Taking this journey
Onwards to Liberia.
To see their country,
Their friends,
Their family,
Those who remain.

They are returning
For the first time in 16 years.
If it is safe,
They will return to their homeland,
To Liberia.
If there is still unrest,
They will continue to live in their small village,
In Libya.

Their future...
...resting on this journey.


Almost One Year On

Thinking of this family,
Of the innocent boy with the sparkling eyes.
The friendly, trusting father,
The smiling mother.

Hoping they returned to their homeland.
Praying they avoided the troubles in Libya.

Wishing Stars

Each child makes a wish.
Sometimes they wonder
thinking of it in their head.
Sometimes they whisper it
so very quietly into their star
so that no one can hear.
Often it remains their secret.
But rarely you get the chance to hear
their hopes and dreams.

A little girl,
all dressed in pink
attempts to whisper
into her wishing star.
Too excited,
she speaks a little too loud.
Her wish so innocent,
said with a smile spread across her face:

"I wish to be a fairy"

I smile.
In my head
my wish forms:

"I wish it could come true".

Directions

I asked a man for directions to the train station.

His reply:
"The train station?
When did you lot start calling it the train station?
It's a railway station!
You lot trying to be trendy!"

I apologised and walked away.

I never realised I was a "lot"

Only in Year 6...

Three boys inquisitive boys walk into my hut.
Their mums are sitting close by.
We talk for a while and I tell them how the machine works.
They seem interested, asking more questions.

I am grateful of the company and conversation continues.
We talk of what they have seen today.
They tell me they are on their Easter holidays
And that they will soon get to eat Easter eggs.
One of the boys tells me he has had one already.

I am about to tell them I have given up chocolate
But first ask if they know what lent is.
Two of the boys put their hands up.
They tell me what they know
"It's when you make a promise."
The smallest boy proceeds to tell me his promise.

The same boy starts a new topic about the oldest boy's school.
He speaks with speed as though he can't wait to get the words out
"He used to go to {insert school name here}
But not anymore...
Some of the girls and boys kiss there!"
He quickly remembers to add
"But only in Year 6!"

Uncomfortable...

Very tall man
crouches into his
very small car.

Shoulders huched
and head bowed down.

He proceeds to drive away.

The continuous dance..

Walking to work,
headphones on,
music fills my ears,
but a fluttering sound filters through.

I look around,
then up.
In the tree ahead; two pigeons
sharing the same branch.

Two pigeons side by side,
a small space between them.
One edges slowly towards the other,
taking small side-steps.

Each time he tries to move close,
he is met with her fluttering wings.
She, wanting her own space.
He side steps again,
She flaps her wings
warning him to keep his distance.

The dance continues...
small side steps,
flapping wings,
small jump back,
one beat of stillness,
and so it repeats...

The things the BBC are responsible for...

At the bus stop,
A very irate, old man opposite,
Sharing his opinion
While almost steaming with anger;
"How would you like it,
if I came into your living room and swore every night?!"
His much calmer friend;
"No, I wouldn't like it at all..."
The angry man now shaking his head vigorously;
"Well that is what the BBC do every night!
They don't have the right, the BBC!
I would cancel receiving the BBC if I could"

The old man continues along the same lines for a while.
In the gaps his friend mumbles sounds of agreement.
I drift off and stop listening.
Somewhere along the conversation creeps back into my consciousness.
The calm man seemingly moved onto a different topic;
"It's always busy"
Assuming he means the bus that has now arrived,
I look up to see it packed.
But the angry man declares,
"It's all the BBC's fault!"

Spirit of our time

I only post my own work on this blog.
Writings, photos, poems.
But today I want to link to a video, a track.
By Gravel and Partisan.
Sampling Leonard Cohan.
Words, Images, Music.
Strong, Hitting, Meaning,
and in someways breathtaking.

Experience for yourself:



Find out more at the Gravel Project: http://gavelproject.blogspot.com/2010/07/leonard-cohan-partisans-project.html

Getting used to changes

Too much white,
Clearer to read?
I hope,
but so much white space,
I want to fill it.

Have also added links to my Flickr and Twitter.

A Little Visitor

Dad calls,
I go to see him.
"Look, Look"
I look out of the window,
to the backgarden.
His fingers point to a little hedgehog.
I tiptoe out to see it,
It has seen me,
It stays very still behind a branch.
I leave it, and go back inside.

I tell my dad I have not seen a hedgehog in our garden since I was little,
When we used to leave out a dish of milk.
Dad tells me the hedgehog comes to visit every night.
He looks at his watch,
"He's a bit late tonight."

Mum's solution to the lack of daisies in our garden...

"we will fill our pockets full of daisies"


how i smiled :-)

Big Bets

The usual bus journey to work,
day of the Grand National.
A young, teenage lad,
gets out his phone to make a call.
His call is answered,
his voice loud and deep.
Shouting, "Hello, Hello?"
"Put us 50 on Snowy Morning..."
He repeats, still shouting,
"Put us 50 on Snowy Morning!"
Young lad, in his work uniform,
putting on the big bets.
The person on the other end asks a question,
this time he doesn't shout.
In a lowered voice he answers,
"Yeah, 50 pence".

A smile secretly creeps across my face.

Fragile Memories

So much has past
too many memories
scattered across the carpet of her mind

She has always been a hoarder
and now the memories she has collected
have become too much

She searches for her needles
carefully choosing a delicate pair...

...she now spends her days alone
knitting the fragile threads of her life away

Broken Pieces of Hope

Walking along the sand,
breathing in the fresh sea air.

A satisfying crunching sound
with each step I take.

I pause...
looking down at the shells under my feet.

Broken,
I have crushed hundreds of little pieces of hope and beauty...

Hidden words

She carefully carved the words,
immediately realising what she had done,
She tried to scrub them out.
But it was too late,
He had already seen it.

He started towards her,
She looked down to avoid his eye contact,
Desperately trying to cover it up
as he was to pass by.

...thinking how foolish she had been...
...trying to imagine what he could possibly think...

A tear fell,
and yet her eyes were dry.

She felt his damp cheek press against hers
as he took her in his arms
and held her so tightly,
showing the love he never before knew how to express.

Catch her specks of dust...

She sits with a pen,
With some paper.
Her mind filled with ideas, thoughts.
So inspired,
So full of potential.

Fantastic words start to formulate,
Miraculous images...

And yet as soon as her pen touches the paper,
Her imagination shatters,
It turns to dust
and blows away in the wind...

African Treasure

A beautiful little girl,
She and her friends full of wonder.
They follow us through the streets,
they follow the muzugos (white people),
that they so rarely see.

We go to visit a school of older children,
we take the young girls with us.
The four of them play amongst themselves,
as we talk to the older children.

Sometimes they are distracted by our play,
by our words,
but mostly they are content,
playing in the grass and dust around them.

We finish, and leave the school,
The four children come with us.
Outside the gates we are ready to head back.
Before we go I give each child a crayon.

The beautiful little girl takes it from me.
She opens her hand
and starts to draw on the treasure she holds.
I look closer.

Her treasure is a razor blade.
Her treasure is a danger,
Her treasure could infect her,
Her treasure could be a killer.

A girl of no more then four years,
Her toy of choice?
A tool that spreads a deadly virus,
In a country where AIDS is a reality.

Magic Spells

Only in films, and then, computer generated,
to set the eerie graveyard scene.
But this, tonight, is real.
Dirty fluff sweeping past the moon at such speed.
Some so murky it briefly blocks the light of the moon,
Some so thin the moon illuminates a magically, misty, glowing grey

-The sort you would see seeping from a witches cauldron.

Blossom

One little cherry blossom,

all alone,

...shivering...

petals shaking in the breeze

The first sign that spring is coming...