every day creativity 3

New

2011-12-30T12:14:00.003Z

It's that time of year again when we say goodbye to the old and say hello to the new. This is a favourite time of year from me as it's a chance for me to reflect on the achievements of this year and to set my dreams and goals for the coming year.

I do get excited because I that this time holds such potential. I see that anything is possible. There's a world of opportunities and experiences out there for the taking, I've just got to apply myself. But also make sure I enjoy the journey too.
So I'll just sign off from this blog and meet you over at my new blog, http://www.everydaycreativity4.blogspot.com. Can't wait to see you there.

Happy New Year everyone.

The Day Trip to the Sea

2011-12-17T00:00:00.003Z

I have forgotten the beach
Where we lay side by side
And this iridescent pebble
Was suddenly there squat in my hand.

Yes, I have forgotten that moment,
The seagulls, the waves, the wind,
But not the feel of you skin
When you took the pebble away.

Winter Coat Turn Shabby

2011-12-16T23:48:00.002Z

You buy your winter coat new.
It cost more than the usual purchase.
At first it's cosy and bright,
The buttons all there, collar ironed flat.
Then you must wear it everyday
As the days grow cold and dark.
You learn to you dismay
Nothing gold can stay.

Mark Rothko - Untitled

2011-12-15T14:49:00.002Z

It hangs on the wall.
Blocks of colour
Each infused with drama.

Bands of yellow
Which seep into the canvas
Into radiant orange

Like sunrise
On a summer beach.
Shimmering, solid

Oblongs: think pumpkins,
Rising heat,
Blazing fires.

Glowing and glowing
Blending into each other.
Simple rectangles

Shot through with hot
White. Breathe deeply.
Emotionally charged.

Large Blue Nude

2011-12-11T22:12:00.002Z

Large areas of flat blue and white.
Black squiggles like calligraphic symbol.
Relaxing on a wave she reclines.
Black expressionless eyes stare at the looker.
Spread backwards, head resting on hand
Other arm over head cradling,
Her body is full and fleshy.
Saggy belly and separating breasts.
There is no invitation .
She shouldn't be here.
She is worth more. This pose
Does not do her justice .

The Study

2011-12-07T22:49:00.001Z

Nobody took the time to record
the details about her.

Did she rise early and collect
eggs from the yard?
Or did she rest in till late?

Did she nudge her hips into
the bench while kneading dumplings?
Or did she buy them in?

Would she sit some evenings, alone,
darkness here in the blink of an eye
and she still waiting?

One question leads to another.

Flowers – did she love them?
The fat trumpeting heads
of the hibiscus cover her
in the Master’s surviving studies.

In the final painting,
she is gone, replaced by
a mountain in the distance.

Gibraltar Watering Place, Heigham

2011-12-05T22:18:00.002Z

Green dark tones dominate the sky
As grey coloured clouds move into the frame.
A stone dwelling downriver
Gives the background a lonely hue.
Come closer a long the crumbling bank
To a wooden dam, touching the water.
Here a local man has lead his horse to water.
Look how man and beast are one,
As they bend towards their reflection.
Watching the whole scene, are two
fisherman in their small boat,
quarrelling about whether
earthworm or maggots are best
for luring trout.

Claude Monet

2011-12-05T22:07:00.004Z

To capture the changing light
And atmosphere,
I will paint you again and again.
Morning, night, noon,
Spring, Summer, Winter.
Outside against the elements,
I will put brush to canvas,
eye to the changing world
and master this landscape.

The Janitor Who Paints

2011-12-04T10:10:00.002Z

Thrumming in the background

The fridge - a minor key

For a Sunday afternoon.

Stove heat griddles thoughts.

In this small room

An artist paints

A mother and child.

Half smiling, they look

Beyond this scene.

Scores on the lino,

A mop, duster and bin

And forget the empty

Cupboards, the nights

Are the ashes of his affairs

But for now he paints true.

A.M. Jackson-Winter,Charlevoix County 1933

2011-12-03T15:03:00.002Z

The darkness

Gives way

Sometimes

To the smallest

Illumination -

Over undulating hills

Of russet reds,

Rich matters .

And sometimes

Shadows encroach

Upon stark homesteads

Crouched at the base.

A landscape marked

By man - ploughed

Fields, slanted

Telegraph poles,

A dirt track curved

From near to far

Surrounding dark.

One feathery

Orange tree

Stands in the sands.

How much matters?

Go back

To that moment

Before it takes

Place and then

You'll know.

Squirrels on a Plane Tree

2011-12-01T21:47:00.002Z

Autumnal colouring

In a refined style creates

Tone and a solid figure

Almost climbing the oak tree.

The squirrels are a

Multitude above

Running higher and higher.

Five fingered leaves

In delicate strokes

Imitate the living.

A roundness that will cost.

The trouble is you

Never reach the top.

There is always

Another branch

Spreading too far.

And try as you might

It is always out of reach.

Where have all the poems gone?

2011-11-15T23:33:00.002Z

Apologies to my loyal followers. November has been a bit of a stressful month and it isn't over yet.
I just haven't had the energy or inspiration to write here. I'm hoping I will turn a corner soon.
Until then I will keep filling the creative pot with whatever I can get.

2011 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 3

2011-11-03T22:24:00.002Z

Write of 'Sort of ____' poem

Sort of Home

Evelyn Street was more hectic.
The market bigger, louder.
Vendors displayed their wares
and boasted about its quality.
A maze of woodedn boxes
held mangoes, nutmeg, salted prunes,
fish eyes, red snapper, calabash.
Breadfruit the size of babies,
guavas, pawpaw and tamarinds.
I could only stare.

I spotted the other white woman.
I could have hugged her. She was blond
and short. I, brunette and tall.
But we were the same.
Her skin was thin, the colour of paper.
Her arms blotched from mosquito bites.
She could not understand the people either.

2011 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 2

2011-11-02T22:42:00.002Z

Use an epigraph to kickstart your poem

'I will show you fear in a hand full of dust' - T. S. Eliot

Golden hands of dust
can create fear or comtempt
depends on your moods.
Opportunity taken
or lost on a gust of wind.

2011 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 1

2011-11-01T21:30:00.002Z

Write a procrastination poem

Tomorrow is another day.
And as the night rolls in and the dark
clutches our throats, she moans
that time is moving too fast. Too fast
for her to take note of the city lights
and the smell of roast beef
resting on the stove. Just give me
the night she moans, one more night
with you beside me, still.
Then I can face tomorrow, without you.

Bend it Like Bishop

2011-10-28T22:59:00.007+01:00

Alone on the railroad track,
I sat and waited for her
with pounding heart.
that will coast for fun
on strong tidal currents.
My eyes bulge and hurt.
They are my one great beauty,
just like the gray light streaking
each bare branch,
Her breast is deep and white,
as she rounds the bend and stands
upon her toes and turns and turns
on the cement porch.
In the same tone of voice, she leaves.

After Gwendolyn Brooks

2011-10-25T12:54:00.004+01:00

Lurk late. We
somewhere a long the road.
Suddenly you know he knows too.
What can you use an empty heart-cup for?
You'll wait until November.
Remembering, with twinklings and twinges,
where at night a man in bed.
For that is the hard home-run.
And night is night.
He should have been older, perhaps.

A Tribute to Sharon Olds

2011-10-24T13:24:00.002+01:00

They took it from us in silence so we
savored the stinging sensation of squeezing
the slack cool cheek of the child
in the heat of a summer morning -
I wanted the doctor to turn it off
to feel your flesh
itself in your body wildly streaming.
The shoots stand up like young green pencils,
and there under the iris the black
line that appeared there in passion.
Bloody as births from the small,
when we lay down, to pray,
like gnats around a streetlight in summer,
your metal sweat, sweet in the morning
and sour in the evening, swarmed.

Anthony Joseph's Inspiration

2011-10-23T23:38:00.002+01:00

Now deep bush hugs the hill,
her shelter rests on.
Wood yard and mud volcanoes
across the street salt dunes.
Immortelles are in bloom electric orange.
He climbs the wooden stairs,
each step, slowly.And knocks.
Miss Selma keeps her pepperpot hot.
Under her finger nails
she keeps dried molasses.
Roast scorpion is the antidote
for her sting she said.
He walked down the hill,
he may come back.

Mashup Haunted by History

2011-10-22T21:59:00.003+01:00

Whose blood red up the water so?
Wooden coffins held the many over seas.
There was something about rain
and witnessed blood trickling
into greedy puddles.
Yesterday I saw her,
crossed. Our paths crossed.
She should not have known
such absent stretches.
She kept sea mementoes secret
and even song waited.

The Sinking Road Remix

2011-10-16T11:48:00.002+01:00

Nightdriving, going to pick mum up from work.
Like the rumour of winter in living colour,
the hawthorn bends and sunlight concedes.
The permafrost is quietly spoken, noted by
the absence of birdsong.
She settles into the passenger seat.
I would recall all the lost places of her life
as the snow melt smooths her face young.
A sentence handed down from 1942 opens
on her lips at this late hour,
it's the closest a woman comes to death.
I close my eyes, hear the miles below the tyres,
wind issuing through a hundred, long
standing trees and say a sinner's prayer.

Who Said It Was Simple

2011-10-12T21:03:00.001+01:00

By Audre Lorde

There are so many roots to the tree of anger

that sometimes the branches shatter

before they bear.

Sitting in Nedicks

the women rally before they march

discussing the problematic girls

they hire to make them free.

An almost white counterman passes

a waiting brother to serve them first

and the ladies neither notice nor reject

the slighter pleasures of their slavery.

But I who am bound by my mirror

as well as my bed

see causes in colour

as well as sex

and sit here wondering

which me will survive

all these liberations.

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/audre-lorde

Lucille Clifton Mash-Up

2011-10-10T22:34:00.004+01:00

into the doorwells at night,
to reconnect the rib and clay,
i don't promise you nothing.
maybe i should have kept the body i started,
strain against each strange other.
what does this mean.
Praise to the arms which understood,
there is some where water
like a dreamwalker in a field
summoned me out roundheaded and unsmiling.

After John Siddique

2011-10-04T21:50:00.002+01:00

We wake in the television static at 3.40.
We look towards the moon moving her fingers-
almost golden, nickel cut and diamond sequins.
The light wakes the dawn at a decent hour,
just as the thaw melts the white world, we're driving.
A dash of colour through the white.
We try going without coats,
as we're eagles casting shadows with our hands.
We can not tame the wind or the sea. Cannot.
Since that day I have had to beat my own heart.

E. M. Roach Corrupted

2011-10-03T20:58:00.002+01:00

Earth decks herself with beauty everywhere -
the imperial immortelles with scarlet plume,
blood red the hedge hibiscus blooms.
The pleasant stains that charms Iere's eye.
Or take the moon's soft radiance for a gown,
no cloud can blind the memory of the moon.
Before the season's spell is broken,
through the last slow closing shutters of the soil,
there will be soft sorrows on the mind of man
and our voices will bear the tracery of tears.
Only la mere seems deathless in her age.

Walcott Sampler

2011-10-02T21:47:00.002+01:00

We never know what memory will do.
In the mute roar of autumn,
recording myself telling on myself.
A circling come history, black my stories.
She was too beautiful.
My memory's nostrils prick out the blood
flowing they come and go like the sea.
The costumes she wore.
She was runied afterwards.
Now, her body memory cherishes
the things that bore her.
Mind alike, blue grip, wide open secrets.
With emptiness ahead as clear and grotesque
as another autumn.
The sea was the same except for its history.

Walcott Remix

2011-10-01T23:38:00.003+01:00

We never know what memory will do.
August, the quarter-moon dangles like a bugle.
A sable blackbird twitters in the limes.
The wind is bright and shadows race like grief.
That is the daily dial of the revolving shade. Love.
With the leisure of a leaf falling in the forest,
you would watch him shrink.
Breakers spread welcome - like hands.
Smell your hands, they reek of imagined crimes.
At dusk with your belly turned upwards to the moon,
your soul rocks in it's homesickness.
The sea was the same except for its history.

October Postings

2011-10-01T23:30:00.002+01:00

This month's postings will be inspired by a recent workshop I enjoyed led by Stevie Ronnie.
This workshop managed to bring the fun back to writing poetry. This made me realise that I've been takeing the writing far too seriously and that all I should be doing is playing with words.
The idea for the month is to put my own remix ( to use a musical term) on another poet's work. The idea is to change the arrangement, sample other tracks, adapt something that already exists to put my own twist/style on the article.
I'm really excited about the prospect of this because I've taken my foot off the gas, I've eased off the pressure and already I feel lighter. I'm hoping through dedicating a month to this practice, I will be able to fly by the end of it.

Closer

2011-09-29T22:20:00.000+01:00

"Every one of us gets through the tough times because somebody is there, standing in the gap to close it for us" - Oprah Winfrey

responsibility

2011-09-29T22:18:00.001+01:00

"My philosophy is that not only are you responsible for your life, but doing the best at this moment puts you in the best place for the next moment" - Oprah Winfrey

Yourself

2011-09-28T21:02:00.001+01:00

" Trust yourself. Think for yourself. Act for yourself. Speak for yourself.
Be yourself."
Marva Collins

Everyone

2011-09-28T21:01:00.004+01:00

" Always remember that you absolutely unique, just like everyone else."
Margaret Mead

Life

2011-09-28T21:01:00.003+01:00

" It's a rare gift to understand that your life is wondrous and that it won't last forever."
Author Unknown

Good Words

2011-09-28T21:00:00.002+01:00

" Say good words about others. You do not know when it will come back to you."
Author Unknown

Leadership

2011-09-28T20:58:00.002+01:00

" What you cannot enforce, do not command."
Sophocles

Memory

2011-09-27T20:31:00.001+01:00

"dance/ and dare to remember "- Edward Brathwaite

Language > Place, edition 10

2011-09-25T22:15:00.024+01:00

I am honoured to be hosting the 10th edition of the Language > Place blog carnival.
My suggestion of the theme for this edition was “The Heart and Soul of the Cultural Landscape”, but as always, a wide range of contributions were welcomed and received.

I think my ideas for this edition stemmed from my own wanderings and wonderings as I embrace a life very much enriched by my cultural landscape as much as the languages and places I move between and throughout. I find that I always take a piece or sliver of the landscape with me, be it a word, a colour or a map.

It gives me great pleasure to present this edition's submissions here, sharing with you how fellow writers from around the globe responded to the call of The Heart and Soul of the Cultural Landscape.

White Knuckle

"I was in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico for my birthday. My friend decided to rent a Jeep for the day and take me on a tour of the mountains. "
With I Value My Life, Laurie Kolp describes a white knuckle drive through the curves and bends of Puerto Vallarta, Mexico in a jeep with a mystery driver.

White Spaces

“In the non-linear spaces that structure the linear the workings of being unfold through the convergences of aspects of an environment with the electrical and the imaginary. This space is the undercarriage of the picture world;” Stephen Hastings-King shares an extract from his 100 day project where he ponders about the First Shadow World (A Theoretical Fiction).

Blue Sea

“The landscape for sure, I miss the sea. My friends excuse my strangeness, Sie ist auf der Insel, we are expected to be strange there. The island-ness of England is not something I miss so much as the edge; at the shore there is a definite edge.” Missing the unexpected Julia Davies explores those strange feelings while being away from her homeland in Heart, soul, bollocks...

Blue Riots

“Not writing about the riots because thousands of words are being written and spoken about the situation and I don't have anything useful to add.” Too Many Words by Natalie d'Arbeloff contributes to the sea of words written about the recent riots in Britain with a beautiful image.

Green Birds

“The jungle, like Manet’s scene,
lacks depth. The leaves are brocade
and the birds’ feathers puckered upholstery.”

Three Cockatoos is Rose Hunter’s poetic contribution to the carnival based upon a painting accompanying the piece.

Green Grass

“The prairie dog knows The Mint Bar is west of Two Dot. Outside the bar, a blue heeler paces, panting in the dry heat. He isn’t there to be petted. He’s looking for something to eat.”

on the corner of first and prairie by Sherry O'Keefe brings us the prairie dog, a chicken, a blue –heeler and a Bar that has so much character a whole book could be written about it.

Black Bags

“In Chicago I met up with a friend of a friend, an activist. Green tea turned into dinner and drinks in a pub till the small hours of the morning. We put the world to rights.”

Nine shares her experiences of her time in America during Autumn in America, abridged.

Black Slabs

Sandra Davies gets to the Heart of a cultural landscape with her poem as she says “The Standing Stones of Stenness, very likely Britain's oldest standing circle, are at the heart of the Orkney landscape and demonstrate that culture - celebration of life and death - and language was highly developed five thousand years ago.”

Red Heart

“Paris, thursday afternoon. A constant stream of visitors mounts the steps to Sacre Coeur: one of the 10 top sights of the city. Leading up to it is a huge stairway, a place to sit and pause.” Dorothee Lang with heart of the city takes the time to pause on the steps of Sacre Coeur and shares what she sees and feels.

Red Heat

“This year, summer felt interminable -- the unrelenting heat, the earthquakes and hurricanes, the stinkbugs. The garden withered this year, or rotted: plums turned into fermented purple masses, the raspberries made into juice, ther asparagus ruined by beetles, every Asian pear speared by a stinkbug.” Linda Wastila in Missing Summer muses on the balance between time spent with family and the need for valuable alone time.

Orange Seaweed

“The tide eventually lowers beyond the boulders and we start looking around for what we came here for: gatheringshaaw—gumboots. Our rubber boots stick in the mud as we trudge over slippery rocks and orange popweed.” This is The Language of the Landscape presented by Vivian Faith Prescott blogging from Alaska.

Orange Sand

“As a child I remember watching shows where someone accidentally ends up in quicksand and they slowly sink deeper and deeper. In most cases, someone would wander by and either fall into the muck with them or attempt to save them from a slow, messy death.” Linda Hofke is trying to explain the unexplainable with her piece called Quicksand and other Quirky Words . She’s dealing with the English language here so any explanation could make sense or not.

Grey Shades of Memory

“Because of my age I remember how the older South used to function. I remember the time before the Civil Rights Movement. I remember watching an older black gentleman step off the sidewalk so that my mother, grandmother, and I could walk past him as he tipped his hat to us. “Navigating The South-Personal History Counts by Claudette Young thinks back to her experience of childhood and how the language used helps creates the culture she lived.

Grey Lace

And finally, stirred by a story about a culture without a word for art, Steve Wing and Dorothee Lang came to talk about our perception of art, natural and manmade landscapes, the difficulty of definitions, and the art of being: “The Art of It”.

INVITATION

Edition #11 marks the 1-year anniversary of the language/place blog carnival! The edition will be hosted by Dorothee Lang, who started the carnival in October 2010 and blogs at life as a journey. The feature theme for edition #11 is “Streets, Signs, Directions” - but as always, a wide range of contributions is welcome. The edition is planned for late October, submissions are open 1.-20.10. Guidelines: how to join.

Mushrooms

2011-09-21T21:46:00.001+01:00

"We shall by morning
Inherit the earth.
Our foot's in the door." - Sylvia Plath

Commitment

2011-09-20T21:51:00.000+01:00

Great North Run

2011-09-20T11:13:00.001+01:00

Thank you to all my supporters.

Goals again

2011-09-20T11:12:00.000+01:00

"Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss, you'll land among the stars." ~Les Brown

Goals

2011-09-16T20:46:00.000+01:00

"Goals.There's not telling what you can do when you get inspired by them. There's no telling what you can do when you believe in them. There's no telling what will happen when you act upon them.' - Jim Rohn

Making Change

2011-09-15T12:12:00.001+01:00

"No one can go back and make a brand new start. Anyone can start from now and make a brand new ending."~Unknown~

Determination

2011-09-15T12:07:00.000+01:00

"Determine that the thing can and shall be done, and then we shall find the way."
~Abraham Lincoln~

Joy

2011-09-13T21:58:00.002+01:00

"A smile is a light in the window of the soul indicating that the heart is at home."
- Anonymous

Enthusiasm

2011-09-12T20:57:00.000+01:00

"Nothing great was ever achieved without enthusiasm."
Ralph Waldo Emerson

Motivation

2011-09-12T20:56:00.000+01:00

"The best way out is always through."Robert Frost

Fear

2011-09-12T20:55:00.000+01:00

It was a high counsel that I once heard given to a young person, "Always do what you are afraid to do." Ralph Waldo Emerson

FEARLESS

2011-09-09T23:13:00.001+01:00

I am a FEARLESS painter - Sheree Angela Matthews

Beauty

2011-09-08T21:10:00.002+01:00

"Though we travel the world over to find the beautiful, we must carry it with us or we find it not." ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

Expression

2011-09-08T21:07:00.002+01:00

"I put in my pictures everything I like. So much the worse for the things - they have to get along with one another - Picasso

Painting

2011-09-08T20:52:00.003+01:00

"Painting is just a tool; it is nothing in itself. What counts is how you do it." - Michele Cassou

The Door

2011-09-08T20:45:00.003+01:00

"One day you'll see:
you've been knocking on a door
without a house." - Kapka kassabova

Difficulty

2011-09-05T21:11:00.002+01:00

"It is not because things are difficult
that we do not dare,
it is because we do
not dare
that things are difficult." - Seneca

Process

2011-09-05T21:08:00.001+01:00

"the creative process is enough." Natalie Goldberg

Beyond

2011-09-05T21:05:00.002+01:00

"Out beyond ideas of wrong doing and right doing there is a field. I'll meet you there."
- Rumi

Guest Editor - Language/Place Carnival

2011-09-05T20:48:00.003+01:00

I've been thinking.
I'm the guest editor for the 10th edition of the Language/Place Carnival blog for September. This is a carnival where there's a given theme, and to join, you put up a relating blog post in your blog, and then send the link to the host of the carnival – who then puts a central page with links to all participating blogs / posts together. This creates a collaborate virtual journey through different places, in different formats, and with different languages.

As I'm the editor for this edition, I thought I'd devote my September blog posts to the words of other people. Those words that have inspired me and taken me to places I wanted and didn't want to go.,
For more information about how to get involved with the carnival this month visit here, http://www.blueprintreview.de/lapjoin.htm.
It would be good to see you involved.

September

2011-09-01T23:03:00.001+01:00

September, my new year

Red Series #3

2011-08-31T23:22:00.002+01:00

Red Series #2

2011-08-31T23:20:00.000+01:00

Red Series #1

2011-08-31T23:19:00.000+01:00

Stained Glass

2011-08-31T23:15:00.003+01:00

Red Light

2011-08-31T23:15:00.001+01:00

Bath Abbey Curtains

2011-08-31T23:13:00.000+01:00

Wild Flowers

2011-08-31T23:05:00.001+01:00

Waiting

2011-08-31T23:03:00.002+01:00

Oh Buoy Again

2011-08-31T23:03:00.001+01:00

Red Slippers #2

2011-08-31T23:02:00.000+01:00

Red Slippers #1

2011-08-31T23:01:00.000+01:00

Red Leather

2011-08-31T22:55:00.000+01:00

Times in Red - Final Part

2011-08-18T11:13:00.000+01:00

iv. Dawn

Dear S

I tried to forget you like the dead, but
the impact of your letter is such that I almost see you;
your distant eyes and your tangled black hair.
When your date fell through, or you needed money
or when your sister died, I was there
but I still wasn’t enough for you. I feel shame.
I wouldn’t say ‘used’ as that’s too common a word,
‘manipulated’ is more fitting.
With this letter, I hope to stop all other letters.
We’re two different people now and
I realise, we were two different people then.
I wish you luck. No I don’t. I wish you nothing.
Please let me get on with my life.
That was your goal. Let it be mine.

Times in Red - Part 3

2011-08-17T18:41:00.001+01:00

iii. Afternoon

Dear N

It has rained and rained since the letter left me to you.
Can’t we be adult about this? I’ve changed.
Did you become a social worker?
Your brother’s wedding, did she wear scarlet?
Remember, when you used to sneak into his room
to find ‘evidence’? Pills and condoms and we joined the dots.
We banged our hips off each other, waiting for a better time,
the best time, more excuses.
University came, and so did other people.
You still came to me and shared my bed
for your first time, mine too, you thought.
But what hurt me, as you lay naked afterwards,
was the wintriness of your words; the child,
still scared in the disguise of a man.

Keep well, thinking of you, sometimes.

S

Times in Red - Part 2

2011-08-16T11:20:00.000+01:00

ii. Morning

Dear N

Between the rows of brick houses, I was walking
and thought of you. Snatches of words came my way,
said you were with someone else. But your look was severe.
What would have been if we had stayed together?
You were grounded. I was always looking around
that corner for something besides.
God knows, you had your work cut out for you with me.
I hope the women who followed haven’t suffered, much.
Call it a guilty conscience, if you like, whatever.
I’m in a good place and wish the same for you.
Maybe I didn’t like the way things ended.
Maybe I could have given you the truth.
I was all red-webbed eyeballs from romance fiction.
I didn’t know the love you were giving.

Keep well, thinking of you, sometimes.

S

Times in Red

2011-08-15T21:37:00.000+01:00

i. Evening

Across the river in a red brick Tyneside flat,
cramped and dark, all velvet cushions and figurines,
is a couple. It isn’t their home. They are playing house.
He is strolling through the hanging beads,
carrying a thick crust pepperoni pizza with extra salami.
She is chopping tomatoes, lettuce and cucumber, quickly.
Under the window, they sit, across the pull out table.
He lights a candle and takes her hand, smiles.
She looks out over slated roofs to see the sun go down.
They eat in silence, chewing the food slowly.
The cheese is stringy and the pepperoni is spicy.
The lettuce is crisp and the tomatoes are juicy.
They talk into the night with kisses and cuddles.
She looks out beyond his face to the whole of the moon.

Red Dye

2011-08-14T21:01:00.000+01:00

On a Faint Hum of Red

2011-08-13T21:59:00.000+01:00

I blame the twilight for coming too soon.
Not allowing enough time for
your big tongues, lapping back onto
themselves, to claim what they burnt.

And now the police riot squad, race
to the scene at Mount Irving Golf Club.
We should have practised
how to breathe.

Instead, we meet at Crown Point, calling
for every corner of this island to be
placed in the hands of black people:
Bucco Beach, Pigeon Point, Englishman’s Bay.

Taking our time to round up more bodies
to swell our cause, all the while knowing
we will soon run out of self.
I want to ignore the weight of history;

the imprint of slavery and lived in rooms.
On this sultry night, the present
seems absolutely safe,
the future a misty, unknown dream.

What remains is the space where flames
stabs through broken glass, its awful
beauty, red, all-seeing eyes. A gilded
crimson sun- everything falls before it.

Our destiny is closed intact
branding heart, body and soul.

Reddy Buoys

2011-08-12T23:18:00.000+01:00

Red Calor

2011-08-11T23:23:00.001+01:00

Cherry( RED) Blossom

2011-08-10T22:46:00.000+01:00

Passion locked
eternally
in cherry blossom,
delicately
caressing
the bough.

Flowers cling fast,
as their velvety voices
dance upon the wind.

A fusion of
strength and fragility
like the castle doors
weathered in the storm.

Ignite
the fire.
Frantic.
Consuming.
Unbound.

I love you with
so much passion
that it alarms me.
But it is this
passion
which keeps us strong.

Saturday night at the dance

2011-08-09T19:59:00.000+01:00

Half a bottle of taboo and lemonade,
takings from me mam’s sideboard cupboard,
shook up it fizzed like pop.

The neighbourhood lads were there
like birds of prey circling
the lasses on the dance floor, looking to score.

With the lights down
hands groped to sin
me steadying meself against the bins.
I’m grabbed from behind, fat tongue
pushing in, connecting with sick.

Next thing, in comes me sister
eyeing the puke covered dress she never missed.
Me lips are salving like Chapstick.
She says I’m stupid and a pest
she goes on about the mess,
but I don’t hear her cos I’m wasted.

With me back against the wall,
the world spins more slowly
Me sister’s fiancé in shining armour,
Lends me his shoulder, I erupt
again, copper red on his silver shirt.

Emotions

2011-08-09T01:09:00.000+01:00

“He liked to observe emotions; they were like red lanterns strung along the dark unknown of another's personality, marking vulnerable points.”

Ayn Rand

Longing for RED Hair

2011-08-09T01:07:00.002+01:00

Cochineal

2011-08-07T21:29:00.002+01:00

Time Come

2011-08-06T22:35:00.001+01:00

I
Decorating the Christmas tree,
I remember a time Daddie said …
Yu seen Peggy? Yu carl her Tantie, andastan.
Why? Wat i tel you, wat i arlways tel you?
Yu noh ask why.
Me beet yu good dis time.

II
Folding the scarlet sheet, a flame from the past…
leapt freely, daring us at the bonfire,
throwing an orange glow onto our faces.
He’d been out searching in the cold for us.
Yu tink yu grown already? Black leather met
coarse woollen duffels. Our screams rang out.

III
Chastising my son,
I hear an echo …
likkle gal, go get mi paper – nuh.
Yu throw it? Yu damn farse.
Yu nat brought up like dat.
Cum mi beet yu.

IV
Clacking heels along a harsh white corridor,
I think of another time …
take de chil’ren an neva bring dem back,
hospital nat a place for dem.
Don’t tell dem nothing.
Mi cum soon, mi tired.

V
I see him now, as then …
he shines surrounded by gold satin.
His blue-black face
relaxed and unlined.
His sea-black lips
wave-curled and still.

Blocks of Red

2011-08-05T11:10:00.003+01:00

The colour of my Mojo

2011-08-04T21:01:00.002+01:00

WHAT IS THE COLOUR OF YOUR MOJO?: As I breathe in and think of what colour best represents my personal mojo, the answer has to be RED. I've tried on several colours before I've found the one that feels just right to me- the one that makes me feel sassy and totally irresistible! Its a deep spicy hot red. I breathe this colour in through my nose and let it fill up my whole body. I feel my red. Then breathe my red out through my mouth, wrapping the outside of my body in red. I see my spicy hot red surround me like a silky sheer scarf caressing my skin. Through my red mojo I experience an energy-infused self confidence in my abilities

Travelling Red

2011-08-03T20:04:00.003+01:00

Been for a few days away in the Yorkshire countryside. It was wonderful. The days were hot and sultry. The landscape was green and rolling. The kids were good and amused each other in the back of the car. As Al was co-pilot with a red face. I kept saying to him as I took quick glances at him how red his face was. I'm not sure if he was hot or not but he was in pain. He suffers with his back and all the drive and a too soft bed has taken their toll. He lifts up his t-shirt and his back is red.

The nerve of it!

2011-08-03T20:01:00.002+01:00