This bubbling hubbub of babies and boobies
This packed rack of scooters, of trikes and of buggies
Steaming hot flat-whites and freezing cold smoothies
And tapas treats, chocolate sweets, all kinds of lovelies.
Here where the roads cross, facing the old cross
Where crosswords fill time or just buoy the headline’s dross
Where pizza gets eaten by Saturday dads
Where Friday lunch mums dish the news good and sad.
This raucous in calm, our oasis of mania
Awaits you in plain sight down Beckenham high street
The pit at the back for your kids to go batty in
Entices the spectrum of lively South London in.
You know, he’s the most enormous person there is in the whole wide world.
Where is he?
The music is fading.
Truck’s stopped and everyone else is getting off, entwined in mums and dads,
so where is he?
You glance from big grinning face to big laughing head… Nowhere!
Try not to panic!
It feels empty now.
Gripping hold, tight, to the bar.
Afraid to stand, you fight back those early tears
and bite your bulging bottom lip.
Two huge hands reach in.
Click. You’re free; those hands, in your armpits, thrusting you skywards!
A reassuring bass voice
“Hello Twinkle! You enjoy that?”
“Dadeeeeee” you squeal,
beaming your best tooth-filled Beam back,
as he hoists you snuggly onto one arm and presses you against his wall of chest, for a carry!
Now that you’re three,
your arms easily encircle his tree-trunk neck
and you both sail along past other tempting stalls and flashing rides.
“Dinner soon” He harrumphs, close to your forehead
as you quietly de-panic and enjoy the comfort of the best ride in the show
– your best daddy in the whole wide world.
Things need to change Complain complain complain Lets do something about it Somebody already is Well lets do it as well It’s not going to change anything, nothing ever does Lets do more Nobody will come Lets do it differently They’re busy doing their own thing Lets do it in the dark Nobody will care Lets do it with people we don’t know There’s already too much of it out there Lets do it in Beckenham
With a microphone
In a bookshop.
Having spent much time reading many of your words on screen, I recently got a hankering for some real, in-the-flesh poetry. A few events in London and some irregular You-Tubing later and my appetites whetted… Thankfully, the thoughtful wordsmyths at The Beckenham Bookshop agreed to support my urge to witness more of this on my own doorstep. Ergo…
Here’s your invitation to a free, Open Mic, Poetry event in Beckenham, London.
Tuesday 1 March, 6.30PM-8PM.
Sign up on the door for a 7 O’Clock start, with each artist given up to 5 minutes airtime (depending on numbers), you will enjoy a poetic reception at The Beckenham Bookshop and see the start of a regular, ‘local’, poetry event.
(for) Morning our sun
breaks early, shines fierce –
lighting up all.
Drying puddles of tears.
Heralds each day begun,
the end of night fears!
So time moves along,
wakes new eyes to ideas,
lends broke hearts a new song;
shouts love on deaf ears.
I ponder the motions
through this mind so naive
so wrapped up with questions –
how I’m s’posed to achieve?
The glorious sun
catches dreams, feeds the breeze
keeps my loves all-day-warm
yet I long for a piece…
from here I spy a gloom
which promises ease
I fight with these notions,
to stand here on my feet.
A wonder undone
every thought a disease?
Where’s the answer I long
what to do to appease?
As the rising horizon
comes again from the east
where are all my dreams flowing?
Is there peace in this sleep?
At last my mind’s numb
floats in hoops and queries
another sunny day gone
Left my head just memories.
Yet, morning our sun
breaks early shines fierce.