I had turned the corner of a bank building into a connecting street when his voice slapped me in the face like a Monday morning.
It was a Monday morning really, a bit cold and with the usual orderly morning confusions. This gentleman’s voice was ringing out, loud and clear over the heads of people going about the day’s business. Continue reading
I was having a discussion with a friend the other day when he told me about a certain photo frame in his bedroom. There would have been nothing unusual about this photo frame if not that it was empty and has been for a while. I asked him about it and what he told me is the inspiration behind this poem.
Nostalgia soaks like a bread loaf in a wet bowl
As memories tumble downhill like rolling stones
Don’t you remember when we were younger?
And all that mattered was growing up faster?
Boys painted on beards with stolen school chalk
Girls wore their mother’s bra stuffed with school socks
Then we all grew up, in a blur.