Six syllables of responsibility

If: a short word.
One syllable.
Change starts with If.
If only everyone were as lucky as us.

We have.

Intent: sharp and intense.
Two syllables.
Starting slowly, driven by vision.
Words spread, nurtured by many.

Even though.

Divided: broken, apart.
Three syllables.
Distance divides, but ideas have wings.
Ideas unify. Crossing seas and dogma.

Seeking.

Equality: just a word.
Four syllables.
Quality, of opportunity, for everyone.
Liberating and rewarding.

Providing.

Opportunity: five syllables.
A word shared.
The ability not to be helped, but to help yourself.
Coming together.

We have.

Responsibility: six syllables.
To each other, to ourselves.
Choices to look inward or look out.
Choices to make things change.

This poem is inspired by the work of the Cherie Blair Foundation for Women and the work they do in providing mentoring opportunities across the globe.

Hazy morning over New York city.

Hazy morning.

Last year I visited New York. Working.
Took the train into the city.

First glimpse of the skyline across the water,
Tethered with bridges,
Familiar yet new.

Disorientation, momentarily.

There’s a skyscraper built of brick.
A giant faceless wall, elegant but unexpected.
I don’t know, maybe it’s not a skyscraper, but just a tower block?

I settle in, disguised as one of the locals behind my coffee.
Walking through Time Square, the UN, piers and joggers.

I saw the Highline and Greenwich Village, caught a cab from Downtown.
Never made it into Central Park, but it’s a big place.

Rocking on the train this morning, through the haze.
English woodlands slipping past.
Memories of the city as I sip my coffee.

I think i saw a white stag, down by the tree line.
Or maybe it was a silver birch.

On viewing the Northern Lights

‘Is dhow a word’? asked the Englishman. ‘Yes, dear, we went in one in Arabia’.

Two couples bicker. One a maths teacher. ‘No, it’s indian‘.

‘What’s a G worth?’

‘So, if i do that, it’s “fog” and “two”, which is thirteen‘.

The argument builds slowly: it’s been like this for a while now. ‘Ta’ is accepted, but ‘dink’ falls by the wayside.

Slow evening.

G&T and a good book. The boat’s pitching. The ice clinking.

Then, a rustle of excitement as the sky comes to life.

Someone has seen the Lights. Rush for gloves, sweater and cameras.

Crashing out of the heavy doors. Polar air in a cold blast.

Is that a cloud? It’s not like in the books you know. hmmm.

Murky, blurred. Streams of light reaching out, not crisp, but blended.

You know when that kid spilt the tin of paint at B&Q.Right down the aisle. Well it’s like that.But magnolia, or maybe apple white. Not blue like then.

It’s slow, looks like it’s pitching, but it’s the boat.

Suddenly, two shooting stars burn across the sky.

And back again… ah, it’s two gulls, lit by the running lights. Easy mistake to make.

Getting cold now. Is it polite to leave early? The light dances awhile, then starts to fade.

‘Use a longer exposure‘. ‘Brian at the photography club said this is right‘.

‘That chap said enjoy it with your heart‘ whines a lone voice.

‘Brian at the photography club said to do it like this‘.

‘Shut up Roy’.

The day the Dyson died

My hoover don’t manoeuvre.

It sucks but doesn’t go.

A faulty wheel I feel.

Lament.

The day the Dyson died.

Mistletoe

Mistletoe grows where bark is scratched, torn. Worn.

Parasitic, insistent.

Stark and forlorn in the branches and sticks.

Rain or snow, slowly grows where bark is torn and scratched.

Etched.

Mystic, patient. Winter in darkness, the icy wind pricks.

Fire crackles, hiss, glows. Mistletoe fetched from the woods.

Glows.

Ancient, cryptic. Watching the hearth as the hungry flame licks.

Clockwork

He wakes every morning at six. Regular as clockwork, inflexible as stone.

He lives alone

The dog needs walking. It’s pacing by the back door. Back and forth. Back and forth.

His hand shakes as he holds the kettle under the tap, the force of water causing it to sway. Side to side. Side to side till the water froths over the top. Damn it. His hand shakes as he clatters it onto the hob.

Nearly out of matches again.

Hiss of gas then a whoosh and a roar as the flame catches and flares. Sizzle and pop as the water on the outside of the kettle steams off.

Hiss and roar and the noise of the dog scratching the door. Nearly out of matches again, must get some more. His hand shakes and he drops the nearly empty box onto the floor.

Damn it. His hand shakes again.

The crust of the bread splinters and falls as he hacks through it. Breathing deeply. In and  out, back and forth with the knife. Deep breaths as the blade hits the wood of the board. Crumbs fall to the floor unheeded to join the dried food drifting to the cracks.

Nearly out of bread now. He shakes his head, breathing deeply.

Lights the grill with another match and slides the bread under. There’s a smell of gas and burnt match that catches at the back of his throat.

He rinses the cracked mug under the tap. The glaze is all cracked. It’s crazed and ingrained with stains.

One teabag from the box. One spoon of sugar from the bag. Splash of milk from the carton.

Nearly out of milk dammit. He breathes heavily as the milk goes back in the fridge.

The dog whines and paces, scratches the door and whines.

One grey ear droops whilst the other is alert.

One eye is greyed with cataract, the other alert.

The kettle whistles feebly and he snatches at the knob to stifle the gas. Trembling he pulls the kettle towards him, water sloping with a hiss onto the hot metal of the cooker. Pours the water into the mug. The kettle goes back to the hob with a hollow boing as it catches on the metal of the ring.

The dog is panting as it paces, back and forth, agitated, half blind, half deaf. He pulls the mug towards him, agitated and out of breath.

The dog pauses and stares at him. He stares at the dog. The corner of his mouth twitches up. Half a smile of recognition. This morning, every morning. Wonder which of us’ll go first?

Dozy bastard thinks the dog. That toasts burning.

Poem for the girl who gave me free coffee on the Highline.

I walked the Highline in the sun, Concrete and steel elevating me above the street, Bamboo, steel and memories of steam, Ghosts of trains and trains of kids, Laughing and tripping and chatting and shouting.

The man with the guitar was animated, but about what I could not tell.

Then the junction, the meeting place where lines divide.

There you were. Drip coffee cart and cookie stand. There you were with red hair and Ethiopian beans.

‘Cafe au lait’ said the Frenchman. ‘half and half?’ you said. He looked, blankly. At long last ‘oui’, and I moved to the front of the queue.

Coffee please, no milk, ‘sure’ she said. ‘Where you from’. London I lied, it’s easier that way.

The sun’s strong and the coffee stand sits on the blanched planks, emerging from the shade of the brick and steel into the day.

Warm now, I said, ‘yes, now the shades gone’. Her hair was the same red as the coffee machine. The cups lined up, each one crafted by hand. Looked like a photo, but I was embarrassed to take it at the front of the queue.

‘Milk’? She asked? Fifty fifty I replied, confident. I think she knew. We don’t have fifty fifty in London, but we shared the lie.

How much?

Free for a poem she said.

Or maybe that’s just what she was thinking as she forgot to charge me.
And I walked on into the sun, imagining the trains as they rattled past. It’s a good coffee.