Juice

I am the collector of cups,
Each sits on my table like a soldier
Breathing there for a moment,
Until something bowls them over

They disagree with my files,
Who insist on laying flat
And the sneaky eraser,
Who scares them like a bat

They aren't friends with the mugs,
Who they find rather boring 
Or with the drawers,
Only interested in storing

Juice they understand,
For you see
Their favourite colour,
Is cranberry

Sara :)

Cafes Personality

A newspaper connects two disconnected people,
A rock as the reader changes,
Undivided by the news of yesterday,
Yet total, complete, strangers  

The Way You Walk

Lonely hands deep in pockets,
Eyes focused on the ground
A thousand voices surround you,
But you don't hear a sound

With the weight of the world on your shoulders,
All its trials, tribulations and mess
Only you can convert them to feathers
And realise you're never meaningless 

Tidbits

Anyone who reads this blog might remember me writing a few posts back that I was working on a poem started last year, and was waiting for inspiration to finish it. I have the beginnings of it and a few other poems, but I just can't seem to fill in the rest. I think it's because I can't decide what the poem should be about, I come up with a few lines that I think sound good, and I'm not sure what to do with them.

So, here's 2 opening (or middle, or closing) lines I've been trying to create something out of:

 

Common sense waved goodbye long ago,

Tired of the round-a-bout feelings

Did his footsteps whisper secrets,

In a language your ears recognised?

For the last one, I was looking out the window of a bus, and I saw a man walking in one direction. The next second he turned on his heel and set off in the other. He was walking down the pavement, and looking up at the high rise buildings on the other side of the street. I was curious about what made him change his mind, did he forget something? Did the universe send him some kind of a sign that he saw on top of those high-rises? I find being on a bus is a good time to write, you're not rushing anywhere, so the words come naturally, they're not forced. Anyway, the poem didn't work out so I'm left with this line.

As for the top one, I'll let your imagination provide an explanation :) 

Sara 

Ironing the tablecloth

Ironing the tablecloth,
Is as hard as hard can be
There is a hidden secret to it,
Unlockable without a key


Through thin air it travels,
It doesn't like the mist,
Surrendering only at its will,
Until you get the gist

Tonight was my grandmothers birthday, so we had the family over for dinner. As you can tell, I peformed the duty of ironing the table cloth. Tricky things they are. It was a really pleasent evening, and I'm glad I could contribute by dealing with the table cloth while my mum and gradmother handled the cooking (I'm not going to go into my lack of culinary skills at the moment).

Sara xx