Mishmosh Poetry And Art










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.


The Secret ~ Revisited



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.




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.



51QgNPRw1mLDaughter Of Darkness ~ Katya Mills
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Piano Man


I saw you there, on that warm day of June, standing in the doorway of the kitchen store.  You were not an apparition of my long and distant past, but neither were you truly yourself that afternoon.  You wore another face in place of your own.  Just like you appeared to me all those years ago, a convincing disguise, clothed not as the man you were, but as the person you wanted others to believe you could have been.  Twenty five years flew by like five flipping minutes, and there you were again, another town, another face, an older face this time.

You looked right at me on that flaming hot day, the heat making you sweat.  Or was it the sight of me standing there looking back at you, that made your cheeks burn pink with embarrassment?

I knew in an instant it was you.  Just because your hair was a different colour and your clothes had changed, doesn’t mean I wouldn’t know you.  I’d know you anywhere.  You can’t change your eyes, I saw them instantly identify mine.

And if by any chance it wasn’t you, if I somehow saw you reflected within another man, why would a total stranger, someone I’d never met, look at me with surprise all over his face…. if I had not been her, the one he used to know?  You swiftly turned, walked as far away from me as you could, to hide that face of yours, hoping I wouldn’t acknowledge your presence.  You don’t miss much do you?  Well, there’s something you should know…. I never miss anything.

I’ve known who you really are for twenty years.  Saw your face in a magazine…. music man, or perhaps I should say…. magician.  Of course the name under your picture was a different one to the name you had all those years ago.  You didn’t tell me your real name, or ever mention you were quite nifty fingered on the ebony and ivory, or that you could play an entire symphony or sonata straight out of that beautiful mind.

Your old record collection we played; you forgot to show me the albums that were yours…. the ones with your face on the cover.  Stunning musical arrangements that came from your own nimble hands, all hiding in the grooves of vinyl, just waiting to be spun on the record deck.  But my ears never got to hear that music, because for some reason you didn’t want me to know the real man.

I’ve always loved the sound of the piano, and even at nineteen I was into classical as much as pop.  I wonder what our conversations would have been full of, if you had known that?  Instead, we just chatted about trivialities of life, danced and laughed to cheap and cheerful hits of the 60′s and 70′s.  A few short weeks later, you were gone. Vanished, like you had been nothing but a young girls fantasy.

Five years on, the features of your face still etched into my mind, suddenly appeared on the page of a magazine.  There you were…. your big dark eyes looking back at me.  Bet you didn’t think the girl would grow up to be sharp eyed, and flicking at speed through a boring magazine one day, would notice your face.  That she’d realise the musician in the tiny picture and the memory of a face she used to know, were the same man.  This girl loves a mystery, but mysteries must be solved.

Like I said, I don’t miss anything.  It’s all that Scooby Doo I watched as a child, lounging on the sofa in my pyjamas on holiday mornings, eating Weetabix from a bowl on my lap, trying not to spill it.  Always loved the way they uncovered the masked villain at the end of the show.  Taught me a lot about life, that little cartoon.  And I’ve kind of done that, watching those You Tube videos of you and your talent, unmasked the man I thought I’d known.

Perhaps it’s not so great, it might just be the way it shines bright from my computer screen.  When I’m sitting there in my PJs with my feet snug in my comfy slippers, with my nowhere life waiting for a small change and a hot cup of tea in my hand trying not to pour it over me, watching you, like a wide eyed curious cat.

They do say, all that glitters is not gold.  So maybe you are not the golden boy I could easily think you are.  You have travelled the whole wide world, but inside, well…. you’re just a man, like any other.  And that would be good.  I’d be relieved to find you are ordinary, a regular man, the boy next door, as you appeared to me twenty-five years ago.

I could have walked right up to you in the kitchen store, and brightly said…. Hello!  But I thought you’d deny you had ever known me, considering you were not yourself that day.  I wasn’t going to give you the privilege of turning me into an idiot, someone who can’t remember who she remembers.  Instead, I walked right behind where you stood, and stared at the back of your head.  It was a whole thirty seconds at least, and you never once turned round.  You knew I was there…. didn’t you?

Just before I changed my mind and words came out of my mouth, I left.  Walked right past all those baking trays, frying pans and rolling pins, out the door as fast as I could, because anything else would have been foolish.  I mean…. why would we want to rake up all those years…. to talk about what exactly?  That we knew each other for six weeks.  Did we?  Not know in the real way, or even the Adam and Eve biblical way.  So I walked, before I said something stupid and ruined the day.

Outside, on the pavement, the traffic roared, my eyes quickly scanned a shopping list for where to go next, thoughts rushed in, urging me to go back.  It was a brilliant opportunity, to finally tidy up the mystery of you… wasn’t it?  But the other half of me, the sensible half, wouldn’t agree.  Said it wasn’t wise…. leave it…. leave the past.

I wonder if we’ll meet again, you know…. in a shop on a bright sunny day in June.  Or maybe we’ll pass each other in the middle of the road, or find ourselves travelling in the same train.  Got a feeling we probably will, in another moment when we least expect it.  Life is like that, strange things happen.  But if we do find each other eye to eye again, it won’t be me that made it happen, and probably not you either.  It will just be one of those stupid little coincidences.

If it does, I wonder if you will you ever be who you really are, stand in front of my eyes as the man you could have been.  Unafraid. Bold as brass.  Dressed in your own skin, and tell me about your wonderful life.  It would be great to meet the real you, have the courage to speak, to say, “Hello…. the girl hasn’t forgotten, it was a good little moment in time, all those years ago…. piano man!”



Picture: Jamille Queiroz (Unsplash)



This House


It stands solitary, this house of old times. Abandoned, disconnected from the warm hearts of human company. The weathervane high on the roof squeakily swings to north, chill winds flurry through broken windows, rearranging from corner to corner the dust of years; life that was, life no more.

Once brightly painted whiteness mixed with striking beams of ebony, now dirty mud green hues taking over external walls, slowly pulling over a moss green overcoat. Terracotta chimneys still red as Mars, crumbling piece by piece, like cake secretly eaten. A glassless window, wide and gaping, waits for the curious stranger to rudely invade.

Inside a maze of halls and deserted rooms, damp wallpaper curls, slowly separating from once proud and decorated walls, colour, glamour and chic. Extravagant ceilings, paintings in sky clouds, mythology descending in particles. An ardent creation, slowly passing. Psyche and Eros, fading lovers, leaving their glory days. And they too shall not escape dissolving.

Chandeliers hanging high, no light to shine, no sparkle from tear-drop glass, just spiders spinning, tangled candy floss beds. A hushed breath of air circles, breathes on them all, chandeliers gently sway like pendulums tick-tocking seconds of time.

The stairway sweeps, curvaceous, impressive, inviting, but wood distressed in age, groans with despair, whimpers in weakness when feet climb it’s bony boards. Stairs that once heaved with parties, men and women dressed in their finest – carefree, young, invincible. How they laughed at the thought of old age, flirted with smooth young bodies, lifted their glasses high in a toast of hope and better days. Their voices, their essence, their fragrance, lingers somewhere. And the faint sound of music still echoes from the walls – but dense silence covers, hiding what lived and breathed, as though they never were.

On this day, from behind a smoky cloud the sun appears once more, dazzling, piercing the stained glass, it’s colours unbroken. Light illuminates, dropping translucent pools of rainbows, spilling across unpolished floors, lifting and lightening the darkness of shadow. Revealing particles in sustained spiral, fragments of yesterday, the evidence of lives, their dust still dancing in a ray of light.

A small moment, a fleeting performance for the uninvited visitor. This house wishes to explain, how much it was, everything it used to be. A beauty, a bright young thing, in the springtime of life.


Pictures: Niki Feijen




The Disappearing Flowers


It’s been three weeks since the lawnmower was pushed from the shed, it’s spinning blades let loose on flourishing grass.  Buttercups and daisies burn bright among the tall feathery green.

A little girl in a white cotton dress, knees to the grass runs hands with love through the lush softness.  Flowers escaping one by one through tiny fingers.  She imagines what it must be like to be a flower.  Do they get bored standing still?  She picks free from it’s stationary existence a single golden cup, examining it’s delicate body, holding it high to the burning sun.

Her questions are many.  Are they born?  Do they have parents?  Do they die?  She thinks they must because there are none in winter.  Pulling another, she makes a friend for the first, holding them like tiny birds snug in a nest.  She closes her hands as if a fly were captured there, peeking through a gap between thumb and finger, there they lie in the darkness of her clammy little palms, glowing, radiating, as flecks of sunlight fall on their buttery heads.

Taking a deep breath of summer air she opens her hands and blows them free.  Within the strands of uncut blades, they hide.  She struggles to find her floral babies.

Rising to her feet, eyes searching rapidly, hungry to find them again…but they are lost.  She looks to the sky blinking out brightness of day.  Her memory absorbing snapshots of blue, for the sky above is so very blue.  The same blue as the curtains in her bedroom, the same as the towels hanging in the bathroom, and the same shade as mummy’s finest china.

Her arms swing out as if she could lift from the ground.  She spins, dances in rings, a celebration of the day, of life itself, because there are many things to know, almost too much to feel. 

Launching to a run, like a springy young rabbit she races through the open door, into the shadiness, the cool, the sunless indoors, to tell mummy and daddy of disappearing flowers – the mystery at the end of the garden.


Picture: Girl On The Meadow Simeon Oquist (1868 – 1955)