Mishmosh Poetry And Art

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I discovered this lovely lady speaking her poetry on SoundCloud some time ago.  I find her poetry inspiring and also very relaxing to listen to.  She has a huge selections of spoken word posts… these are some of her earlier posts.  Her collection of poetry will certainly keep the listener entertained for a long time.  Sit back and enjoy!

The beautiful colourful images she uses on her SoundCloud posts are all her own art.  You can find her Mishmosh Poetry and art on Facebook too.

Wedding Shoes

Kreg Steppe (CC)

It’s every little girls dream to know the feeling of importance, sophistication, and most of all, the high heeled elegance one pair of attractive shoes can deliver.

In my teens I had my share of stunning footwear, to know what it was like to effortlessly balance into infinite party hours on 41/2 inch shining pins and not flinch one bit as bones ached to be free.  I remember every beautiful pair.  But the one pair of shoes I loved most of all – were yours.

They hid in a gloomy corner at the bottom of your wardrobe, concealed by long dresses and heavy coats, never once seen on your feet.  I wondered why such pretty shoes should be condemned to shadows?

Pressing girlie feet into the toes of your divine shoes, I was Cinderella in glass slippers. Clumsy, teetering on falling, I clipped and flipped all the way from the bedroom to the kitchen, to demonstrate what you were missing.  Hands on hips, question marks in radiant eyes, I asked, “Mummy, are these your shoes?”  Your expression was a mixture of impending laughter and annoyance at the realisation of how clever your baby had become.   Hidden things would no longer be easy to keep to yourself.

You told me they were your wedding shoes.  I looked at your flat heeled sensible footwear and guessed those pretty shoes were a part of you I’d never know.  You would have liked to have told me to put them right back where I found them, but you were were too kind to say such things.

Jubilant at my discovery, I blundered my way round the house in wedding heels, wondering what kind of man I’d marry and if he… he’d like my shoes. 

I imagined living in London just like you, where traffic was never still, pavements filled with shoppers, and I… lady of the city, walked with confidence.

Just for one day, I borrowed the image of a beautiful woman I found in an old black and white photo, and walked in her shoes.

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My mother on holiday wearing those wedding shoes.

Did any of you girls clip around the house in your mothers shoes?

I don’t think I’ve ever heard of boys wearing their fathers shoes… so what is it boys do to feel like they could be their dad?


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The Snail’s CastleMark Gordon
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The Secret ~ Revisited

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It was strange sitting on that bench looking at sandcastles we hadn’t built, kites stretched to the sky with no need of our hands.  It was strange seeing children in whirls of excitement for beach holidays, wild fairground rides waiting to induce the scream.  It was all… so familiar.

It was strange all of that, was no longer you or I.

We sat quiet, serene smiles on faces looking out to sea.  As if we’d arrived to watch a show, wondering where all the years had vanished.  How had we become the still people?  The ones slumped in deck chairs eating sandwiches, sipping lemonade with newspapers draped over heads, shading their pink English skin from the unexpected heat of the day.  How their eyes had followed us, amused at what our little hands could do with a plastic bucket, a spade, and a heap of soggy sand.

We have discovered, no matter how hard we try to keep all we’ve known alive, change is always certain.  Time ticks, and who we’ve become will continue to surprise.

We may be confused children, absent of Mum and Dad, empty of buckets and spades, with a lack of desire for castles made of sand, to cut the wind with a kite, get chills from awesome rides, or revel in artificial game score highs at the arcade.  But at least we are still a brother and sister who laugh a lot, share a precious moment, and remind ourselves appearances lie….we are the same people we always were.

It’s all on inside, not the outside.  And only we know the secret of how to find the real boy, the real girl.

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Some of you may remember this story from a post I created in September 2013 called The Secret.  It was a poem, with photos of a seaside town I visited in Lowestoft, Suffolk.  I’ve not done a repost before, so I decided to rewrite this into short story style and record it.

If you’ve read too much today, you can sit back, be lazy, rest your eyes and listen to this one!  The original post contains a lot more photographs of the day, a traditional British cream tea, and a beautiful surfing video filmed in Lowestoft.  If you’d like to see it you can view it here.

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51QgNPRw1mLDaughter Of Darkness ~ Katya Mills
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Summertime Madness

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Summertime madness

still it lingers
lives in lines and cracks
a glistening pathway
indelible days
waking what lies in dust
whispers
recalling
how the light used to shine

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I’ve been experimenting with micropoetry for a while now.  It’s turned out to be a real learning curve on how few words I can get away with and still manage to say what was intended.  Twitter posts have a limit of a 140 characters, it’s a great way to learn to write those neat little verses because you can’t add more words even if you want to.

There are some excellent writers of micropoetry on Twitter.  If you want to find a huge list of short poetry, just use the Twitter search and type #micropoetry, #haiku or #senryu and you will find an endless supply of miniature poems to entertain you.  You can find some examples of mine below, and also more included in this article.

My poem came about because of the summer sparkly gif.  Some images totally inspire my poetry mind, and this one did it for me!

So what inspires you to write?

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51Q9VO2ZrML._SX316_BO1,204,203,200_01Charlotte Stone and the Children of the Nymet ~ Tasha O’Neill
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Nothing Lasts Forever

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I watched my mother turn the page of the calendar.  September, a picture of a golden sunset shimmering on a highland lake.  That picture and September spoke of things I wished not to know.

She said “The weeks – they’ve gone so fast!”  Fussing over clothes for school, debating how much I would grow, and if my skirts were long enough to last the winter.  She dragged me to shops, the boring ones, not for excitement of toys, but to buy a perfect pair of sensible brown shoes.  Boring ridiculous shoes, to be worn at a ridiculous place.  Because September always spelled – SCHOOL.  Too close for comfort and never far enough away.  Pressing in like an elephant sitting on my head, crushing my thoughts, reminding me the hot summer had finally melted, like watching ice cream drip, and never getting to taste how good it was.  My short days of freedom were almost over.

The first day of term would always be the same, walking through gates, long faces, clones in matching uniforms.  Grumpy grey, navy numb, charcoal and mud coloured shoes spoiling pretty young feet.  Laughter forgotten, fun stored away for long awaited opportunities, and the warmth of sun luminous on our heads as though holidays were not yet over.  How horribly deprived we felt, how torn we were, like chicks fallen from the nest.

Each new term, a fresh class, a new teacher.  Everything that had been, no longer was.  Strange, alien, vulnerable.  The beginning of another year in a place I wished not to be.  Windows were magnets, I’d lose so much time staring through many, my eyes drawn to outdoors, the trees, birds, and each fluffy cloud that drifted by had more meaning than the monotony of the classroom.  I’d try to find the tiniest evidence of happiness, because hours at a desk was never going to be happy.

A voice interrupted, the stern face of my teacher glared, eyes like fire, speech like rusting metal. “Get on with your work!  There’s nothing to see out there!”

Ah, but there was!  The world with all it’s interesting things.  A place with meaning – the flowers, the wind, the smell of cut grass, tree houses in the woods, picnics, days at the beach, the picking of berries and the refined art of making of jam.  My loving home, my peace, my quite, my own private space.  Obediently, I lowered my head, stared at my book, blinded by numbers – 6 x 9 – 7 x 8 – 4 x 12 …. none of it made sense at all.

While I stared at blank paper where my maths should have been, I learnt to imagine everything that was not of numbers, and wished the daily grind of the classroom clean away.

Before I noticed, September had become like any other month.  Lost it’s strength in imparting dread, and those days moved so far away.

September has changed.  Freedom was given.  And I learned that nothing lasts forever.

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Picture – Spring by mechtanyia – Deviantart

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Although everything in this story is true, it was actually the picture that originally inspired the idea.  It reminded me of myself at a time when I was most unhappy at my primary school, and how those long school summer holidays were so beautiful, so welcome.  But even after all those weeks off, it was never long enough.

I had a dreadful teacher at the time, I referred to her as ‘the witch‘ because to me she might as well have been.  I was constantly picked on by her and she even had the evil cheek to encourage the rest of the class to copy her in humiliating me.  I wasn’t the only one, she targeted a few others too – all the quiet ones – easy pickings.

I still feel to this day, she should have been dismissed, her behaviour was totally unprofessional.  And it’s amazing how one person can do so much damage to a young mind with their voice.  She succeeded in destroying my confidence for many years, but I’m happy to say, not forever.  And who knows, maybe I should thank her for assisting in making me a stronger person today and for teaching me one very important life lesson – don’t ever tolerate a bully, no matter who they are.

School always felt very unnatural to me, even my first day at school left me feeling I was in the wrong place.  I don’t absorb information very well in a classroom, I’m much better learning quietly in my own company, at my own pace.  I did eventually leave school at the age of thirteen, I just refused to go, caused a lot of problems, but it all came right in the end.

I was lucky to have a family who did their best to understand and support me, and I was home schooled for the remaining years – it was a huge relief!  There couldn’t have been anyone more grateful than me to finally reach age sixteen, it was so good to just forget about the pressure of eduction for a while.  It’s not my opinion that schools are wrong, I just don’t think they are the right place for everyone, we are all wonderful individuals, not clones.

I’m sure I’m not the only one who hated school, or maybe you loved school?  Whatever your experience was, please share your stories if you feel inspired to! 🙂

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