The morning mission

I heard the mission bell; it sounded like a cell phone ringing, or beeping, or buzzing.  I was on the bus last week.  I use it regularly in winter because two wheels, motorised and un, freeze me slowly.  The walk to the bus-stop clears the lungs and head, at least it does until I step on the bus.

Twenty people on the bus, heads at 90°, texting, Whatsapping, emailing, surfing; whatever they’re doing.  That’s OK, free country and who am I to care?  So I whipped out my notebook and ever-present 2H pencil and started writing.  The noise of lead scratching paper could have been one of H.G. Wells’ Martians yelling “Ulla!” the noise was so alien.

In front of me a head righted itself and probably swum from finding itself in a hitherto unknown position.  To the side of me fingers stopped doing whatever they were doing and someone who could have exited the bendy-bus at the other door decided to walk past, catching a snide glance at my activity.  Fairly bloody surreal for an 8.00am bus ride.

So, I decided I had a mission, not impossible and not even difficult but a mission nonetheless.  Every morning or evening or both, I would write a poem.  Chances are it may not be a very good one but a poem it would be.  Today’s one went OK, at least I liked it and that matters more than anything else, and it goes a little like this:

Hours

The hours slip through time,

as time seeps through the hours;

flowers

mark the beginning

and the end of time

Celebration of life and death

Eyes open for the first time

or close for the last

and tears tear the heart

But now life grows

and time never slows

But seeps through the hours.

Ode to Moka

In certain aspects during these last 12 years I’ve become ‘Italianised’ living here so close to the border.  When I’m back in the UK I dread hotel sachets of instant coffee and certain coffee-house chains, famous apparently for their ‘Italian’ coffees, serve me an espresso the size of a large glass of wine.  “No!” I want to shout.  I don’t however, I just sit there sipping and dreaming of my trusty Moka at home.  I like coffee, very much in fact but as I already have a sleep disorder I was advised not to drink it after 2pm.  However, when I wake up the first thing after splashing my face is the preparation of the Moka.  Then I can work.  Like, about now…

Once I was a fruit on a tree
Then they dried me, fried me
Made a coffee bean of me


Photo credit: markmiller from morguefile.com