When this divine cafe opens it door
Saturday, 6 October 2012
Sunday, 23 September 2012
for my Father
Written and performed by John Forbis
The pulse I may not always hear
but it is there, a part of me
in my blood, always present,
Soothing hisses of water smooth
the sand leaving behind only
little holes through which
the tiniest of creatures breathe.
You look at the sea as if
you understand it,
its motion, its many expressions
just below the surface.
You look at the sea as if
you are kindred spirits
and so you are.
You were always as constant.
Coming home from school,
from work, from our own lives,
you always remained
keeping the cycles, drawing us home.
In all the surprises,
always the rocking,
the breeze and whisper of sand.
When I am entangled
in the mechanical, metallic pace,
I can remember you
walking next to the sea,
your slow, long strides,
giant feet in the cool, fiery sand,
the sun revealing its last array
of colours as it sinks into its luxurious rest.
You were also tempted
by the relentless pace
of the offers of
And yet, you simply walked away,
the ocean rolling onward
drawing you back
to the moist sand,
your arms open wide,
hair swept and shirtsleeves
flapping in the wind,
receiving all that already is.
That lesson will always be with me,
maybe in glimpses,
snatches of memory
like fragments of shells,
but they will always
be washed onto
the shore again,
the pelicans and gulls calling above.
And the wind will ride
every wave, inviting me
to believe in what you believed in,
in all there needs to be.
Written and performed by Derrick Newson
Do I look like a drug dealer?
Well, I didn't think so either.
But there I was in this little town of Karlshamn in Southern Sweden.
I'd just enjoyed a meal of flounder in a cream and cheese sauce
Sitting on a bed of mashed potato
|Flounder on a bed of mashed potato. Pic: Derrick Newson|
Washed down by a bottle of Moselle Reisling.
Afterwards I was walking back to the hotel
Through the deserted main square
When I noticed this boy
No more than sixteen
Tall, thin, fair with the obligatory sad blue eyes.
He was wearing a woolly pale grey track suit,
Soft to the touch I am sure
I noticed him but I just walked on
Down the cobbled street towards the hotel.
A minute or two later
There he was tapping my shoulder
Asking whether I had something to sniff.
Quick as a flash I thought of my cock
Very sniffable I always think.
But I politely said no.
Disappointed he disappeared around the corner.
He seemed a decent soul,
Which is more than can be said of me.
And there I was left alone
With nothing to offer but an old body
And the experience of being mistaken as a dealer in drugs.