Nuts in May

Ah spring sun!
ready to run!

winter is over
rain has gone

windows open
doors unlock

ominous grey
to azure blue

spirits lift
like morning dew

a sea of dark
turns an ocean of color

flowers blooming
bunnies grooming

California poppies
fill the scene

blue waters fill the bay
white horses sparkle away

nothing like May to put
the wind in your sail

long shadows
grace the trails

maybe it's nuts
to run while it's hot

then again, may be not

maybe it's time
to go nuts in May

time to run?
"you must be nuts," they say!

Ode to a Mum

three years since i saw you last
my they went by so damn fast

out you went into the night
unafraid without a light

Rosie had to go outside
always by each others' side

the garden a charm in daylight
treacherous in the dark of night

out of the window you saw me
you rushed out when i grazed my knee

you helped me stand up from my falls
scolded others who called me a fool

you used to stand oh so tall
now i fear you may take a fall

i offer you a helping hand
getting you on your feet to stand

time for school you always said
as you roused me out of bed

now i sit by yours instead
old memories fill our heads

we reflect upon times gone by
and ponder on many whys

sharing stories of the past
and sharing many a good laugh

i read to you newspaper stories
we discuss the gory and glory

we talk of how times have changed
and how things just aren't the same

Shells

Why does his shell feel so hard
She cannot hear him deep inside
Their tears flow deep and unseen
Life just isn't the same it seems

She tries to breach his hidden shell
She wants to calm his living hell
He knows exactly how she feels
But time and space can only heal

How wasted nights fill empty space
Replacing their hidden special place
Can what was close become so distant
Now all that exists is stark resistance

Minor victories go without compliment
As if dismissed without sentiment
Pride is quickly tossed aside
When only hurt exists inside

Meanwhile she ponders in despair
Bound with a love belonging elsewhere
Are dreams just cheap tricks of hope
Minor distractions are how she copes

Her life-long love has long gone
Left her feeling that it's all a con
She got lost living a life of lies
Until it filled with empty despise

Appeasement killed her with subtle ease
As she lived life in order to please
She never heard her inward sound
A part of her was dead she found

Time never slowed or stood still
For her to see what was real
Did true love ever really exist
Was it another delusion of bliss

Autumn came when she found answers
Again her life was full of laughter
Still many questions remain unasked
And answers hide behind a mask

Those small victories she yearns to share
Quickly pass now he's not there
Pride is just a passing phase
Restored by memories of long gone days

She longs to comfort her hurting muse
But she knows that he'll pull through
She's careful of his fragility
And patiently waits with mental agility

An agility that dances around despair
Has she choreographed steps to nowhere
Or will he reappear a willing partner
And take her hand and dance beside her

by Karen Bayley-Ewell July 28, 2011

Nothing works..!

I arrived back in London after a 4 hour bus journey from Swansea where I'd spent a wonderful Christmas with my family and visiting my 93 year old mum everyday in hospital after her recent total hip replacement. I was back again at Heathrow underground station. I knew the efficient drill that ensured a speedy exit of this station and grabbed a free airport cart to avoiding unnecessary schlepping of my bag. After queuing up to purchase my first Oyster card like a real Londoner, I abandoned the airport cart and took off through the turnstiles to the tube-trains. After a nearly two hour journey across London on a crowded tube, my first encounter was with a grumpy cab dispatcher in the cab office at Walthamstow Central station who grunted, "Cab 11" without even looking up to see who he was talking at. "Well where the fuck is cab 11?", I mumbled under my breath as I pondered the half dozen cabs parked outside. I couldn't be arsed to ask him so I schlepped my one huge bulky bag over my back like a hobo and stepped back out into the dark 5pm chilly London night and asked the first cabby I see if he's number 11. Indeed he was. Bingo..! Thankfully, the middle-eastern cabbie was a friendly guy who was looking forward to New Year's Eve and asked me if I'd had a nice flight as he loaded my bag into the boot.. I realized I still had the airline tag attached to my bag from my arrival at London Heathrow from San Francisco 10 days ago. I was looking forward to staying at the Hitchcock again

The Sir Alfred Hitchcock is very unique with its stone walls, wooden-beamed interior, low ceilings, hardwood floors, nooks and crannies, alcoves, comfortable couches and armchairs, and a large fireplace in the middle of the room that could be enjoyed by patrons on both sides of the bar. The presence of Sir Alfred Hitchcock is everywhere. The walls are covered with memorabilia from the movies, and of other Leytonstone times gone by. The quiet location of the hotel on the edge of Epping Forest is juxtaposed by the hustle and bustle of inner London, and the busy M11 link road; a 10 minute walk away.

I finally arrived at the Sir Alfred Hitchcock Hotel and was truly looking forward to sitting next to their open fire with a pint that I'd been gasping for since my arrival at Heathrow. It was a crisp wintery night. The sight of the hotel's illuminated redbrick facade triggered memories of times gone by.  I had enjoyed many a £1 a pint Murphy's back in the mid-nineties. I always loved the Hitchcock when I lived 10 minutes away from here, and always live to recapture those moments when I go home by having a rendezvous with my old friends here. The only things that change are the price of a pint..., and of course, tariffs...

I arrived at the bar to check in:
"That'll be £165, please."
"Um, no. It's £133. We confirmed that via email..."
"Oh it would be normally, but it's the Christmas period!"
It's always this way whenever I go home. There's always something! This time it's the overcharge for my hotel room because of "the Christmas week."

"But I gave the dates! I was quoted £133 pounds. Now it's £165?! I have the email." I go to bring out my phone to find the email and then stop. An inner voice asked me, why bother? "Okay, never mind", I smiled. "We can sort it later if need be. It's still a good deal and I understand the Christmas rate."  I certainly had no intention of going anywhere else just because of a relatively small overcharge. Besides, the price was still a good deal for London. The hotel is fifteen minutes from Leytonstone tube station and a short bus ride to Walthamstow Central trains, underground and buses.


My mind wandered back to the present transaction. I paid up, smiled, got my key, and asked what time the restaurant closes... "Oh the chef is away, but I think he's back tomorrow! We'll be open for breakfast  tomorrow morning." Here we go again, I thought. Always the same. British hospitality at its best! "Oh okay, no worries!" I'd long since given up asking too many questions. I'm home now... I got to my, thankfully, pre-heated room, and followed the directions to turn on the TV to get some BBC news on the telly.  The screen remained as blank as the look on anyone's face here when you ask for help with anything. Nothing! Anyway, like I said, nothing works! And the television was no exception. Exasperated, I tossed the remote-control aside on the bed and then tried to find that wretched confirmation email on my phone. Although I had already decided it was okay, I really wanted to let them know that £133 is what we had agreed on and plus the TV didn't work, or I couldn't figure it out. Then I stopped; "Oh fuck it...", I told myself. "To hell with the email and the sodding television, I'm here for a stress-free time and to have fun." I showered, changed, and headed to the bar. Despite not meeting my friends until my last night here, I donned my new designer cape- top from Ruti's on Fillmore, my consignment store True Religion jeans, boots, long scarf and wool fedora and set out for the bar. I felt great.

I ordered my liquid dinner and side-dish of crisps and peanuts. I wasn't that hungry anyway. I'll have a decent cooked breakfast tomorrow. After a couple of pints, I felt at home again as I warmed myself by the open-fire and absorbed its heat and warm glow. I soon discarded my scarf being careful to place it where I wouldn't forget it and drifted in thought with the chattering of the bar in the background.

Nothing works here -- except the things that truly matter. I'd already added to the cost of time by even trying to find the confirmation email, I pondered. I know far too well that openly expressing frustration here gets you absolutely nowhere... As a matter of fact, it often makes things worse. My internalized frustrations as a result of the surly cab dispatcher, broken TV and overcharge melted away as each pint took effect and soon  replaced by enjoying the things that did work.

The shower worked
The heater worked.
The beer worked.
The wireless worked.
Ah! The real fire worked!
The full English buffet breakfast worked!
The restaurant worked.
My warm scarf worked.
My consignment store gray wool full-length wrap coat worked.
My consignment store fur-edged leather fedora worked.

Most of all - my visit to my 93 year old mum worked to make her happy.

Sometimes it just doesn't matter if the TV doesn't work in a very warm cozy hotel room. That is what a good bar, beer, open fire, an early morning frost, crisp winter nights, friends, and memories are for. And why I'll always be back for more.

Leytonstone Underground Station Mosiac	Sir Alfred Hitchcock Hotel - Fireplace
A crisp frosty morning	Christmas Day!

Cafe Hats

The open window allowed the warm balmy tropical breeze to diffuse around the cafe giving an uncharacteristic feel to this San Francisco fall day.

Summer floral dresses, conversation and coffee. Beer flows like the thought processes of the heads dutifully bowing over laptops, books and writing-pads.

And the hats! Hats on backwards, forwards, tilted, wilted sheltering eyes from the sun. Fedoras, straw and felted blend with the occasional one-off style.

A striking hat bending over a pad and pastels spread out before the hat. Immersed in her creation, she looks up and smiles, "drawings of thirty years of memories" she announces as she adds another to mine.

La Lettre (1908). Jean Béraud

Night Highway

1:26am
mind in the fast lane
no exit
what if there was?
where will it lead?
some place better?
doubt it
no sign of sleep
that's miles away
or did it pass?
past ex-lovers --
a desolate
long gone
lonesome place
now passing through
town of regrets
still no exit 
ah! a sign of hope
northbound
the opposite direction --
southbound
heading nowhere
where now?
running outta gas
slow down
the night is long
time stands still
the mind keeps going. 
5am
a few hours away
a red line
a horizon
signifies dawn
as orange appears
with azure blue
the madness fades
until the next mad ride
along night highway
a highway to nowhere
that never ends

Image: http://kevkevuk.deviantart.com/art/Tales-from-a-night-highway-157960780

Night Run

I saw you running across the parking lot. You didn't hear me at first. I thought you were ignoring me. My heart sunk and I felt hurt. Maybe you didn't see me? Hear me, or even remember me? It had been so long. I ran to catch up with you in the morning sun. I was surprised at your pace. I called again. You turned -- and the smile returned that I remembered -- the one that melted my heart.

You were hot and sweaty. Clearly you'd been running for some time. I didn't care. We embraced once more. We held tight and resumed a night flight. We ran, and we ran, and talked and talked; I can't remember what about.

I don't know how many miles we ran. Such pleasure was immeasurable, but each mile felt as good as the last, regardless of how many passed. The run lasted the night. I thought I had died and gone to heaven, but still the moment was against a back drop of melancholy. I knew where we'd begun and that this run would end and that I would never be yours -- my friend. And indeed, the run ended.

A tear flowed onto my pillow.

It was time to get up. For once, getting up was easy for I was away from an unreal world that lies and deceives. A world that raises hopes to be no more -- like the sea disappearing along a shore.

Later that day, I took to the hills. Like an old time cine movie, I replayed the dream over a five mile run. You were beside my side again. Only this time, no tears, just a fond memory flowed. "Miles" can be recaptured anywhere and anytime. An unreal world, but a creation of mine. An action replay of a love sublime forever captured until the end of my time.

Creative Writing Project: Dancing

Dancing. What happened to it? Classical dancing like ball-room, tap, jazz, swing remain intact, but modern dancing has fallen off the floor. Does footwork now mean the kicking that someone receives after crossing someone at a rap concert?

For real footwork, take a step back in time to the seventies and eighties for a glimpse of the footwork performed by, The Stylistics, Temptations, O'Jays, or The Whispers and savor the choreographed agility and synchronized moves of these artists. The 70s and 80s dances were formed by tricky twists and turns and were well choreographed to the beat. Those old school moves and grooves raised your spirit, soothed your soul, quenched your thirst for rhythm and cured your blues. Even the hybrid of "Ska" formed by a blend of a reggae and Caribbean upbeat had its unique steps resembling a cross between a hop and skip known as, "Skanking."

Recently, I found myself transformed back to the early 80s at an English Beat concert. The English Beat are a 2-tone/Ska band who during the early 80s popularized the wearing of pork-pie, Fedora hats and checkered black and white as worn by the 2-tone bands like Selector and The Specials. There were two types of people on the dance floor; those who could skank and those who watched those who could skank. The older people on the floor were those skanking. The younger people in the audience looked on.

On the one hand, remembering how to skank made me feel young again, but reminiscing to my younger friend who was twenty years my junior about how I danced to the Police's, "Walking on the Moon" made me feel old. I looked towards The Beat on stage where the members of that band were now in their fifties. Things looked and felt the same as they always did. The band members were in excellent shape and had as much energy bounding around the stage as they always did.  What's more, I too was in good shape and still had enough energy to skank the night away. My friend left a little earlier in order to get the last train home. I stayed and made my way to the front of the stage, just like I used to back in the day. And like I did back in the day, I cheered for an encore... They came back like they always do and then they left, but not before one of my "old" heroes caught my eye and shock my hand. I melted and felt young again once more. Back in the day blended with today. Today was back in the day.




Dancing Shoes

Running Times

there was a time we ran so fast
my we had such a blast
those moments are so long ago
we were far from being slow

together we ran hills and trails
along side streams and ov'r dales
navigated climbs we never failed
what fun we had with wind on tails

together we ran our personal best
we left behind the best of the rest
surprised we were with our time
we were third across the finish line

my that was many years ago
and now alas you've got to go
and now its time for our last trip
i believe i felt a tear just drip

even though you ran no more
many miles we'd walked galore
old and warn you no longer run
but I shall never forget our fun

i owe you much it's fair to say
i thank and carry you on our way
your next trip's about to begin
as you enter the recycle bin

you mix well with the other shoes
you most certainly will never lose
will you help form football grounds
or a new track to run around

i know that your purpose is plenty
especially that 10km in 47:20
whenever i see a running race 
you are with me in first place

Although it seemed impossible...

You wake up. Your gear is set out and organized from the night before. Butterflies flutter inside, and you tell yourself, "You've worked hard for this!"

Although it seemed impossible, you've arrived at the end of your six months of training and achieved your qualifying time. You lace up your shoes; microchip firmly in place, check; bib number, check; safety pins for bib number, check;water, check. Nervously, you check again as your partner impatiently grumbles something about obsessive compulsive disorder... You take it in your stride. It's just all part of the routine of another race day morning.

The 5am morning air is cool and brisk, but still. You feel a slight chill in your sparse clothing of microfiber shirt and shorts, but warm up quickly with a gentle jog towards the start. Music plays in the distance and bright lights break the night. Everyone looks the same, save for a few intimidating tall very lank people standing nearby... The butterflies return. But then someone smiles and nods knowingly. You smile back. The butterflies settle again and you no longer feel alone.

Your wave is called and you approach the start line with finger on the start of your *Garmin. You calm yourself and conscientiously resist the adrenaline rush and being dragged into a prematurely too fast a pace. All your practice,experience of previous races and how to listen to your body come into play. You've worked hard for this fine Boston spring day. Those early morning commitments where you rose before the winter sun have culminated into  achieving your position at the start of the Boston Marathon. It was not easy running an hour before the day began. But here you are, 10 minutes before the end.

Although it seemed impossible six months ago, you've made it -- almost that is-- until the day that an act of violence so violent that it stole your legs away, your moment of glory and your passion literally blown away forever.

Although it seemed impossible, it was a nightmare, come true. Although it seemed impossible, two young men were convinced by their faith that stealing dreams was their duty to put their world right. To say how wrong they were seems too trite...

My Favorite Tree - Writer's workshop...

we came upon the village green
our old chestnut no long'r seen
where is our tree we so adore
our childhood tree we see no more

her branches held us way up high
she kept us safe as we reached the sky
silently she'd watch us play away
until dusk fell at the end of day

sometimes on a hot summer day
we often tired and abandoned play
we'd lay beneath her shimmering leaves
mindless of how we'll one day grieve

she graced us with her autumn colours
her beautiful leaves were like no others
we gathered conkers and climbed w' grace
a vacant patch now marks her place

this fine lady the subject of sonnets
100 years she'd graced our hamlet
there she stood still as time flew by
her death made you want to cry

what happened to our favorite tree
the tree that we no longer see
like all good things they fade and die
but on she lives in our mind's eye

Old Times

She never asked for a band of gold
Big house, two kids and life old
She'd rather die young and agile
Than old and cold feeling fragile

Sitting still with memories past
Just waiting for the next task
Getting out the sodding chair
Life's become such a nightmare

Able bodied in a strange land
Waking again is hard to stand
When will this nonsense end?
How much longer can she pretend?

Here we go again, another day
Bus is late again says the display
Hello Mrs Brown how are you
Hips ache as usual, shoulder too

To the doctors for a checkup
Another x-ray, what the fuck
Aching knees and back brittle
She pours a drink alas not little

She swallows a little from her glass
Memories unfold of a love long past
A tear trickles down her cheek
If he could only hear her speak

But speak she may he'll never hear
He's long gone over a year my dear
She listens for him hard at night
And tries to feel him hold her tight

But when she finally falls asleep
Into her dreams he quietly creeps
They talk and dance the night away
But in the morning he never stays

She wakes alone with a start
Damn let it be real she imparts
Who is this lady old as can be
Is she my fear deep in me

Montmartre Antique Shop Window, Paris