writing

Sports Mixture & The Sun

I was 11 years old
buying the Sun
on behalf of my Dad
anticipating
50p worth of sports mixture
with the change

a boy
i recognise
my sister’s age
7 years old
trying to buy
20 Silk Cut and 2 litres of Cider
for his Dad
struggling
under the weight
of expectation

a man 40ish years old
trying to provide
for his family of 6
a newsagent,eager to please his patrons
to be welcomed
into the arms of the community
his journey long
from Bangladesh to Britain
via marriage and military service
looking a blend of bemusement and sadness
at the boy trying to buy
cigarettes and alcohol
who he turns away from his counter

50-ish years old
reeking of addiction
to tabs and cheap booze
he storms the shop
firing slurred slow
deliberate insults
and asking
“do you know who i am“
irked by the response of
“yes a thug and a bad father, we dont sell alcohol and tobacco to children“
it was then I witnessed
racism first hand
shock absorbed
in my young brain
stood like a hostage
the tirade continued
the threat of a firebomb
to the newsagent
and his family
the smell eventually leaving
when he couldn’t achieve his demands

me, a boy of 11
buying the Sun
and 50p worth of sports mixture
with the change
apologising
for someone else’s actions
that I didn’t understand
receiving a wink and a sad smile
I ran home
to deliver the newspaper
and the news of what happened
to my Dad

My Dad
mid-30’s
a butcher by trade
the sight of violence and blood
known to him
sat stoically on the sofa
listening to my recap of events
crinkling the pages
between fingers
stained with ink of
yesterday’s news
providing words of wisdom
“Cowards make threats, proper men keep promises”
followed by
“can I have a couple of sports mixture“
I gave him the bag.

————-

This poem is based on a shocking morning trip to the Newsagent just around the corner from our house.

Most of the time there was a real togetherness in our council estate, but on rare occasions, a sinister underbelly came to the fore.

Thanks for reading, I’d love to know your thoughts,

Paul

Chimneys – A Haiku

indigo darkness
marauding across rooftops
chimneys breathe heavy

Here’s a little Monday evening haiku. The nights are setting in quickly now in Newcastle with some lovely shades of colour among the blackened blue.

Why not check some of my other writing while your here.

I love reading your feedback.

Take it easy.

Paul.

Atoms

It’s important
to remember
the same atoms
that felt
silent rapturous awe
at the big bang
stared with intense curiosity
at the dawn of time
that bathed
in the liquid gold
of countless stars
embraced the purity
of moons
and appreciate
the endlessly evolving
elegance of the cosmos
the same atoms
that built
and inspired
the greatest minds
and put words into quill, ink & pen
the same atoms
that are architects
and demolishers
are in all of us
and everything.

We are all
the planets and their chaos
the stars and their fury
the moons and their melancholy
we are universal
we are infinite
we may feel different
but really
we are all the same
atoms.




Parisian Lessons

It’s easy to get lost
in the romance of Paris
in the mystique of Paris
you can taste it
the aroma of sweet spice
and lingering vanilla tobacco
you can hear it
seductively whispering
notes of music
and conversations
from streetside cafes
you can see it
in the architecture
both masculine and feminine
lustily snapped by tourists
as evidence
that for a brief interlude
they were part
of the city of love
but
I’ll never be that naive
because – Paris
– will always be
a den of wolves
in designer clothing
to me.

Aged 8 dawdling
with small feet struggling
on a cobbled urban jungle
a metre behind my parents
– my protectors –
when the city tried to tear me away
a candy-striped shirt Monsieur
in dirty grey-white trousers
that matched his coiffed hair
the strength
of his rancid breath
more powerful than his tanned arms
silent screams
searing my lungs
survival instincts kicked in
a case of
fight then flight
catching up with my father
fury igniting his face
powering his legs
as he tried to chase
the man down
like a lion
whose pride had been attacked
but wolves are cowards
and hide until it’s safe to attack again.

A couple of life lessons learned.
Aged 8.
Early for some
Too late for others.

Paris is only romantic in print.
You only see what they want you to see.

Wolves don’t scare me.
Face your fears.
Cowards retreat in the face of confrontation.

I have a lion’s blood.
Family is everything.

Hope

I long for the day
when the apricot sunrise
looks at the world
and feels only pleasure
rather than pity.

I await the evening
when the blushing sunset
kisses the world
feeling satisfied
in place of sorrow.

I hope for the night
when the moon
illuminates our souls
the glow melting
her morose melancholy
so she can experience
the true warmth of love.