The rains

Wash me clean
Cold,crisp.
Breathing in the new
and out the
old
pains of your loving words
and mistaken dreams.

Wash me clean.
Beating on my heavy shoulders and
dripping into seas of memories.
I push your boat along the nile of denial
and look towards
tomorrow where you and I
The you’s and ‘I’s
are inconsequential.

Where, you, are inconsequential
And
I
can start anew,
and make new messes
of my heart.

small stones - my small stone

pressure on the palm of my hand
to remind me that i sit
on the precipice of pain
on the precipice of patience
and most importantly
the precipice of a place where these things
don't matter.

small stones - grey eyes (take a guess)

Can i pretend?
just for a minute
or two.

Would you like to join me?
guess at the things my mind has been
thinking
peek into the world that i am building
its you and i
and gardens of
lush, lavish leaves of
emerald and ivy
spotted pillows of pink
blossoms

you are sprinkling them along the paths that we follow to our
collective tomorrow
the sun partitions
reality and circumstance
and you take may hand as if
nothing else matters.

i don't think that with a million years
you'd have ever guessed, that all of that
was hidden in a stranger's smile.

best crush

I can, taste
it.

springing eternal from bottomless cups of coffee,
shared cupcakes while sat
nestled beneath tall trees and blades of green,
it's moist enough that you can also

hear it,
singing a song that thunders round the cavity of your heart
sounds like a tune that
sounds like a song that you used to know
back when you felt home.

I can feel it
as it climbs up from my toes
to the tips of fingers and tips of lips,
nervous and heavy with old regrets
but who wants to
think of those things when
you can finally
see
hope?

A South African trio

Through clouds,
i am in clouds
to find my way home.
moments, slip and slide like sand and sea
through fingers

and all that work to find
a truth: all is naught
in the absence of love -
we are dis;
un-
satisfied

eyes
and arms are found wanting
were you to me
what i am
to you
perhaps we'd find that we've already
found our way.

***
Purple
rains down on me
in sweet supple
drops of summer in winter.
I remember when these streets were ours
I re-appropriate
my memories
through a new lens that wonders what could have been
had timing not served as the master of our maladies.

***

I remember why
I struggle
to stand stark against
the threat of invisibility.
all roads lead to you,
we were dressed in shiny coats
cloaks of delusions
rather than be deemed unsuitable...
i wear them still.

good sir you've taught me well
and still
i cannot seem to placate
my dreams
your voice reminds me of my
manifold insufficiencies

each disappointment bears your name
emblazoned in shields and on the blades
that slice through my foolish hoping heart.
i am she, and they, are you.
i still play, the twisted game that leaves me
willingly chasing love that you denied.

old is new

i am breathing in
time.
each inhaliation brings me closer to the end of my beginnings
or perhaps
beginning of my end

old becomes new when it is
nestled within the embrace
of existential recollections,
conversations about
how you and i defy,
and define,
time and space.

in this body i am recognized by
time and circumstance.
they move through me
turning like
leaves in an autumn breeze,
are those laugh lines?
wrinkles.

in wooden glens i am ageless
reunited with turns of phrase once shared between
souls that defy our feble attempts to understand
space and place
and purpose.

towers of oak and vines of green grow wild through
markers of existence,
framing bodily ends in wreaths of eternity
they are manifestos to the timelessnes
of love
that is reborn with each set of eyes
and voices that relive their song

old, is new.
there are no ends, and no beginnings
or, one end,
and one beginning.
choose what you will,
but i must remind you
that each establishes equivalent fear
of the unknown

for my sister

Speaking
In tongue tied tongues
Dialects from distant memories
Barely whispered through millennia.

I didn’t know how to remember what
we learned, un learned, then
re-learned, and yet
question still.

Older than time, older, than
I
we crossed many
moon lit rivers.
We were running. Always running –
Were we running towards now?

For I can almost remember what we,
forgot to forget, it’s been
made manifest by the magic of this,
life,
that we are left living -
in new flesh
still chasing spirits and
watching stars.
Called by new names
yet still the same,
for your hand still fits into mine,
and the moon still guides us home

We are not friends

We are not friends.
I doubt if we, have ever been
or could be,
now.

My love has turned cold
all ice and gin flowing through my veins
soon made warm by
another.

Time melts away rose coloured reason
illuminating drops of truth.
that let me see, without regret

How illusions made warm enough bedfellows.
How seemingly honest smiles, masked
a selfish heart.
so careless with mine and has willingly
forgotten me.
Forgotten, we.

We are not friends.
I carve this into wintry caves
so one summer day could dissipate
the iceberg of hate
built by memories that construct such harsh descriptions
of love.

Your garden

Each time i bump into
your rose,
joy each morning. I am tickled pink
sweet and heady,
heavy with
surprise at the familiar fragrance
of hope.

small stone - new moon

I point,
up
our awkward eyes follow to something
almost perfect
illuminates a path from
respective yesterdays to
a collective tomorrow
potential tomorrow
I, surprisingly would like wait out
the next new moon
sat next to you

small stone - bad habits

You are delicious
light blue in dusk
swirls trailing from your lips
dance around to catch my
lingering eyes
which trace the path of man made clouds
now silver
still swirling
from the tip of burning cylinders
up my willing nose
i breathe too deep,
you
call me, to once more
do bad things-
but bad feels good sometimes.

small stones - i miss

i miss
the clicking of keys next to the
tapping of
finger tips.
upright in beds till late,
being shaken awake,
just to push to the end
of
one more
page,
track,
sample,
sentence.
Genius sat between us
smiling at
her magic,
made manifest in us.

small stones - one of those days

It's one of those days.
bright blue
electric white pillows
emerald green reaching up to meet someone.
anyone.
the heavens know,
that somewhere,
is cause for joy-
so they have dressed accordingly.

a small stone - forgiveness

Tastes like strawberries
in Russell Square,
beneath trees older than
our numbers combined.

Smells like last summer, rain filled nights
fresh
new, just like
you.

Looks like blue skies, blue
eyes.
my smile, your smile.
is beautiful again, in the space where my heart hands out
forgiveness.

small stones: a wedding present for some pretty great people...

ever wonder where small stones came from? well they came from two very sweet people, who want to bring the art of the written word to the world. Now they are getting married and they have asked for an equally sweet wedding present... i think one that's well deserved !!


Fiona and Kaspa have taken over my blog today, because they need our help...


They are both on a mission to help the world connect with the world through writing. They are also getting married on Saturday the 18th of June.

For their fantasy wedding present, they are asking people across the world to write them a ‘small stone’ and post it on their blogs or on Facebook or Twitter.

A small stone is a short piece of observational writing – simply pay attention to something properly and then write it down. Find out more about small stones here.

If you’re willing to help, we’d love you to do things:

1) Re-post this blog on your own blog any time before June the 18th and give your readers a chance to hear about what we’re doing. You can simply copy and paste the text, or you can find the html here.

2) Write us a small stone on our wedding day whilst we’re saying our vows and eating cake, post it on your blog, and send it to us.

You can find out more about our project at our website, Wedding Small Stones, and you can also read our blog at A River of Stones.

We also have a July challenge coming soon, when we’ll be challenging you to notice one thing every day during July and write it down.

Thank you for listening, and we hope we’ll be returning from our honeymoon to an inbox crammed with small stones, including yours.

Kaspa & Fiona

small stone - giggles

It's nearly a cackle.
Low and deep, yet light and airy
weighed down with
the reality of life's unwanted gifts.
Aged, and exhausted
sounds bubble up and spill over
somehow lined with a glimmer
of hope in tomorrows that
are lined with joy
and flowing with promise.
I don't know how they do it - i'd love them to teach me.

small stones - black fingertips

Happiness
Isn't hard to find.
In vinyl shops, and
black finger tips
in between the method man and tribe called quest.

heady, old smells float up from crates
wafting a scent of timelessness
Ella and Billie
don't age here.

I am in basements and bedrooms
in between memories and daydreams
hip hop nods and
grown up slow dances
to Marvin Gaye and
Kanye samples

lover's lament

I am singing love songs
from the 60's
and 70s.
the ones that people forget exist because they are laden with
synth.
I hate you, for this.

Al wants me to think of good times,
Erma's giving little pieces of my heart away.
You know, it used to make me feel good.

But now, I wake,
tangled in sheets and rage,
and memory that makes me wish
that I could erase
your face.

Scrub it out with rubber slabs till my hands,
were red, and pulsing with
exhaustion,
and then you'd feel the sting of my rage,
which I have been told,
is just as sweet as it is to be loved
by me.

Instead, I wake,
to the tune of Jimmy Ruffin,
for this is what becomes of the broken hearted:

This is my prison of contradictions
where I'm still loving
that you loved me,
hating me, for such crimes,
and wishing someone would pass me
an eraser.

a small stone: trains to anywhere

Look out your window
You've earned the right to sit with yourself
The gods
and beauty.

Green and yellow make common bedfellows in middle england
Sweet and plush,calling
Sleepy eyed folk to wander
And rest
In emerald duvets
With dandilion pillows.

A small stone: today it smells like...

Today, it smells like pink:
Pink blossoms that the wind have stolen from their homes
little girls laughing in pink wellies
grown children on lunch time picnics slurping pink ice lollies
Today it smells like summer.

running cross my mind

I am waiting for that thing to kick in.
you know, that 20/20 vision
that puts memories in a new light
that shows me why he and I
should not be a we
and i am far better off as just me.

it happened with the others.
happens with the new ones who come through the revolving door
of my open and willing heart

So clear to me
are the reasons why
'he' and i belong
on paths that do not run alongside the other
'he' was afraid of his shadow
'he' never let me be who i needed to be
'he' never cared enough to try
'he' never dared to dream.

so where is the clarity
that turns 'you' -
into one of those 'he''s

don't mistake me -
for its not that i am bothered
when old loves run across my mind
but, you see
the problem here, is that
YOU don't run.
you stroll.
and then take a seat
open up your copy of war and peace pull a carafe of coffee out a bag
and settle in for what feels like an eternity.

some days, i just want you to run like the others.
you ran in reality, why not do me the one courtesy
of doing the same in my fantasy?

or perhaps, that's not what my fantasy is
and I'd much rather you take that seat in reality
next to me, and that ever elusive
'we'.

a small stone - streams of sunlight

There is a stream of sunlight that meanders through the gaps
between my drapes and dreams
tickles my eyes open
to breathe in the smell
of summer
and smiles
and football in parking lots
it changes the hue in my skin
forces on my running kit - shorts this time and purple socks
so i can join the world
in its genuflection to summer days

a small stone - seven sisters

a woman with red hair tosses equally red water from a crimson bowl into the road
it slightly splashes my embarrassingly dirty shoes
with a red froth that does little damage,
at least the suds make the shoes smell clean

the screens scream at me - crashing upwards towards their cage
a man rushes out, begins the work of unloading cartons from a van
another builds towers
of bananas
onions
piles of green leaves I cannot name

dead cold eyes of salmon,tuna and snapper
smile and waft the scent of death and childhood memories of oceans
up my unwilling nostrils.

one by one they come to life
open doors on a bustling high street
that feed on days like today
when the sun bids us outdoors.
i came too early to fill my basket
but had the pleasure of watching
seven sisters wake up on a Thursday morning

a small stone - blue eyes

i tried to make this a small stone, but it ballooned itself into a full fledged poem that actually belongs in the genre of spoken word - one day i hope to get the guts up to read my own poems out loud....

Blue eyes

blue eyes
you know the kind -
that kind of blue that sinks so deep into places that you are trying really hard to keep
boarded up and
locked away
until its safe again.

but i see you.
and you have those blue eyes,
that make me feel like maybe its not so bad
not so wrong
to try to put things away
in back pockets to keep for a rainy day
things like heartbreak
and words like soul mates
and pride - foolish foolish pride - that has no place in love anyway.

you've got really blue eyes
the kind that make me want to ...
try.
Try to forget about the last pair of blue eyes
that made me weak in the knees
and foolish and all
girlie like.

You've got amazing blue eyes
and i swear those eyes just smiled at me.
they did, didn't they. cuz your lips smiled too and you just said
'good morning'.
which is two more words than you said last time
i saw those blue eyes on my way to work.

You have crazy blue eyes
and when i walked out the door this morning i said to myself
"today was a day for miracles"
and now here you are with your blue eyes
making me
think that thing i think when i let that sweet girl out of her cage to fling herself
into love.

you've got blue eyes. and a nice smile. and a kind face.
shit.

a small stone - visits from genius

I can feel
when something needs to be put to page.
A breeze from nothingness
touches the space between reality and dreams
whispers to the space behind my mind
my hands are no longer my own
for something must be said.
Something in that melody
that tree
that smile
spoke to the 'she'
who feels so much all the time
without shame, on good days
and through veils of tears on the bad.
'She' takes ownership of my hands
puts pen to pad
or life to keys
and spews the bubbling of hope
joy
or rage
that cannot be contained,
when 'she' feels.
She annoys me, some days
when there are other things to do
Alas, its of no consequence
'she' must have her way
'she' must say her peace
So - what is it today?

a small stone - my local

it is impossible to have a bad day
when each morning starts
with the warm invitation of
fresh croissants - all butter and joy
the smell takes my hand
guides me an open door through shops, and time
the softness on my tongue,
filling my mouth with pastry and my heart with childhood memories
as i take the time,
to enjoy one of the great benefits
of living next to a local with it's own bakery...

A small stone - the easy slouch

The easy slouch
of a man
who is fully realized
sinking into
himself
the chair,
and his soul.
It is a beautiful and rare thing
to experience -
often misread, her eyes called you 'thug'
but i know better
i read that slouch right.

a small stone - hip hop

Poetry
in motion, sonnets rolling off of tongues
young men and women
heads wave in unison,
heavy and pulsing to the message
rhymes that remind
that there is always something worth laughing
singing,
dancing,
screaming about.
This,
is hip hop.

a small stone - the empty office

The empty office

Something is tapping me on the shoulder -it's the breeze and laughter floating up from the street below.

Someone is singing to me.
silence broken only by the clicking of my fingers on the key board and the bubbling bubbling of a near by kettle, but if you listen hard enough, you can hear them - young men and women rediscovering the path to childhood as they run in circles on bright blades of green, hold hands while they watch the clouds shift into mountains, dinosaurs, and a crazy looking car.

Something is tickling me - genius, and the smell of a day that is alive and breathing, embracing spring, teasing me and calling to me from just beyond that window,out that door, down that set of stairs, out into the open air of the real world.

but, I'm in an empty office. and the gift of an empty office reminds me why, on days like this,
every office, should
be empty.

Break ups don't have to be angry.

So, the other thing, about break ups, is that they are supposed to follow a particular script. I used to enjoy said script - you know the one. The one where you sit around, with your friends, and indulge in all the anger, and the name calling. Because anyone who would break up with you, is obviously a bad person. right?

Well, not exactly. Most of the time, things end, not because someone is bad, and the other is good. Romantic relationships, like any other type of relationship, involve the interaction of two people, two souls, two sets of desires, hopes and dreams. When those souls and dreams are travelling in the same direction we find that it works. When they aren't, things work a lot less. And if you are someone who has this basic understanding about life and love, then the script, of the "he's such a fool, how could he not see how awesome you are" feels a little false. But, you can't particularly explain why this feels false, because you're SUPPOSED to be angry. You're not supposed to want to talk to the other person. Right?

My therapist in his infinite wisdom, taught me two things. one of which is really relevant in break ups, if you happen to be someone who doesn't particularly want to spend any time feeling angry. He said: "Do whatever you need to do to feel happy, as long as it's not hurting you or hurting anyone else". What does that mean for us? it means that you have licence to do what you need to do, to set your heart right. If you don't want to rant about what a 'jerk' so and so was, don't. If you need to eat a pound of chocolate, O.K. I remembered this conversation recently, and was so grateful for that particular pearl of wisdom and the license it gave me to look at the relics of my latest love in a whole new light (and of course, to eat chocolate). And by doing so, I have managed to pull from it only joy and inspiration.

It turns out, that everything I received from my last relationship, was mostly awesome. I read a passage from Lewis Hyde's 'The Gift' today, and he says this:

" Who among us has been sufficiently loved, whose heart has been fully realized in the returning gaze of the beloved?"

I would venture to say, that if we all paused long enough, we'd find memories of these moments from each of our relationships. Moments where you felt that your heart, and all that was in it, was fully realized by the person standing in front of you. I, had more of those moments than I can count (one of those which i captured via a poem, which follows below). And I think, that if we paused when things ended and spent at least some of our energies on a search for those moments, instead of fulfilling the the typical break up script, we'd heal a lot quicker. And there's not a damn thing wrong with that.

The Morning

The morning,
is still.
Light pours in through a window, plays with flecks of dust that spin round the room
I am awake.
Have I slept? how could it be,
for I have not moved an inch, and night time always finds me wanting – reaching arms and legs, splayed across sheets, tangled and fighting with dreams and stories from my mind’s eye that linger, dancing on my lips, sometimes on my fingertips
yet this morning, it is still,
I am still,
and I awake to find myself tangled in man, woman, and memory
I dare not move, dare not wake you, dare not shake this moment into reality,
I dare not breathe,
but continue, as I notice the rhythm and music made as my exhalations bleed into yours.
Who is this man? who looks at me with eyes that speak in tongues I do not recognize, that I am scared to recognize.
eyes that say everything without word
who owns these arms? that hold me to a beating chest, that create a warmth that melts into my skin, that marvel at the feel of me
I dare not wake him. I dare not wake myself, for I cannot be awake, and I would love to stay here, in what must surely be a dream.
Have I slept?
It is morning.
light dances through a window-
our eyes meet- your lips smile, my soul is still.
I have slept. And with the morning, everything is new.

A small stone - hello moon !

the moon, is smiling at me. pouring genius from its heart, into the cells that bid my fingers to sing - be it from the scratching on a page, or the clicking of keys. I am smiling back.