poetry

the girl with the golden bow

for Takae

she drifts like water
through the house
her hands are curious mice
they scurry from cellphone
dip into the soft throat
of her handbag

she sleeps
engaged in the ochre arms of the duvet
she sighs and moans as the slow waves
of memory wash through the events in her eyes
her whispers walk away from her
growing in gravity

she rests in the gentle
arms of my sweatshirt
the blue cotton calms her
caresses the narrow slope of her back

she lies against me – i can feel the
clock in her heart
her smile spills onto my neck
her fingers grow like roots
into the shadows of my chest

last night we spilled out of the taxi, like a
giddy glass of wine painting the pavement
under the eyes of street lights,
we gossiped like goblins, the
pulse of midnight pulling us home
like the slow notes of a song
that says “we can dance forever”

he bought her breakfast today
he juggled cups & coffee beans
and watched the silver arm of the
plunger seep down into the present

4 hours later she sleeps in his bed
he watches her and annotates an image
vibrating in his head
“she is my goddess today.”

this is only the first chapter – he thinks
stories empty out of every breath
he will remember…
the rhythm of her voice
the patterns she sketches
in a fluid finger

he folds her arms around him
like the lips of a newspaper
her heart continues to beat
and drums down into her dreams

 

 

PhilosopherPoet

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Inspiration, Thoughts

brown beans

Brown beans crackle and whirr beneath the plastic head of the coffee grinder.
It’s as if they’re lost in the waves of a dance, or the stinging staccato of an argument.

There’s something so seductive about that, y’know.

 

 

PhilosopherPoet

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Rantings

Canadian nuances – Part 2: Worshipping the sun

I arrived in a miserable, rain swept country. In the first four months I was stuck in a job I took out of sheer desperation. I woke up in the dark, left on the bus at dawn, and watched the lethargic sun rise out of the horizon. I worked in a hardware store all day. Often on my lunch hour I had to wade through the angry rain and the frigid air into the toasty Tim Hortons a block away. Sometimes a single slurp of coffee and the sugary bite of a doughnut can kindle a little more life in your eyes.

After six months I began to realize the reason Canadians love their coffee. It feels like a weapon in the cold weather. A swig of magic potion to banish the evil spirits swirling in the wind. I quickly started to figure out that using coffee shops as landmarks helps you learn the layout of a city. Another thing I figured out…winter was miserable.

Some say that hindsight is perfect sight. Looking back at myself in the first Vancouver winter, part of me thought β€œOh shit, this is forever.” I’m now writing this in my second winter and the fondest memories I have were sitting outside in the sun on my lunch break. I remember my step mother sending invisible prayers into the sky, asking the sun to come back. Ok, she wasn’t actually praying, although I could feel the urgency in her voice whenever she spoke of it.

For some reason I denied missing the sun at first. Perhaps, I felt stress from too many other areas in my life. Now that the sea of stress is slowing down to a trickle, I can process more of the details that were so bewildering to me in the beginning. I can be a little more honest with myself at the same time. Ladies and Genitals, here it is…I crave the sun.

Allow me to rewind the storyline a little… I’m from Durban, South Africa. For those unfamiliar with the place it has amazing weather. The sun is as plentiful there as the rain is in Vancouver. It’s not the safest city in the country, but if you took away the crime it’s very close to being a warm, balmy, idyllic one. You have very warm and wet summers, and cool dry winters. The summers were way too hot and humid for me, but one thing I now realize is the sun was always around.

The sun (in South Africa) felt like an angry mother-in-law. In comparison the sun in British Columbia feels like an excitable nephew. In Durban if you stayed outside for too long in summer you’d often get burnt, maybe even garner a few blisters in the process. In Vancouver you stay out too long…the most you’ll get is a bigger smile on your face.

My advice to other immigrants can be summed up in three words…it gets better. It really does. In my second winter I no longer feel hopeless because I now have the radiant memories of summer swimming inside me. I have fantasies of lying in the sun, soaking it up again. While I write this and have multiple sun-fuelled braingasms, I’m reminded of a memory…

It happened last summer. Having just arrived home from work I took the graphic novel I had been reading and took a short walk to the local park, about 5 minutes away. Once there I sat in the balmy sun and read for a bit. It turns out my brain was too weary to read a great deal, so I closed my book and lay down on the grass. I closed my eyes and began to listen to the fragments of chatter all around me. It seemed like I lost track of time after a while. It must’ve been about an hour I was lying there. What stuck me afterwards was that β€œhalf sleepy half calm” feeling that seeps down into your bones. Some memories are worth listening to, this is one of them.

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poetry

the minutes

my days are long
my nights are short
shorter than
a simple centimetre
an eyebrow of an inch
because only the strong
can be measured
in this world

first world dilemmas
draw us like
the slow arm of coffee
that pulls us through
the jaded streets (so we can)
stick our zinc teeth into the
last dying doughnut
our sugary eyes glitter
our hands fidget
our minds flounder through
hard carbohydrates
and
the giggle of lose change
in our pockets

some days we’ll forget
the mess on the streets
the flurry of faces
the awkward egos
we’ll breath deep into
our cappuccino and say
– Ah, I may get some rest today.

PhilosopherPoet
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Thoughts

Selling uncomfortable silence

Apart from the dull hiss of pop music oozing through the speakers at work, and the regimental stare from my half-used coffee cup…nothing else is happening. I feel that when you leave something long enough in one place, it begins to stare. It’s almost as if you forgot it was there, and now it’s silence is baring down on your neck. Most people ignore the character that forms around your office implements. Most people ignore most things.

 

It’s sobering to see how most people amble along without looking carefully at the things they are saying. At the moment I’m a salesman. Plenty of times I see people remarking β€œI bet they sell like hot cakes.” Now, this is where I stop and pause. Have you ever gone to the bakery and asked for a hot cake? In fact have you met someone who has come out of the bakery raving about there hot cake they just bought. I’ve seen people queue outside a store for the latest Harry Potter book…never for a hot cake. They must be somewhere since everyone is talking about them.

 

Very rarely do we stop to examine theΒ  words we’re using. Why is that? Perhaps it’s exhausting. I suppose the real reason is it will in turn make us start to question who we are. The minute you start to question yourself and your own motives, things become a little scary. Are we a product of what we talk about? Words are vehicles that help us make friends, get through school, get through our first job interview, loose friends, lie to our colleagues and betray others.

 

I’m a salesman, and talking is part of my day. When someone inquires about a product I naturally question their needs, then once I get a feel for them I continue onto my general sales pitch. I have to be careful, sometimes I’ll side with one product over the other if I feel it’s going to win over the customer. Words are the tool I use to earn money, the more persuasive the more I sell…the more money I make.

 

Tonight I did feel a sting of regret though I must be honest. Every odd night I see the last minute customer who rush breathless to our doors once we have closed them. There was a middle-aged man who rushed to our doors tonight. He was dressed in a mediocre way. A signal I always look out for which tells me (most of the time) how much money the customer is willing to spend.

 

He explained to me (through tremendous gulps of air) that he was leaving the country tomorrow morning and desperately needed our one adapter we sold. Like many other people before him I turned him down, explaining that the shopping centre would fine us, if we continued to trade after hours. I saw the pain and desperation in his face, the look like life was about to fade away into a plughole. I felt like a snob. Selfish. I was a young working class kid, who wanted to get home after the long day and didn’t care a thing about him.

 

That is most likely a better way of looking in on yourself. Like many other uncomfortable feelings, I tucked it under the carpet that stores other dirty memories.

 

PhilosopherPoet

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poetry

the workers prayer

Hey Bloggers

I must be honest it’s been ages since I’ve posted anything. The reason for this is that I’ve been in between moving house twice, and well as being employed in a full time capacity in my job. Anyway, I’ve decided to include a few poems I’ve managed to scribble down lately πŸ™‚

the workers’ prayer

caffeine is my Shepherd i shall want
in the days when melancholy
covers me in its thick skin
and conjures up a conscience

i shall fear no evil
when i have sugar flowing
through my veins
my mouth will ramble on
like a child’s fingers
that fumble with the
wrapping of an exuberant toy
(writhing in the box)

the coffee beans and silver spoon
shall surely comfort me
all the days of my life

at four a.m. all you hear is
the cry of my kettle
the giddy ideas
punching
thumping
bruising
consuming
the holes in the keyboard

this mantra is the fuel
and stickiness that binds me
to the kiss of my Muse
she scampers out of the bed
(ahead of me)
washing the dishes
wresting the kettle
picking out the knots
(in yesterday’s events)

its time i smile and guffaw
maybe even frolic
in the gumption of Real Life
eating half my toast
slamming his fingers
to the beat of the clock

this morning the latte
cried a little when i slammed
its cap on too early
it leaves a small scar in the
center of my tie
i look at during work
between the pulse of my ballpoint
drawing fast cartoons
in the margin of minutes
where

clipped culture
freshly pressed men
remind me of the reluctant steam
creeping out
of today’s baked car tires
all chanting the workers’ prayer

 

 

PhilosopherPoet

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