Know thy self

Long as my memory

battles with gluttony

A fatty's appetite from the first day of nursery.

He followed me to primary
school I was insatiable
I'd sit waiting for seconds,
thirds,
alone at the table.

God as my witness

eating like nobodies business

rare my plate not heaped,
light work for the beast.

A ready grin with bright teeth,
gut instinct said yes please

the way to my heart

Cake my closest enemy

Scrambled eggs when I rise

to fuel a steady drive.

O sweet coffee jet propels

the price is crash, burn.

One thing I've learnt:
food pulls strings.

living for grub, there's never enough

better to eat to live.

The little monster

She has only 2 teeth - conspicuous tic tacs - glistening 

at the bottom.

Mostly gum when she grins.

She works diligently with her tools, driven by a gut that seems insatiable.

Nibbling, nibble, nibble...

through rusks, rice cakes, cracker bread, buttered toast and flapjacks - without an ounce of care. 

Not an inch of space is spared 

her ubiquitous trail of assorted grub.

Mind the mess; bits and pieces - crumbs in the leather sofa's creases.

A touch of crust, amongst fluff...

as if the old block wasn't messy enough.

He, too, loves his food. In awe of her ways; swears she offered him her snack; put a rusk to his mouth, he graciously inclined, 

took a bite in delight.

Ghost of a dream

The Black community
doesn't know it has passed.
Inclines to disagree, it still believes in the dream.

A freshly cut stone;
Choice FM is engraved,
Brixton born
and raised.
The spirit died in its waves.

Died in an age,
must be global to win.
Take what is pure,
and spread it thin,
spread it thin.

Bastion of black,
slowly watered down,
till it blend with the crowd.
Now safe bland sound.

The old ways have passed.
Wishful thinkers beat the corpse.

Cynics doubt the good old days
were good as they say:

The gracious bond between
similar shades of pain.
The immigrant struggle
becomes bearable in huddles.

Dodged missles aimed at faces
bananas thrown by rascists
yet diligently lifted
each other with a smile.

Mum still shows her teeth,
greeting strangers on the pave.
Just the way we do things back home,
she says.

The dichotomies be dead.
Save your mourning, instead.

Global folks, the occasional ghost.

The remains float
in watery soup.

Finsbury park

Under the spell of rare sunshine
we crave nature.
Some like it untouched,

but a man-made Eden combines the best of both worlds.

Feast your eyes on the assorted mix:

The barrel chested playa hungrily ogling meat. 

A ragged senior with ruinous teeth,
walks at ease - his gait smooth as old money. 

"Can you take a picture of me and my daughter please?"

In the sandpit, the weekend father and his princess both squint. 

All chose the same park;
traipsed down the same high street;
passing the brown girl with the sad smile.

She hands out pamphlets and promises that Islam is the solution to all problems.

Today, 

paradise is a lazy afternoon under the sun.

The park is scattered with bodies - the grass is thirsty, 

and pink flesh slowly burns.

Little drums

Sound doesn't exist to the deaf lad.
Never hears the sweet lies,
nor ugly truth.

His world pure motion.
Especially on a breeezy day;
branches sway,

leaves rattle away - silent - rhythm on blue(s).

Sound in the brain of the beholder.
Does not exist
out there
is just vibration.

But for the grace;
deep down the canals of ears,
miniature drums work miracles.

The simple gesture: two palms come together; the impact when they meet, creates waves
of energy.

Invisible as spirits
jostling through the air.
Particle by particle,
they enters our ears.

Only waves out there.

Exquisite drums are beaten;
the mind interprets vibration.

Gives you the sound (the deaf lad does not hear).

Brain spotting

They thumb away
swipes and strokes
lost in their phones and tablets.

Giant headphones weigh down their skulls,
drowning thoughts in stacatto procution
it leaks out,
filling the carriage.

Two chaps gabble about yesterdays journey;
how a passenger who could not wait,
relieved himself in a plastic bottle.

This, and other things we do not care to hear, early in the day
the school kids run jokes
oblivious these good times will become an echo
sorely missed.

Across,
A man with hair cropped low
chest pumped up in his uniform
Cherrished stripes on his arm.

Under which pretense does he wash off the blood?

Does he still doubt...
or have his ghosts been crushed?

The watcher
watched as he watches
fingertips on his cheek bone
prickly chin resting in his palm.

Eyes glazed
as the mind is filled with the frivolous.

I sit and judge them so
though I don't walk in their boots.
I see parts of me in them.
Never a dull commute.

Chunky

Mama's half awake,
wincing through the suckling 

Readily paying the price,
loved up with you.

Your cries fill the room 

interval after interval.

Past 4 AM, a rude awakening;
the pain is barely bearable.

Incredible

less than 24 hours on planet earth 

you're a master enchanter
turning parents to putty,
barely lifting a finger.

We who must tiptoe around

hold our breath as we handle

newly formed miniture bones

underneath the squidgyest of rolls,

folding, creasing,

receiving constant kisses.

Even your forehead is chubby.

Mama called you a little squidge.

The midwife christened you "chunky monkey"
How could I take offense

when all I saw was me.

Aunty Noora breathed her last

A few months before you drew your first

Mama loved her dearly

No surprise, the name lives on

passed down like precious jewelry.

Truthly, it wasn't my first choice
but love is give and take

and look how it grew (on me)

as all things must.

You lit up the room when you arrived

you burn brighter by the day.

live your truth; come what may

The voice, clear and straight, said "live your truth; come what may"

I knew what it meant,
'though,
more often I muzzle mine,
on occassion I rock the boat,
clear my throat, and something unfiltered falls out-

potent,
poisonous as porn,
but it was not my intent to pour scorn.

"Live your truth; come what may"
and the silver cord running through hearts, vibrates and hums.

So when drowned in thought,
I might feel the resonance, and pull back to something pure.

The distant ways of the boy.
Thinking less, simply taking steps.

Shame it fades,
obscured in the shadow.

"Live your truth; come what way"
the law of diminishing intent warns
you must strike while inspired,
the will to action wilts like old flowers.

The traitorous part of the brain
quick to bury an idea in scrutiny
scoffs at simple wisdom
"What is your truth today?"
and I had to concede my truth is as consistent as English weather,
but I smiled, at least it is not boxed in.

My heart is warmed by wisdom.
Shame it must cool and hibernate.

A creature of compulsive habits,
what is there to live for-
but the truth, underneath.

precarious

I meet him by the stream's edge,
frog by name of Soon Dead.
he fresh,
green,
soft and slime,
inclined to trust,
blunt of mind.

Greets with nod,
my violence stirs.
I coat my words to mask the urge.

I ask Soon Dead,
simply this:
"grant weary legs a humble gift;
please cross this stream,
while you drift,
may I hitch a hikers lift?"

He resists at first,
trembles,
shuffles,
grumbles he knows I bring nothing but trouble.

I bow my head,
feign offense.
My expression is coy,
I offer soon dead,
ice cool logic he cannot deny,
"think-
Why would I strike and cause both our demise?"

I see his cogs turn,
he comes round to my thinking.
I mount his back as my tic erupts,
twitching.

He enters the stream.
Ripples dance 'round our voyage.
As we glide 'cross I wonder,
my ego ponders-

Maybe I'll make it,
the other side in sight.
I can change these spots,
turn 'round my life!

But I can not deceive
my essence, I am-
slave to rage senseless,
I must bear consequences.

Soon Dead's life on a string-
His lungs and soul,
scream mighty in pain,
and make thunder take note.

A passing bird,
snapped out of it's dream,
looked down saw violent red trickle down green.
My sting buried deep-
Soon Dead's plight,
haunted the bird for the rest of it's life.

A fool betrayed,
my ambivalent mood.
You say how could I do this?

but I did not choose,
to be of this nature,
equipped with such tools.

seeded destruction
roots deep in soul
My life, my victim, bound by our roles.

I met him by the stream's edge.
The frog and I, paint the stream red.

the thin line between

Close those cupboards!
You never clean the bath.
How many times must I ask?
Have you called Waleed?
We could do with extra shelving.
Please Sort out the garden.

Undeniably my darlin,

my
wife
nags.

What's happening with your degree?
When's your next court date?
Applied for that new role yet?
don't wait till the last minute
You should holla at jamil
When last you called Ishmael,
and what about your uncle?

Snap out of your bubble!

Push:

Ive got three assignments due.
College fees this month.
On thursday it's d's birthday,
we'll send her something lovely.
Imagine living overseas?
It's in my blood to teach!

the thin line between,
My wife inspires me!