everyday

lost journal – the journal’s tale

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Only slowly does it dawn on me
that motion has ceased.
It is silent for the first time
in a long while.

I cannot make a sound
to attract attention.
I wait so still,
hoping.

It is warm between
the Financial Times
and Vogue.
But I shiver.

Swoop, arms gather the
newspaper and detritus
of flight BA0589
from Milan Linate.
I slide out under the
seat in front of you.

Will they come with vacuum
cleaners?
Not this time.  I hear the
hum of new arrivals.
Distant first,
then nearer.

Am I going back to Milan?
I recall cosy bedrooms,
grand galleries
and a few moments at a café,
when I was loved.

I miss the motion of her
pen, the flicking of my pages
and the close attention of her
eyes rereading and sometimes
looking away.

I miss the triumphant tick
in a small blue box
the sigh of satisfaction
and the sometime quick
snap-shut of a distraction.

What’s that?  Far from being
cornered by another
bag, I am being retrieved
by a total stranger.
I hold my covers tightly
shut through sheer willpower
to no avail.

Alien eyes peruse my pages.
I hope her writing turns
to scribble just in time.
My pages are flicked back and forward.
‘There’s no address’ I observe
unnoticed.  Only ‘private’ and
maybe hidden clues, who knows?

With relief, I remark
a kind of gentleness of touch.
Hope glimmers – perhaps I might
be restored to my owner?
I know she is looking for me
amongst the other
lost possessions, can hear her
hopeful tap-tapping of her plea
to find me.

I am being
slid in
to someone’s business bag.
I smell leather and Apple.
My pages snag on chargers.
For the first time, I am afraid of the dark.
I want to go home.

And I know I won’t.

lost journal

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lost journal

I lost my journal on the plane
flower print, ditsy,
‘she dreamed of diamonds
and life on the ocean wave’.

My blue-biro pen loops,
curls and lines and dots
are orphaned.
How will they manage
without me?

Tiny hand-drawn to-do boxes
will be half-unticked.
forever.
Scribbled inspirations
may never see
the light of day now.

I feel fortunate
I forged a bond
with the crew of
BA0589
from Milan Linate.
But how much was
just politeness?

And anyway, perhaps
it was an unknown cleaner
who discovered treasure
under the Financial Times?

I hover over the
lost luggage website.
It seems my life
is now in the company
of Macbook Airs, Dubai dates
and an antique firearm
(Business Class Lounge,
Lufthansa).

I slip poetry into
every non-drop-down-box
of the standard claim;
perhaps a small serenade
might lure Juliet
to her balcony.

I send the form,
and wonder.
What will they send me?

in the wordsmith’s workshop

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Following a magical visit to the goldsmith’s workshop, now it is the wordsmith’s turn.

The wordsmith had visited the goldsmith’s workshop to help her with some writing because she does not find it easy to tell her story.

The wordsmith took the tools of her own trade with her to see the goldsmith – just a little silver laptop computer and a warm heart.  As the goldsmith talked, the wordsmith captured certain phrases, facts and stories.  Using questions wrought from the wisdom of experience, the wordsmith tugged at tales and pulled at pauses, and waited patiently in silence, knowing that in time precious nuggets would emerge.

Which they did, sometimes one or two, sometime more, with their own timing and rhythm as the goldsmith remembered, lit up, hesitated and shared.

At last the wordsmith shut her laptop, said goodbye and left the goldsmith’s workshop, ready for her own process of mulling, refining, and seeing what remained.

The wordsmith allowed the goldsmith’s stories to swirl around her imagination, and at last, sat down again with the goldsmith’s words, ready to start work.

As she pondered, she let the most important themes come to the surface.  Then she worked with them, adding little facts here and there from her notes; unwinding and bending phrases to become small facets of love and delight.  She brought the goldsmith’s passions and heart for people into a setting where they could be more easily spotted.  She highlighted the goldsmith’s bravery and pioneering spirit.

At last the wordsmith was finished.  She did a last check over her work, and then ‘ping’ sent it to the goldsmith’s team.

And then today, she visited them.

The goldsmith had loved the finished work.  It had helped her to recognise her own self, remember her great joy in her own work, its value and many riches.  It had helped her to see past the struggles and weariness, to regain her vision and strength.

The praise from the goldsmith’s team delighted the wordsmith.  She too suddenly realised the treasure of her work, its power to make things beautiful and full of wonder.  She felt encouraged in the middle of a day of challenges, and renewed for her own adventures into the unknown.

And now the goldsmith and the wordsmith are hard at work, in their workshops and at their desks, making…

I long for stars

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I long for stars,
look up and yearn for height,
brilliance,
light
and beauty.

Here in the humdrum
I am lucky if I get to dazzle
for even a moment.

I look down,
stepping carefully
to avoid pavement cracks
and bears.

There is a fog
of confusion
everywhere.
People proffer answers
to questions they
barely understand.

I long for stars;
we were kindred spirits
once.
Where did we lose
ourselves?

I concentrate on
simple tasks.
Stuck in skin,
I wrestle ceaselessly,
ceaselessly restless.
People tell me to
calm down.

I long for stars;
we are quantumly
entangled. Paired
for eternity, our
subatomic particles
duet.

I long for stars.
Waves of homesickness
overcome me.

I long for stars.