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...