NaPoWriMo 21/30

Café Antonia (and other fallen soldiers)

It’s strange to think

there are places on the planet

that you can pinpoint

exactly where you where

ten years ago.

Her birthday and a recommendation

from a friendly hotel receptionist

led to not just a meal,

or an experience,

but a story.

We wouldn’t have been brave enough

viewing the exterior,

and a French Moroccan restaurant

in Spain?

We paused.

But it was one of those rare times

when you felt the planets aligned,

the heavens had deigned to favour you

and lady luck greeted you

with a big, wet French (Moroccan) kiss.

Waiters, atmosphere, décor, wine, food, prices;

characters in a narrative

told many times.

We sent many on the pilgrimage.

All came back believers.

Now our memories are just two ghosts

trapped inside the corpse

of another failed business.

We ask a local,

“It’s complicated” he says.

Tonight, we will light a candle;

remember that first tagine,

wine charged by the centimetre

and waiters who showed chefs wiped-clean plates

that promised hope for the English after all.

NaPoWriMo 20/30 Latest poem

Faithful

We are the faithful,

waiting for sun.

We believe in the sun,

we know the sun,

know beyond doubt he will be here soon.

We have felt his love,

our skins show our devotion:

from the lobster of new disciples

to the deep mahogany

of long time apostles.

While we wait for the sun,

we discuss the sun;

the time he appeared yesterday

and how glorious that was,

how clouds tried to thwart him

but because he loves us so much,

he overcame the clouds

and blessed us with his presence.

We drank wine and broke bread

and rejoiced by the taking off of clothes.

Some were baptised in the pool

and others just donned sunglasses

in honour of him, overcome with thanks.

It is late in the afternoon now

and still we keep the faith.

Cream and oil waits to anoint us

towels lie ready to be our shrouds;

surely he will not disappoint us today

when we love him so fiercely

and have spent so much on air fares?

NaPoWriMo 19/30 Seven degrees

Seven degrees

If the “Seven degrees of separation” theory is true:

That every human being on the planet

Is only six steps away as a

Friend of a friend of a friend

Of a friend of a friend of a friend,

How come only fourteen people

Turned up to my last gig?

By my calculation, that is over

seven billion dropped balls,

or un-pulled out fingers.

Incompetence or apathy on a massive,

Epic, worldwide scale.

Shampoo sales must have been

through the roof that day;

head and shoulders above

all previous records.

Or perhaps they all stayed in to watch

Simon Cowell’s latest programme

As their souls were swept to hell.

Just a thought!

Today's Poem from Tenerife

Girl, undressing.

Today in Tenerife, it is twenty-four degrees

with a little too much sand in the sky.

The girl is working, setting out her

kaleidoscope of dresses, tops and shifts.

When she is ready,

she announces the parade.

On one chair is an unfeasible number

of garments for one girl to wear.

The other chair crouches silently

waiting for the discards after their solo.  

She begins. Parading by the pool

in elegant toe-first steps.

Ten metres to the right, back to centre.

Ten metres to the left, back to centre.

Appoaching base camp, without breaking stride

her hands cross just below the waist and

grasping the hem, in one single,

upward fluid stroke, she has undressed.

Men become meerkats, staring and storing 

her tall, tanned, toned frame

now dressed in only

bikini and high heels.

Just as quickly, she shucks on the next dress

and for an hour repeats the cycle:

To the right, to the left,

undress, re-dress.

It is a lifetime of one night stands

enacted in an hour.

Afterwards, men buy their women

tops and dresses from her.

Penance for their wishes

to have been an audience of one

just once in a faceless hotel

in any anonymous town.

As she leaves they would say,

“I don’t even know your name”.

“Rebecca” she replies,

lying.

NaPoWriMo 17/30 Poem called "Tired"

Tired

Let me lie forever.

Let me drown in sleep,

Forget about life altogether

Just leave me counting sheep.

Abandon me to Morpheus,

May dreams be my waking state.

Let me marry my duvet and pillow

And only regret it when it’s too late.

Think of me as present in spirit

While the rest of me simply unwinds

I’ll be your sleeping partner

And you can rob me blind.

So, just let me lie here forever

No matter how urgent the news

Or if I really do HAVE to get up

At least, please let me press “Snooze”

NaPoWriMo 16/30 Poem Long Game

Long Game

He shivers in sunshine;

gasps though

oxygen is plentiful;

he walks to work

the long way

just to past her house.

When he sees her,

the universe falls into place

like tumbler locks,

yielding its secrets and treasure;

the whole thing, from the big bang on,

was to give birth to her.

She is freshness and light,

softness and wonder,

angel whispers and silk,

but more than all that,

she does not wear it

like best jewellery.

And one day,

he will talk to her.

NaPoWriMo 15/30 Code breaking

I missed the midnight deadline on this one but for the best of reasons: a full day of poetry activities at the wonderful Wenlock Poetry Festival. I got home close to midnight and I had started the poem but was too tired to concentrate.

Code breaking

There was no swearing

in a Pentecostal house.

So parents, when discussing words

children should not hear,

would clinically dismember them

and whisper each letter.

This somehow drew the word’s sting.

The same logic says chocolate bars

are less fattening in chunks.

When I learned to spell

they were undone, but weren’t prepared

to go as far as anagrams.