These small stones were a Mindful Writing Challenge set in Januaryby https://www.facebook.com/writingourwayhome - the task was to write a small something every day - something you saw, something you read, heard, felt....It takes some discipline to put something down everysingle day, but as you get used to it you find yourself taking more notice of everything, and thinking oh! Small stone! I found writing them so useful and enjoyable that I continued them through March....

 

It’s late and I’m tired driving home,

Turning thoughts with each spin of the wheel -

I think of undecipherable star maps explored

By occasionally curious Sputniks;

Put out my tongue to catch space dust snowflakes.

I look up. You might just be ok, girl!

Tipsy crescent moon offers me

A beam of approval, a smiling slice

Hacked into her softened, light diffusing bed.

 

White lines, lines of lights, cat’s eyes, green lines, red lines -

Bumps under the tyres; juddering in the wake of a lorry.

My robot companion instructs me from her dashboard box,

Accentuating the wrong syllable of every word;

StockTON, NewCASTLE, GatesHEAD, MorPETH.

I switch her off when I recognise the road –

How easily we dismiss those who travelled with us

When we have reached our desired destination.

 

I am discombobulated like a pulled doll,

Joints wobbling in sockets strung on perished elastic.

Your disgust at the idea of me compounds

The disgust I feel in myself yet I still crave

Your uncreased neck; the thought of you sits

On the back of my brain like a niggling idea.

I am fluttering sideways like the strand of police tape

Leftover from the site of last Tuesday’s overturned lorry.

 

Aproned lady in black and white decorated diner

Sings along to the Hollies. D’ya knaa what ah mean?

She is always moaning man! It’s a doddle! She yells at regular,

Replete behind gravy smeared plate;

Knife and fork at twenty-five to three.

Man with neck tattoo selects ordinary peas, not mushy.

Signed football shirts line the walls – ten in total.

Kevin Keegan aims smiling eye creases at his signature, top left.

Jacksons next door is packed with lunchtime drinkers -

Heads framed in cracked blue painted windows

Sweep the outside pavement for potential eye meets.

 

Somebody sat near us dropped farts all night,

But the joy-slung words kept clearing the air.

I have a purple balloon and my fingers smell of fags -

I could have sat for hours in the sparkling air but

My plaid-clad baby needs kebab and sleep.

The retirement home sports a fairy lit tree and

A star hangs from the top of the Bensham Jockey.

It’s not Christmas but for now it feels like it is.

 

Recollections – fragile husks threshed bare

On gritted wheels that freckle moted air;

Granules to spot the mind’s eye, already stung

From last night’s half cleansed shadows.

You tell me I am your imaginary friend, and

I will take that, rather than nothing; after all,

You have no say in the content of my dreams.

In my head there is no arm’s length,

And doors are always left ajar.

 

Snakeytwofacedarselickingbrownnosedselfpromotingoscarworthy

pretentioustwattingpitymeeveryonehatesmenobodylovesmeooooolets

allfeelsorryforyoubutseehowIamalwaysintherightplaceattherighttime

anddoIeverreturnthefavournoIdonotselfishoneupmanshippingfother

muckerIdonotlikeyouverymuchatallinfactyoumakemepukealittlebitinmymouth

 

Dartboard with halo of pinprick misfires –

Half rubbed chalk from a previous game.

Guitar trio hangs from two-pronged plastic antlers;

Board states we are running out of change,

Correct money where possible.

I see pies with burned crusts, potatoes, peas –

Silver foxes in sports jackets smell of coal fires and cigars.

Interesting crannies.

 

Shiny black Audi meandering fatly

At 30 on a busy bypass - crossing lanes,

Causing mass breaking, much beeping.

I pull alongside aiming angry scowl,

Intending to express my disapproval.

I see a woman, flicking conker bob, tucked behind her ear,

Pearl stud. Ruddy cheek, artful pashmina; nose turned up,

Totally oblivious.

 

It is definitely spring – I notice

Percy’s bull, loose in the field.

Welsh Black, diminutive breed –

Short in height but deep in bulk,

Grapefruit balls swinging low to the grass;

Harem chewing the cud,

Asleep to his posturing.

 

Fly, little blackbird: deny the smallness

Of your trap while you can.

I will miss the eloquent waving

Of those spindle wrists, the

Evensong played on flighty fingers.

While you are gone I will dabble down,

Dredge for baited crumbs with which

I hope to swell your hollow craw.

 

It cannot be so simple as to

Wish for you the bluest skies –

Instead, skirt swift the isobar,

Store joys beneath your wing.

Aim surely at the beacon

That directs your fledgling glide and

When you find your slit beak

Opening, do not fear the song.         

 

Cheap little shoes – grit and glass

Wince my un-hardened skin. 

Every stone shards my heels

Through paper thin shells

And I quick my tread, trotting

Like lame ponies on hard track.

I could have chosen stronger soles

But then the stiff would bind my feet

And weight my ballerina toes.

 

The pleasure of riding empty roads at night –

Street lights blur like waltzer bulbs,

Bright along bubbling dips and dents.

My car is a dodgem,

Spurring electric ceilings with its tail.

 

Eminem loud, random choice

Among Bee Gee’s and Queen.

LA Stripping it down the Blaydon Bypass –

Backlit letters; ARCO, halo surrounded

Then IVECO, bright sapphire blue; ambers, reds.

Boot full of supermarket shopping.

Mama, you is cool.

 

It’s all shit of some description –

Hard shit, hot shit, big shit, small shit.

Swallow it, wipe it, fling it, stir it -

Shit served on bricks fired in baleful kilns;

See how quickly it slips from shovels.

 

Ring of Brodgar, catch me in your circle.

If I am to be wasted, then let me

Beachcomb, rubble fingers

Through nomadic folklore,

Cast me away to a broch,

Let me brick myself in,

Unused; a relic.

 

The wind has snapped my garden fence.

It has been flexing like a bowstring

Under the increasing turbulence of late –

My yellow patched, dog dug lawn

Is exposed through splintered gaps;

Punched out teeth in a loose nailed grin.