Part of Something 

I read somewhere that parents spend less time with their children than 40 years ago. 

And this thought spins in my head as I see your daughter in silence, 

Her hands plaited on her lap. Her mother the other end of the 312.

Partisan extremism seems to be on the rise these days. 

We all want to be part of something. 

Thanks

 

Unsolicited
really that’s the only type of honesty there is.
A compliment bubbling through the lips of admiration.
un-tinged by the cynicism of self benefit.

Do I say thanks enough?
To those who do what I’ve come to expect.
To those who meet my assumptions, and fulfill my needs.

I wave a soon forgotten thanks
to those paused at the zebra crossing
allowing me to just catch the tram I would have just been late for.

My friends and family, bastions of support and love,
I see you,
even if my words do not reach your ears.

Perhaps I do not give enough meaningful thanks,
as I applaud my own hard work’s achievements.
But I’d be floored without your outstretched arms, your words
repairing my ego      raising a coy smile.

Perhaps I shy away,
to give thanks is to admit a weakness, a vulnerability
healed by another’s words and actions,
a naked appreciation masked in a mini shame.

And so I’d like to thank you Ashley,
for all you’ve done
doing nothing special at all.

South Norwood

What lingers in the air is the scent of, mum’s cooking
cooked by someone’s Aunty from Spanish-town.

New black Bimmers pulling up
to  get a recession priced chicken & rice.

Prams and pushers slowing down the 312,
and some fool claims his new oyster card’s ‘in the post‘.

The sky’s blue,
cracking through new build Aldi and the ancient maisonette.

It’s quiet today, the school children at home preparing for school tomorrow,
And the response they’ll give to ‘Where’s your homework!?’

And still after 20 years I love you all the same.
Wise to your failings and flaws.

Your potential
and your trembling peace.

L’inconnu 

I don’t know where these Union Jacks  flags came from, 

Their interdispersed patriotism 

Realpolitik from a bungalow very much mundane.

We’ve exercised our partition 

With a pride of divorce 

We know who we are 

Our diversed society resourcing our identity from selective shunning. 
But again soon this pride will fade. 

As will the #PostRefRacism

again we will cool complacent.

Poetry

Life’s fleeting dramas,
between the weekends first petite verre and it’s last exhausted exhale.
                  
  Perched upon each moment,
I lament the slow passing
of the day’s million stories,    I sit
appreciating it’s finite beauty;
neglecting word, metaphor and so too their immortality.