Writers block writing stop
Fighting what fires flocks
Painting luscious lions, locks
Ignited align with minds that won’t malign your crops.
You won’t see diamonds stop.
Shining when clouds climb on top.
The rush of the ride will drop.
Sometimes you’ve got to be a minotaur to get behind the door.
Frames change games, meanings names.
Blame remains that same iceberg lettuce.
This ain’t your average Tetris.
We shift gears because our vehicle lets us.
Watch your steps sun, don’t be caught in plain tiffs and vain rifts.
Your gift deserves more than memes and gifs.
I chop it up through writers block to give a soul a lift
Tag Archives: writing
Writers block writing stop
We were apples in fields of Perry,
Our exercise books were the gallery and shade where we ripened.
Your gallant smile garnished my appetite as my heart galloped.
At a chance glance you stirred the meat and the juices, I couldn’t decide between hunger and thirst.
I would have licked your lips for starters, chewed on your garter.
Every note was a recipe and I wanted you to cook my parsnip
Yet I was just fishing and you were already parsley.
We were like onion and garlic when English and Geography brought us together
Fondling the fringe of our fantasies in front of our future was a natural hazard.
Playing with the shape of you was the intention but, maybe I killed us thinking out loud.
Forethought and hindsight were toll roads asking us if we had enough change.
How deep were our pockets? Was I ready for yours in mine?
What’s a perfect 10 when you’re in year 9?
We never….so I guess I’ll never…..never mind
It was real at the time.
Maybe you were the first brick in a very long road
Maybe we would have found the lost city of gold
Now you’re living on the other side of a rainbow.
My flag is nowhere to be seen.
You’re the pear in a Perry field because I didn’t have the bottle.
I’m not a whine seller, simply a painter of paths.
Our moments on Fleet Street… thanks.
Although I took part in a half marathon 5 years ago for a charitable cause, fitness wise I’ve only recently begun to battle the early 30s bulge.
During the working week, I walk about 25 miles so walking Stoke -on-Trent’s “Potters’ Arf” (half) marathon seemed a great fit for me.
Having lost a family member, bought and moved into a house in the last 2 months, I haven’t had much time to train. I didn’t know how fit I was or whether I would match the 3 hours and 50 minutes I did 5 years ago. Until the starting klaxon, butterflies were salsa dancing in my stomach.
While my “man in black” attire seemed at odds with the fluorescent offerings by the groups around me, the air was filled with focus and fun. On a grey and increasingly wet Sunday morning in June, I was certainly in the focus camp.
Today I would be a soloist surrounded by small orchestras while others hoped to raise money, my job was simply to get over the finish line in one piece.
Though I started in the front 15, I didn’t expect to stay there. The banter with a small group who would alternate between running and walking through sections of the course made for an entertaining first half.
I would pass them, then 5 minutes later I would hear buckets jangling as they passed me in a blur of pink.
I played pick the pacemaker with various people in front of me until they were too far ahead or behind. As my pace steadied, a 52-year-old guy called “Brian” and I begun a conversation. I’d say he made my decision to do this worthwhile.
Hearing about the cause he was doing this for would have had me in tears had it not been for the rain filling my eyes. Getting to know “Brian” throughout the middle of the race helped this overthinker relax and find my rhythm.
If I’d had my phone I would have focused on it and probably slowed down to check every mile. Instead, through our conversation and the rhythm we found, we managed to reel in and surpass those doing the run/ walk combo.
As the crowds started to thicken at around the 9-mile mark, I was starting to lose him and by the 10th mile when elite runners had passed me, he was out of sight.
From then on the energy from the crowd became my battery. I thanked or gave two thumbs up to everyone that applauded or told me to keep going.I officially crossed the line at 2 hours 58 minutes and 45 seconds.
“Brian” was right, we had hit a quick pace and somehow I’d managed to maintain it.As I scoured the official results, he was nowhere to be found, “Brian” must have been an Angel sent to encourage me, for that I am thankful.
I learned several things about myself today, simple as they may be, my 3 takeaways are:
- Focus doesn’t mean intense self-talk. Tune into your journey and the people or things that help you with it.
- Walk your walk. Your Brian will come and go, you still have to cross the line.
- Find the fun(ny) – a smile is a groove that may help you find yours.
Sweet natured berry
Your pain left the world with you.
Love and pain blurring
The cycle pedaled
Your light’s ever bright
Framing you through us
Though for many it the season of Coca-Cola trucks, mistletoe and Mariah Carey on repeat. It has become a tradition for me to look back at the year then choose a new playlist of sorts for the next 12 months. The aim? To get used to the new or improved grooves ahead of schedule.
2015 has undoubtedly been categorised by the word “expansion”. While poetry has been a muscle exercised a little less this year, I have experienced joy in unexpected areas such as fitness and photography. Having taken pictures like the one below (see more photos here), it seems I am stumbling into another of my father’s footsteps.
This year, music has been a trumpeted passion that has somewhat overtaken my poetic inclinations.
Through my 8-month-old music review blog 7ish, I now know more about myself as a writer and the scale of knowledge required to grow during the next season.
Of the bucket list aspects of the year, a handful of concerts that encompassed two of my all-time influences namely Kirk Franklin and Talib Kweli means they can be ticked off. To see Saul Williams would complete the triumvirate of my creative bucket list.
As poetry is a muscle that must be exercised to be maintained, a greater output is on the cards.
Thanks for sticking with me
Watermelon smiles and trigger happy chickens.
Melting pot meltdowns.