Commonword Blogs

Obviously I got some key essentials wrong on MJ. Should know better than to take newspapers too seriously. Word is that he's on this Relaxant and that something else.

With running one natural spinoff is an improvement to one's psychological health. Less need of medicating. Seems to be universally true.

I went out today and usually do so about every other day.

A disheartening thing for me - I've kept this up for over a year and a half now - is I see so many drop out after one go or two. They look so good as well many of them

When I decided to get blogging again, I thought to do it on Fitness rather than on writing. So I was getting some writing matters out of the way...

But megastar Jackson forced my hand. Today, the MEN front page, as with other media, is given over to his passing.

Precisely two weeks ago (June 12th) I pick up the MEN. Larger than life, a former acquaintance beams out at me. He went the identical same way as Jacko

My understanding is that someone can suffer a massive heart attack

In a review of DK's posthumously published poetry, I said that as he looked at you he did so with deeper insight than other folk. Thinking on something Pete Kalu said last evening, I realised that was a necessity for him arising out of his then situation.

Specifically what I was referring to was the style of communication from him which said: we've only just met but we're friends lets get going. There isn't (to my eyes) any reason why one can't make a snap correct decision on any new acquaintance and be right much more often than one is wrong.

Hey, Pete Kalu urged some more blog postings
I just stopped myself saying Peter. Maybe that would come across the same way as when someone who knows me by my first name insists on calling me Sir. I pull them up on pretty quickish though

So Pete said some nice things.

At a meeting tonight in Commonword a couple of writers there taked about why they write. I've been for much of my life a 'writer that didn't write' and I bragged aboout it to myself.

I study the screen
searching your eyes
are they green like mine?

Green like the river
whose ripples relieve a wrought mind

Green like the rice fields
where strands upon strands of green
soften the seized landscape.

Green like conifers that twist and twirl
rows and rows of thick coarse hair

Green like ivy, which conquers walls
leaving windows looking out

Green like roadside trees, who hammer the
roofs of rush-hour traffic - after the rain
followed by teeming tears.

Green like cabbages, patches of green
nourishing the ground

Is he green like me?

Rascals in the area cont:

All of a sudden Eddie hears this terrific roar like the lions on the planes of Africa, its Sitting Bull who's real name is cyril and the rest of the hells angels coming on the etate.
There must be twenty of them on their Triumphs and other type choppers, Eddie raises his his hand to acknowlege Cyril who in turn just nods his head like a cop patrolling the streets.Eddie use to knock about with his son Timmy when they were younger, so he grew up with the angels and their hogs.
The day is nice and balmy as Eddie cuts through the estate on the way to the gym.

My name is gunmetal grey and i am an unpleasantly cold component of well-tempered metal.
Some of you may or may not have heard of me; perhaps some of you have even used me in the past.
That does not matter because on my own i am harmless, but if you were to fit my polished fashioned teeth into me, and role my body until i click then i can become injurious.
There are many styles and variations i have to compete with, be it longer, bigger, shorter and faster but they are not my challenger.
Wrong wavering finger and flustered mind is my enemy.

I'm just wondering if anyone has any details on short story competitions, i feel i need to test myself and allow my other two pieces of work time to breath. i know vijay mentioned something on his blog.

p.s. thank you all for your comments on my work to date much appreciated.

ASTROLOGER
By Vijay Medtia.

Unshaven in over a week, the young man reluctantly entered Pandit Motiram’s house. He took off his sandals and walked into the front room. Incense sticks were burning to either side of a large statue of Lord Ganesh, next to which sat the portly figure of the Panditji. He was talking on the mobile, and he motioned the young man to sit down with his left hand. Panditji was wearing a white silk top, and he had a bright red mark in the centre of his small forehead.

Rascals In The Area

A swallow plays with it’s shadow, reflecting in the river’s afternoon haze.

The popping of tennis balls’ on a soft clay court.

A tannoy from the school, rises over rooftops, and into backyards
where children play.

An old man stubbles, his white steel cane, scrapes and jolts along the river’s
stony path.

Children squat by the water; dad helps them to cast their reels
Farmers’ burn their grass, the heavy smoke smart’s my eyes.

To sit, be still

I think of your reassuring smile, your raucous laughter, your attentive ear

I want to go home.

Two Fashion Shows: Kirette & Platt Fields

People often comment on my sartorial style, wondering where do I shop, how do I find such marvellous garments. Total strangers have been known to gasp and shout out, ‘hey, look at that guy: if only I had a shirt like that!’ I’ve finally decided to let you all in on the secret of my style success: I am a keen frequenter of fashion shows.

My face is crumpled,
The depth of the lines
Clear to witness.
I'm only 35, but feel 75.
My forehead buckles
Under the strain of repression.

My story?

I saw loved ones taken violently away,
I heard multitudes of screams,
Our land darkened by the poison
Of conflict and retribution.

The nightmares don't stop.
I wake mid-tempest with
Chills and cold sweats.

The vibrant era
I was once part of
Now vanishes with
Distant cries of kindred spirits
Slipping away.

I can hear my own screams,
As I'm confined to the
Fringes of a life totally unfulfilled.

Suddenly there is a firm fast knock on the door and they both stop dead in there tracks, Eddie raises his finger to his mouth while Julie just nods. He nimbly walks to the bedroom window like a tightrope walker and turns the plastic stick to alter the blinds view slightly.
-Eddie who the fuck is it? whispers a tense Julie.
-I can't see fuckall other than that Red Alpha which was down the street, now its parked outside the front door. The door goes again and he notices a medium build, middle aged man wearing a Blue coat with energy plus on the front.

Circling and turning above my head, the swallow plays with it’s
shadow, reflecting in the river’s afternoon haze.

To my left, the popping of tennis balls, on a soft clay court,
children’s laughter; rises over rooftops and into backyards.

To my right, an old man and his white steel cane; scrape and jolt
along the river’s stony path.

Two children kneel by the water, they wait and squabble.

Farmers’ burn their grass, the heavy smoke smarts my eyes

I take a sigh and try to forget the hour.

By Belinda Johnston