Hot Bikram Yoga
I prayer that my body is ready
For contortions in extreme heat
Both legs are firm and steady
Start from the top, down to the feet
‘Keep breathing’ is the mantra
The sweat has already begun
As the teacher begins her banter.
There’s nowhere now to run
What makes me come here?
Why did I drag my friend?
Are you ok? Is that a look of fear?
We fold our body into a bend,
It’ll be over soon, my dear
As we finally lie down at the end.
there in the cold.
He stands there guarding
the house, come snow
or hail. He stands there
with only his hat
keep him warm.
He stands there
facing the gale force
wind that blows his hat off.
He stands there in the freezing cold.
He stands there wondering what it must
be like to be warm. He stands there facing
an orange glowing window. He stands there
watching the kids play in the cosy room. He
stands there in the bitter cold. Awaiting his
imminent but cruel death. He stands there
until the sun comes out and gives him the
warmth he so craves. He stands there now
only half his size as the rain washes away his black beady eyes.
My grandmother’s cooking is definitely the best
It’s tasty and flavoursome with out being too spicy.
My mother in laws cooking is good too but not quite the same
It’s very spicy and very heavy and cooked in lots of oil.
I wish I could cook like my grandmother
I learnt from my grandmother so it should be the same
But it comes out a bit different.
The spices are a little raw and not cooked at the right heat and the chapattis are flat
The unami is missing, that magic touch.
My aunts cooking is good and almost like my grandmother’s
With a modern twist which should be so good
But it’s still not quite the same.
As I walk through our neighbourhood today, l feel happy to be alive.
The wind tries to pull my hair out of my bun as I bravely march on through the blustery wind
Armed with the pushchair and a baby wrapped up warm,
I take a deep breath and carry on.
The lull of the motorway traffic, just outside our neighbourhood sounds like the distant sea crashing against the shore
The screeching of sea gulls, tears down the calm blanket descending around us.
Safe in the knowledge that the fresh air outside is meant to be good for you, I carry on walking.
New houses are being built around us, a new community centre, nursery and gym
Promises of a bright new future in smaller houses and squashed up streets
Brings more people into the area, young couples who need to speed into work.
It safe, our neighbourhood, that’s for sure
As long as your home by ten, not more.
It’s not London you know, it’s not the city that never sleeps
But the pull of family, friends and a new community, keeps us here for now.
So many faces in my face,
Happy faces, angry faces, a face slightly too close.
Is he famous, famous he is!
A blank face, a sad face, a face now looking at me. Continue reading “Writing 201: Poetry – Day 6”
An Ode to Holidays
How I love the sun always being switched on
The soft white sand melting into my feet and fingers
The complete stillness of the perfect paradise
How I love the crystal clear waters covering my feet, calf then knees
The exotic multi-coloured fish swimming too close to your toes
And the legs getting used to the cool water from the hot sun
How I love eating out and sleeping in
No cooking, no cleaning, and no guilt
No deadlines, no housework, no lists.
Massages at will and all-inclusive cocktails on the beach
No kids, no stress, no worries,
How I long for those carefree holidays!
The muscles that keep me up, has a struggle,
Being a mum of two, requires me to juggle,
Between looking after them, working, cooking and cleaning
Staying up till two will surely catch up, meaning
Exercise to strengthen my core, is a complete muddle.
The colour of my skin is the tale of this spin. Black or white, brown or yellow it doesn’t really matter until it becomes patchy. I like the colour of my skin, it is what it is but it isn’t anymore. It’s brown that’s all, nothing to shout about or go to town. But now, after so long of being brown, a bit of white came into sight. I’m not vain you know and I’m not in pain, so the colour of my skin shouldn’t cause a din. But my skin is changing, it’s not what it was. It’s aging, its wrinkling, the spores are open more. An odd age spot here and there, a mark that shouldn’t be there. A mark I try to hide with my hair. There’s only one for now. There maybe more later, that can’t be covered with hair. Or maybe even this one will go.
A poem about my daughters.
Just when we were losing hope
An unexpected gift arrived, tied with a pink bow
Invisible to most
A miracle to us
A boxers’ nose!
Mouth like a slit of red cloth
Jaia our daughter was born
In fate we now believed
Uma duma, our little daughter
Made her entrance into the world with
A righteous cry as loud as a raging storm
Restless little baby
Always seeking for mummy
Making herself comfortable
Just easily in the crook of my arms and
In no rush to let it go
Screen is still blank
Continue reading “Writing 201 poetry”