Love is in the Air …

How the story ends…

A Busker’s Love Song

I

Pink-glazed clouds hoist frayed sails

over pilgrims, tourists, ghosts; they flock

around a busker as he folds his wings, frail

golden sheen and half the feathers lost

like his ragged repute.  Some idle thoughts

burst into mind and soul as he admires how

a lonesome painter’s brush slipped across

indigo canvass of the unsuspecting sky.

II

Half-torn  hat in his hand declares

whether to cry or commend this day.

White Lady struts through town and a fan

of yellowed papers saves the busker’s face.

A pirouette later she sweeps his dreams,

his breath, a kiss into drifts. His faith

in providence gives him daily strength

when his heart lies in the gutter.

III

He whistles when stifling day of May

and a bitter song cling by his side;

he follows starry signs and secretly prays

for the Underdog pub to show him the way

to ease this pain.  Behind a wall of noise

five jesters take shots of his rusty stubble.

A trumpet’s cry tears the air above all those

who gather around legend turned to rubble.

IV

A pack of jolly gods cheer as White Lady turns

towards our hero; her dress, his leg, her feet

his chest explodes with thousand fireworks

as his and hers, his and hers lips meet.

Ladies and gentlemen look at them how

they sing of pinkish clouds and the lush

lapis lazulis of the unsuspecting sky

coloured by a painter’s shaky brush.

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Prose for Thought

Love is in the Air – Part 1

I wrote this poem when I was in my hometown Krakow last autumn.  I spent days  strolling around the Old Town and observing crowds, pigeons and eccentric street artists.  As a result,  I dedicate this short love story to Krakow and its buskers – here is Part 1 and Part 2 follows next week.

A Busker’s Love Song – Part 1

I

Pink-glazed clouds hoist frayed sails

over pilgrims, tourists, ghosts; they flock

around a busker as he folds his wings, frail

golden sheen and half the feathers lost

(more…)

Letters to Peanut Free on Kindle Until Tomorrow

Dear Readers

A couple of weeks ago I announced that my wee e-book would be out soon and so here it is:

Print

My pregnancy and motherhood diary written as letters and poems because there is nothing more beautiful than:

  • the art of writing letters.  Not emails or tweets or text messages but filling a plain sheet of paper with scribbles and doodles and whatever else you may want to put in a letter.
  • poetry– poems often stay with me for a very long time after I have read them and words and images haunt me like friendly ghosts.

In Letters to Peanut I wanted to catch the emotions that come with first discovering that you are going to become a parent in nine months and then with grappling with sleepless nights, leaking bras and the first twelve months of being a mother (as well as the occasional panicked feeling of ‘Is this for real? I’m actually allowed to be responsible for another human being?)

But it is not all panic! There are times of immense joy that I would love to share with you. The first scan, steps and that first time Peanut made it clear that a chip off the floor was a delicacy worth three Michelin stars unlike anything I cooked.

Here is one of my favourite haiku poems from the book.  I wrote it during long and sleepless nights when the whole world seemed to be fast asleep apart from me, Peanut and a curious fox:

3am

together we learn

the night language of foxes

And for the book romantics out there – print copies will be available in a couple of weeks (formatting takes a bit longer).

This is my very special and magic moment – introducing Letters to Peanut to you and it is FREE for you to download until Saturday 9 November!

I will also be sharing my experience of self-publishing over the next few months so watch this space.

Love

BlueBeretMum

xxx

P.S. I would love to also thank everyone for the amazing support so far.  And a big hug to Helen Braid – a very talented and patient cover designer.


Post Comment Love

Letters to Peanut E-book Out Soon!

Here is how it started…

Dear Peanut

One day you will ask me what you were like as a baby and whether you have always hated broccoli.  And if it is not you who asks this, it may be your psychoanalyst.

I will not always have the answers you want.  You know the score, too little sleep and too much gin have done some damage to your mother’s already distressed brain cells so I have scribbled down all my memories of you in the first year of your life.

This is the story of your beginning.

Love

Mum

Xxx

And here is a sneak preview of the cover designed by Helen Braid:

Print

I did it – took the plunge and typed up all my poems and letters written first to the ‘bump’ and then to the newborn Peanut.

Letters to Peanut will be available on Amazon very soon.

So watch this space!

Love

BlueBeretMum

xxx

Post Comment Love

Love Song

It often comes without a warning – that feeling of great love that makes your heart swell and stops your breath for a second. 

That moment when you realise that you would do anything to protect that little person toddling next to you is magic (it also is nature’s way of ensuring that everyone survives all the tantrums intact…kind of…).

Love Song

I know you by heart my dear

And I start each day with this song

Remember that I am always near

I know you by heart my dear

To this world and time we belong

Words fail me and I may be wrong

I know you by heart my dear

And I start each day with this song

SAM_2016

 

Prose for Thought

Candy floss

candy

 Isabella

The day my mum ran away from home was the best day of my life.

I remember waking up, with a cold knot travelling from my stomach all the way down to my toes, reminding me about the looming English test that I had not prepared for.  I knew that this time I would not get away with it as easily as last time and I decided to dive underneath the duvet.  Whenever I was worried it always helped me to imagine I was cocooned inside a pink candy floss.  My toes felt warm again.

‘Mum, my head feels hot. I ’m not sure I can make it to school today.’

Mum appeared at my bed with Alice, my younger sister, and  touched my forehead, asked me to stick my tongue out, and then a gentle pat on my head followed a strict order for me to be downstairs in three minutes and no later.  Dad had already gone to work; the sounds of his never changing habits still echoing in the house.  The buzzing of his electric toothbrush followed by a murmuring shower and then tap tap tap down the stairs finished with a big bang of the door.

I followed the faint smell of Dad’s aftershave down in to the kitchen where Alice had just finished creating her cornflake version of the sun.  I jumped over to her, put two grapes as eyes and drew a smile with my finger.  All that time Mum was standing with her back to us.  I could see her face reflected in the kitchen window.

I froze and pulled my hair.  Not again mum. Please.

I dropped a spoon on the floor; the cold sound of the metal against the stone.  Chink.  Mum jumped up.

‘Off we go girls.  Hurry up.’

I quickly scooped some of the cornflakes and hid them in my pocket.  Sometimes mum forgot about us and our breakfast and cereal was easy to hide in the pocket of my uniform and to share with Alice on the way to school.  She was so forgetful, my mum.

A slam of the door.  A fumble with seat belts.  Two neatly packed lunch boxes, resting on top of each other on the kitchen table.  My stomach grumbled angrily, louder than the rattling car engine.

See that girl, watch the scene, diggin’ the dancing queen was blasting out of the car speakers and I almost forgot about the test until we stopped outside the stern red brick school building.  Miss Marble, my English teacher, was standing at the gate in her usual brown cardigan and carefully styled hair that looked like my cycling helmet, herding her little sheep to later slaughter them in the mid-term English exam.

There she was, waving her arms, smile twisting into a growl, as mum slowly reversed the car and drove past the flock of my classmates.  I pressed my face against the window and showed Miss Marble my tongue.  Time stopped.  I pinched myself. Ouch.

You can dance, you can jive, having the time of your life.

‘I just need a bloody break.’ muttered mum, lit a cigarette and put on her big sunglasses.  I chuckled.  She looked like a fly.  Last time I was laughing at her she pulled my ear, and when her blue eyes met mine, tearful and sulky, she would not let go.

‘ I don’t like naughty girls.’

Today was different.  The air was hot and sticky, not a cloud to protect our  white arms and knees from the scorching sun.   ‘A family of vampires.’ was mum’s usual comment as she was smearing me, Alice and Dad in aloe vera gel after yet another day out at the beach.

There we were – back to our usual spot at the beach.

Hooray.’ Alice swirled, her red hair setting the world on fire.  I didn’t join in.  We hadn’t been here for a long time.  Not since that FIGHT.

Sunday family afternoon.  Dad behind the newspaper, clearing his throat.  Mum and her handbag, always clinking.  Alice rolling in the sand and I, pink clouds of  candy floss melted on my cheek.

Mum’s hand diving into the bag, dad’s had catching it.  Her bangles jingle as he tightens the grip.

‘You’ve had enough.  We have guests tonight.’

‘Don’t tell me what to do.’  She grimaced.  He folded the paper with one hand and turned the handbag upside down.  Tissues, sunglasses,  lipsticks I had secretly tested on my dolls and bottles with poison that mum had said would kill children if they touched it were scattered all over the sand.  Brown, green and blue bottles, glistening in the sand.  Her treasures. Dad let go of her arm and she screamed so loud I covered my ears.  Alice stopped rolling in the sand.  Mum didn’t stop crying and throwing sand at dad when he kicked the picnic basket that wouldn’t close its lid.  She yelled when he dragged me and Alice through the sand.  I stumbled and fell, the sharp pain of a rock cutting through my skin.  ‘I’ve done a pee pee.’ cried Alice, a wet streak behind her quickly swallowed by the sand.

My parents didn’t speak for a long time after that.

But today was different.  Alice and I found a blue and red kite floating in the water.  I caught the string and ran with it across the beach, with Alice stumbling behind me.  Mum waved and laughed.  I couldn’t remember the last time my mum was laughing out loud.

Tired and sleepy we climbed into the car.  Mum’s phone buzzed like an angry bee, she ignored it and when after a short pause it started moving across the dashboard again she opened the window and threw it out. Whoosh.

‘Let’s go and surprise dad.’  Mum’s hands were shaking as she reached for her bag.

Mr Very Important Bloodsucker was what mum called dad but he never laughed at the joke.  Neither did I.  He did not look like a Bloodsucker that mum drew for me once, more like a tree.  Tall with long, thin branches reaching out to me and Alice, always missing us by an inch.

Not a Bloodsucker and not a tree but a king of a very shiny tower with a door like a big, hungry mouth that swallowed and spat out people all day long.

As we were standing outside dad’s fortress , Alice and I holding hands, with Mum behind us, I sighed. What a day.

‘Stay where you are girls.  Mummy needs to get something from the car.’

‘Can I come with you?’

‘No, I won’t be long.  Close your eyes and count to one hundred.  I’ll be back when you finish.  It’s a surprise!’

‘I need a pee.’  I tightened the grip as Alice tried to wriggle herself away. 

‘Shush.  Mum will be back soon and then we will go home.  With dad.’

Alice stopped pulling my arm and before I closed my eyes, I briefly I saw Mum’s face swaying above me.  Her skin, almost transparent, was covered in a web of black streaks that disappeared into a secret place between her jaw and neck.  When she smiled, I noticed some of the red lipstick had stained her teeth and made her look like a Bloodsucker.  I covered my eyes with my arm and took a deep breath.

I smiled, squeezed Alice’s hand and started counting as the sound of Mum’s clicking heels disappeared behind us.

I have linked this short story to Prose For Thought     and Summer of Words.  Go and check out some brilliant writing!

Copyright:  Both the story and the doodle belong to BlueBeretMum.