Small Stones January 2013
The first half of my pieces from Small Stones January 2013, a mindfulness technique whereby participants are asked to take a little time each day and really focus on something - actual object, feeling - and write about it in a short piece. It's been a fantastic exercise for me, and is something I would like to consider continuing even once January is over.
Small Stone #16
Coping Mechanism
Label a feeling
break it down
to components
remove its sting
its emotional charge
Define and categorise
deconstruct until it
becomes
only a system of
linked
but
separate
particles caught in a quantum grip
a tiny universe all of its own
Small Stone #15
This morning's mist has
colonised my town, staged a
bloodless coup d'etat
against the settler cottages,
grand Victorian facades
all smudged away. Only the
spires and the many clocktowers
break ranks against the foe.
Small stone #14
The bricks of the driveway
are littered with toys, wobbly-
wheeled scooters, an upturned
doll's pram. This detritus is not
haphazard. Among it, around it,
through it three seven year olds
on bicycles swerve and swoop,
hawk-eyed in joyful freedom.
Small stone #13
The sun sets swiftly
here at the tip of Africa;
time only to gild the tops
of trees, fling pink streamers
across the sky then, defiant,
flame a last challenge
towards the encroaching night.
Small stone #12
Listen:
dopplered revs of a passing car
weedcutter down in the valley
children next door all talking at once
birdsong in five different scales.
Deeper:
low metal hum of the fridge
breeze flirting all around the garden
soft whispering of the falling rain
its welcome pouring out from singing earth.
Small stone #11
Hooked against the
chipped grey wall
a candle sconce
swirls, bellies against
itself in wrought
iron semaphore to
cup a squat, red candle.
Perhaps when lit a
scent of burnt
strawberry curls lightly
on the air.
Small stone #10
My bare feet
itch; this sun
is too hot.
My mind skitters,
refusing to be
pinned down.
Butterfly thoughts
flicker
then are gone.
Small stone #9
Post holiday hibernation
the town is waking...
once a year people flee
flowing out from the bowl
shaped quirk of geography
where they usually nest.
Those who remain
breathe deeply
e x p a n d
to fill the spaces
left behind.
Then the wind
changes, carries the
tang of salt, the scents
of other places, blowing
the missing back into
town.
Memory surfaces:
they have been gone;
they are returned.
Small Stone Extra (Prose)
I have a theory that there was no such thing as a gradual evolution of the bond between human and cat. I think that an early human discovered fire and, either later the same night or at most the following evening, was assailed by plaintive mews and chirrups from just outside the cave entrance and then glomped onto by an assortment of domesticated-as-of-this-minute small bushcats. The rest of humanity's subjugation is history...
Small stone #8
Deconstructing
hate speech is
always a fine line
but even an
old bastard dog,
too old to learn
new tricks or
ways to think,
can preach it,
and should be challenged.
Small Stone # 7 - concentrating on a feeling, making it knowable...
Tell me something happy;
the creeping grey is lapping
at the shoreline
of my mind.
I need
distraction, anticipation,
a buttress against the tide.
Small Stone # 6
Twelfth Night;
time for the tinsel
to be packed away,
the tree to come down.
The Magi have reached
the stable; cows, sheep
and donkeys, risen from
their knees, are returned
to the fields.
And the Star?
Oh, the Star is fading
back into the sky,
one bright miracle burning
amongst a million others.
Small Stone Extra
Jellyfish
Overnight there has been an
unsuccessful invasion.
Alien craft scatter the sand while
many more beach themselves with little
thought. Glistening now in the beating sun,
they are powerless to escape,
or to return to the sea.
Small stone # 4
The hanging crescent of
a magnified harvest moon
fills the gap between the
town and the steeple of St
Michael & St George.
Its echo straddles the
blue still this morning,
a weary ghost of
other-worldly glamour.
Small Stone #4b
This wind is shaping
the trees outside into
inside-out umbrellas -
they’re shaking off their
roots to flee.
Even with windows
pulled tightly closed,
the slatted blinds still rattle.
Small Stone #3
We had planned
to swim;
the ocean was deep
blue from a distance.
The wind took us by
surprise, flinging our hair
against our faces, gleefully
sandblasting bare feet
and cheeks once the
safety of glass was
removed.
Small Stone # 2:
Away for a week I
return, aware immediately
I am home,
the space inhabiting me with each breath.
I wear my small house as a
blanket, or a skin which
expands to rooms,
windows, a kettle on
the kitchen tops of
my bones,
security in the flow
of my blood
between the walls.
Small Stone # 1
Electricity cracks rhythmically
regularly.
A bouganvilia branch is resting
against the fence of my complex.
It breaks the current two
gardens away where I cannot
intrude.
Cannot restore the flow or
redeem the quiet.
Small Stone #16
Coping Mechanism
Label a feeling
break it down
to components
remove its sting
its emotional charge
Define and categorise
deconstruct until it
becomes
only a system of
linked
but
separate
particles caught in a quantum grip
a tiny universe all of its own
Small Stone #15
This morning's mist has
colonised my town, staged a
bloodless coup d'etat
against the settler cottages,
grand Victorian facades
all smudged away. Only the
spires and the many clocktowers
break ranks against the foe.
Small stone #14
The bricks of the driveway
are littered with toys, wobbly-
wheeled scooters, an upturned
doll's pram. This detritus is not
haphazard. Among it, around it,
through it three seven year olds
on bicycles swerve and swoop,
hawk-eyed in joyful freedom.
Small stone #13
The sun sets swiftly
here at the tip of Africa;
time only to gild the tops
of trees, fling pink streamers
across the sky then, defiant,
flame a last challenge
towards the encroaching night.
Small stone #12
Listen:
dopplered revs of a passing car
weedcutter down in the valley
children next door all talking at once
birdsong in five different scales.
Deeper:
low metal hum of the fridge
breeze flirting all around the garden
soft whispering of the falling rain
its welcome pouring out from singing earth.
Small stone #11
Hooked against the
chipped grey wall
a candle sconce
swirls, bellies against
itself in wrought
iron semaphore to
cup a squat, red candle.
Perhaps when lit a
scent of burnt
strawberry curls lightly
on the air.
Small stone #10
My bare feet
itch; this sun
is too hot.
My mind skitters,
refusing to be
pinned down.
Butterfly thoughts
flicker
then are gone.
Small stone #9
Post holiday hibernation
the town is waking...
once a year people flee
flowing out from the bowl
shaped quirk of geography
where they usually nest.
Those who remain
breathe deeply
e x p a n d
to fill the spaces
left behind.
Then the wind
changes, carries the
tang of salt, the scents
of other places, blowing
the missing back into
town.
Memory surfaces:
they have been gone;
they are returned.
Small Stone Extra (Prose)
I have a theory that there was no such thing as a gradual evolution of the bond between human and cat. I think that an early human discovered fire and, either later the same night or at most the following evening, was assailed by plaintive mews and chirrups from just outside the cave entrance and then glomped onto by an assortment of domesticated-as-of-this-minute small bushcats. The rest of humanity's subjugation is history...
Small stone #8
Deconstructing
hate speech is
always a fine line
but even an
old bastard dog,
too old to learn
new tricks or
ways to think,
can preach it,
and should be challenged.
Small Stone # 7 - concentrating on a feeling, making it knowable...
Tell me something happy;
the creeping grey is lapping
at the shoreline
of my mind.
I need
distraction, anticipation,
a buttress against the tide.
Small Stone # 6
Twelfth Night;
time for the tinsel
to be packed away,
the tree to come down.
The Magi have reached
the stable; cows, sheep
and donkeys, risen from
their knees, are returned
to the fields.
And the Star?
Oh, the Star is fading
back into the sky,
one bright miracle burning
amongst a million others.
Small Stone Extra
Jellyfish
Overnight there has been an
unsuccessful invasion.
Alien craft scatter the sand while
many more beach themselves with little
thought. Glistening now in the beating sun,
they are powerless to escape,
or to return to the sea.
Small stone # 4
The hanging crescent of
a magnified harvest moon
fills the gap between the
town and the steeple of St
Michael & St George.
Its echo straddles the
blue still this morning,
a weary ghost of
other-worldly glamour.
Small Stone #4b
This wind is shaping
the trees outside into
inside-out umbrellas -
they’re shaking off their
roots to flee.
Even with windows
pulled tightly closed,
the slatted blinds still rattle.
Small Stone #3
We had planned
to swim;
the ocean was deep
blue from a distance.
The wind took us by
surprise, flinging our hair
against our faces, gleefully
sandblasting bare feet
and cheeks once the
safety of glass was
removed.
Small Stone # 2:
Away for a week I
return, aware immediately
I am home,
the space inhabiting me with each breath.
I wear my small house as a
blanket, or a skin which
expands to rooms,
windows, a kettle on
the kitchen tops of
my bones,
security in the flow
of my blood
between the walls.
Small Stone # 1
Electricity cracks rhythmically
regularly.
A bouganvilia branch is resting
against the fence of my complex.
It breaks the current two
gardens away where I cannot
intrude.
Cannot restore the flow or
redeem the quiet.