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Mateuš Conrad Feb 2022
wake up at 5:30, make myself some eggs on toast with
a slice of cheddar to melt while the eggs fry,
drink two coffees smile smoking and watching the sunrise,
take out all the dishes from the dishwasher
i put on before going to sleep,
prepare the cats for being alone in the house,
go out at 7am and buy a newspaper i will not read,
take a shower, **** myself up with about 8 different
products concerning hygiene and perfumery...
****! where are the nail-clippers?!
did my parents really have to take those nail-clippers
on their holiday to Jamaica?
****'s sake... the turkey steaks have ran out today
so i'll need to cycle tomorrow and buy some
more... get a whiskey some Pepsi and now obviously
nail-clippers! i can't have nails longer than a
a centimetre of outgrowth...
    dressed in a white shirt, charcoal suit trousers,
black clip on tie... oh those shoes...
spent a good 20 minutes polishing them before
going to sleep... and that intimidating long coat...
left the house at 8am... arrived at the car park where
Dan the supervisor was going to pick me at 9am...
well... i was half an hour early so i went into
a McDonald's and bought myself a third black coffee...
stood in the car park and smoked...
texted him 10 minutes to 9am: good morning Dan,
i'm already here, but no one else is here...
he came, we shook hands, exchanged very basic banter
and waited for this Nigerian that works with us
and is always... but... even to my surprise...
Francis came running on time, 9am exactly...
subsequently we drove to Mark's Gate where we
picked up three girls... filled the tank near Ley Street
on the A12 and stated speeding toward Oxford....
for the match between Oxford United and Portsmouth...
we arrived at the stadium and the induction
began... the usual crowd was there....
but then there were also these... 20+ extras...
weird looking *******... all Pakistani
or some other middle eastern caricature...
***** eyed, ***** in general: almost ******...
the names were cited: some Muhammad al-Hamza...
some Ahmad Ahmad...
and these two African who looked like they
just came fresh off a migrant boat that crossed
the channel in the past year... zero amount of spoken
English...
i say that quiet frankly... they started conspiring
in their own group, they were highly undemocratic
and not a grain's worth of motivation in
then... they were there to simply be there...
but not do any work, as it later appear they did
no work... they were first allocated the role
of searching people and working the turnstiles...
the people poured in sluggishly...
then when the tsunami of people hit it wasn't
the usual fluid way... they create a bottleneck of
human traffic... and, from what i heard after the match
some searched girls as young as 4 inappropriate
while not touching boys... but the policy was
always that children under the age of 18 are not
to be searched...
                        someone managed to bring in a flare
and set it off, Francis can attest of the flare hitting
him in the back leaving a bright blue mark
on his high-viz. jacket...
    when it came to checking if any of the seats
were broken at the end of the match,
i had to do two rows, when usually one person does
one row... ******* disappeared for a *******
curry or something... kiddy-fiddlers...
    nonces... sorry: but that's the reality...
i asked Dan prior, put me up close to the little knobs
and teenage idiots from Oxford...
he said... oh sure... i will, but not too far up...
what ended up happening? i was placed on the away
side's "no man's land" section that separated
the home supporters from the visitors...
somewhere in the middle of the stand as the supporters
were coming in...
seemed pretty o.k. - then Portsmouth scored the first
goal in the 13th minute... oh **** me...
that's when it took off... i rushed up from the middle
of the stairs to where the action was happening...
i wouldn't have been able to keep the stairs
freely available for people to move: when people
were adamant on standing on them...
the end result was Oxford United 3
                       Portsmouth 2...
so you can imagine how much action we received...
and we were only manning the concentration point
with only the 5 of us... one of them was a woman...
so... there were only 4 of us trying to push back...
30 if not more drunken, rowdy teenagers at a time
when a goal was scored... hell, it sometimes felt like more:
it probably was more...
since they started running up to the no-man's-land
and escalating their taunting and jeering...
i've never heard to many base insults thrown at people:
local ******* patriotism... the Portsmouth fans
taunting the Oxford fans: where is the ******* library?!
Oxford is a *******: i wanna go home...
we pulled through... but i have my first bruises from
the work i'm currently doing... i'm sort of happy...
why? Dan put me into the deep end...
i'm already asking another supervisor whether
she can get me to be inside the Fulham stadium
when they get to play Millwall...
but i noticed something... the other stewards had
to mouth the young ones off... shout them down...
i tried not verbal communication, hugging them...
holding them back... reassuring them with patting...
the other stewards had panic in their eyes...
i don't know how my eyes looked but not once
did i have to throw a punch...
            some guy prior was walking up to his seat...
happily drunk, he stopped and asked if he could
stroke my beard... which of course i allowed him to do...
now came the moment when we were facing off...
i just gave him a look: mate... don't pull this off...
we've had our pleasantries, don't ruin it now...
got a massive fat chunk of a handshake from a senior
guy and a big thank you for keeping things
at bay... well... for £10 an hour... working a 5 hour shift...
but... leaving the house at 8am and only getting
back at 8pm? come on... come, on!
i bought myself a bottle of whiskey and some Pepsi
and a £3.65 pizza... which... i had to "beef up" with some
extra cheese, some extra peppers and some extra
sweet chilly chicken that i cut into sushi slices:
as thinly as possible... fried in chilly oil, with some
gochugaru chilly flakes and a drizzle of sriracha...
oh, but those Pakistanis won't be working there
ever again... they made the rest of us look bad...
bad as in: the stand supervisor always says:
i will not name names... but from the standard you set
prior... and today's dip...
i haven't been stressed this much in my 21 years
on the job since... at least  years ago...
   i sat in silence on the way back in the car...
the girls tried to make conversation with Dan...
he was sorting out some other door-work at a nightclub...
someone was giving him beef...
i seriously need to help him out
get my S.I.A. badge as soon as possible so i can
move onto nightclubs...
but... my first bruises...
whatever bonus could i receive?
the Portsmouth fans were taunting Oxford fans
by shaking hands with me, calling me: oh look...
we've won one over...
and those two pretty, pretty girls giving me the eye...
perhaps i ought to get paid more...
perhaps i ought to get paid for writing
this *******... perhaps...
but i've long been of a school of thought that
shuns money... Diogenes of Sinope...
  i don't really want more money than i need...
but at the same time: i don't want to be a ***...
why wouldn't i want too much money?
if i have too much money: then that will obviously
attract a woman... and she will inevitably spend
that money... men in general don't really spend money...
****-boys spend money...
men spend money out of necessity...
while they earn it by fulfilling a higher obligation:
merely earning money is not enough...
something useful, selfless has to be pursued...
simply, no?
- well i have these two postures anyway...
plus the long coat might be slightly intimidating...
hands behind my back, but also hands up front gripping
my high-viz... oh my, i don't know what hurts more...
the lie i tell my colleagues: yeah,
i got these burns on my knuckles from making
pizza... why tell them i'm a sadomasochist that
derives pleasure from putting out cigarettes on
his knuckles whenever he knows:
falling in love with a girl with so many red
flags is a bad idea: Matthew: do i need to translate
this bad idea to you, by making you enjoy pain?
i guess i have to... i watched the elders of the Portsmouth
hooligans looking at me when i showed them
my knuckles... burnt...
a peacock might have its feathers to strut with...
they might have their tattoos... me?
i have my scars... they should check the one on my
right shoulder blade... i always fantasise
that the gods clipped one of my wings while
the other remains intact, albeit invisible...
there must be an intimidation tactic running through
my mind... always ensuring that my clip-on tie
doesn't look like a clip on, looking at my nails
to see whether they're not too long or whether
there's no dirt beneath the fingernails...
stroking my beard down so it doesn't appear too frizzy /
bushy... checking whether my shoes still appear
polished enough thought several people might
have stepped on them...
if you look the part, above tier presentable:
not scruffy... not... under-kept...
people have this tendency to reciprocate respect
if they themselves look overtly-presentable...
scruffy kids ******* really easily from a steward that's
extremely presentable...
it's the better dressed kids that want to jump up
to your level... of the optics of presentability...
or maybe that i have Slipknot's song (sic) playing in
the back of my mind anticipating something:
esp. anticipating "something" concerning young men
that do not have a soothing outlet via
*** and have to resort to the sort of camaraderie
associated with football hooligans...
these colts are not going to learn anything outside
of this realm, i sort of respect that...
maggot pit that they are...
but if this is their only outlet of being able to feel
together... with their local patriotism...
maybe i just don't try too authoritative measures
when dealing with them...
perfect set up for doing this **** up,
getting my reference and then setting myself up
for applying for being a high school teacher...
even though i always enjoyed watching football
on the t.v., now that i'm in the background at matches...
i'm only interested in spotting out the pretty girls...
to sooth me... while minding all the young lads
desperately seeking out a ****: but not finding it...
turning all their energy to a camaraderie...
chanting their little chants...
   drunks off their *******...
it's very much akin to the atmosphere best associated
with nu-metal concerts of the 2000s...
music by the Gen X'ers for the Millennials...
and "they" said we were going to be the angry generation...
i think that Gen X has more beef and still
has more beef with society than my generation
will ever have...
******* Pakistanis fiddling up 4 year old girls:
searching them by touchy-feely then ******* off
not giving us back-up...
oh, they'll be fired alright... the joke run at the induction...
so... this is what reading a list of names
of the newly assimilated by the Home Office:
by the immigration blah blah looks likes?
no wonder, absolutely no wonder all the Polacks that
came circa 2004 have ****** off back
to the fatherland circa 2016... 2020...
well... if the English want Pakistani **** gangs...
and not fellow Europeans... because they might have
a little feeling akin to: ooh ooh... we're racist...
well then... what if i'm the Omega Collective Unconscious
Initiative and i sent out a covert Braille message
through dreams to my fellow-country men...
*******... don't come back...
the English "think" they have this sorted?
                      i'm going to be choking on this sort of a joke...
but if we're not welcome,
while **** gangs are: ******* welcome...
why bother staying? milk some of this rich protestant
cow and *******: not since the outliers have
i heard of a prevalence for a collective kiddy-fiddling
initiative...
but we all know that the English never want
to call themselves racist... that's why they need
sacrificial lambs from their tribe to ensure that they're
not suspected as such...
i'd sooner spend an afternoon with a silent Nigerian
than spend it with these *****-eyed curry-festival goers...
who appear... disappear...
while all the white guys do all the leg work...
in that of drunkness... but i love it...
it's the stink of a hormonal overload... mixed up with
a little bit too much alcohol...
even though... when i drink a litre of whiskey...
i drink a litre of whiskey to loosen my tongue...
open up my mind... relax...
i once used to entertain rock climbing...
eh... nothing close to cycling in heavy traffic...
then again... cycling is still a tier above crowd control...
pushy-beefcakes... half my age...
now i'm wide awake dreaming of sleep...
i don't want to sleep to dream... i want to sleep:
in order to sleep: Freud can *******...
only rich people have dream interpretations...
or if someone comes with a recurrent dream....
seriously? a recurrent dream?
              what's, wrong, with, you?
it's like the inverse of the learning curve associate with
putting your hand into a fire...
people who have recurrent dreams are like
people who put their hands in a shadow
and expect for their hand to somehow not
spontaneously disappear!
they learn ****... nothing... zilch!
that's why they have recurrent dreams...
i'm glad that i rarely dream...
only yesterday i slept for two hours
and what did i dream of?
eating burgers...
i woke up slobbering on my pillow...
the dream: became reality...
yeah: i wasn't eating much of late...
i never like cooking food for myself...
when i cook... i need to cook food for someone....
cooking food for merely myself is kind of pointless...
that's why i'm thinking of that
single mother Gemma and her son Reinhart...
because... i'd like to cook for them...
even though she lied at work about me drinking on
the job... of smelling of *****...
all the same while another colleague
compliments me on how i smell: how good i smell?
come on...
belittling bazar logic from the ancients terms
of the Persian Empire...
this sickening mentality is the middle-easterns...
denegrading...
the role of dogs... in OUR affairs...
sheep-shaggers of the desert....
**** these camel-jockeys... these necrophilic sorts...
pyramid-engineers...
kiddy-fiddling and sheep-*******...
call the Welsh of the south...
         wankers... the base of humanity...
if there's any left in any of them...
zoo... i see zoo in their eyes...
         i see cages... i see an inferno like no other...
they stink of  eating ****!

now, let me sleep.
JidosReality Nov 2017
Change is the law of life and those who only look at he past or present are certain to miss they future. So give me a smile and I’ll be happy for the day.

Portsmouth City of friends what can I say? Thank you to Portsmouth for putting a smile on my face, thank you for showing me my dreams **** a beautiful place.

You held my hand when I cried and said don’t worry everything will be alright. The things you do and the hinges you say such a beautiful memory truly blessed.

Many friends Iv meet many cultures in this city, nights in cooking lamb all bringing a little culture to dinner. Many friends from around the world who call this home Portsmouth City.

I promised my self one day I would become a pharmacist, to help those that are sick come sit down my friend let’s talk about it over a cup of tea.

Portsmouth City of friends next time you meet someone that’s not feeling so good. Just be they friend.

JidosReality 8.10.17
Adam amazing Refugee #JidosReality #Poetry #JourneysFestevel
Matthew Randell May 2015
Home of the navy, big and strong,

Think that's it? You are most wrong,

Home of Dickens, and Isambard Brunel,

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle stayed a while as well,

Singers like Same Difference born so very close to home,

Gunwharf Quays, Action Stations and even a PlayZone,

An Aquarium, lots of shops, amusement parks and more,

Theatres, museums, the Isle of White; it's fun from shore to shore,

Portsmouth is a brilliant place, to live and work and play,

People who live or visit here shouldn't ever move away!
Written as entry to be Portsmouth's first Young Poet Laureate. I was short-listed.
Red ribbons  around the streetlights.
  The lights from the commadore theather
are a reflection of the past.
Coblestone streets the historic district across the water
buildings are lit  haunting  shadows over the water.

Once  a year closed streets seem to travle back in time.
Roasted penuts  street corner preformers.
Familys togather homeless on benches not all is beautiful and bright.

Sweet city so cold and gritty.
Christmas lights like neon signs call to my jaded soul.
Horse and carrige ride down by the water.
New lovers getting lost in the moment an season.

I sit apon the steps of the old church share a bottle with
My new best friend  smells of the city echo back to another time.
Lights and sounds reflect a holiday on highstreet.
Hands held  togther  when  in another  life it seems you
were mine.

Cold are the streets  carols fill this night.
If only more than once a year.
We could embrase this spirt.
Then trap it for one peaceful day.

The traffic apon  Highstreet  is  is slowing
The festival crowd is fading.
The bottle of christmas cheer is almost gone
so along with the I must  be going.
Jenny Sep 2013
Embodied in a perpetual persona of shitheaded seventeen
(Before you snuck out on a cold silver sheet)

You could measure your lifespan (or is it your wingspan, now? did you know it's the same as your height?)  in late-night shenanigans topped with bacon-guaca-holy-moly burgers, tumbling in neon spandex and the raising of general hell, which you probably can't reach right now,

(And how many flaming bags of feces on why-not doorsteps, for me?)

Speaking of me,
Do you remember when I kissed your head beside a broken down photo machine? Do you remember when we ran away from your first girlfriend (her first kiss) and laughed because you had a current girlfriend? Do you remember when we tried out clouds in department store floor levels, like you were planning on getting one all along? Like you were my (first) and now my (late) husband? Three years doesn't seem very long ago, when placed in proportion with - what was that word again - eternity?

You were but a fleeting presence not only in my life, (in her life, his life, their lives now broken from a trio into a typical twosome) but in your very own - one blonde beach-bunny darting from top-hat to top-shelf

(Could you give up World of Warcraft for a World of pearly White?)
(Would you take me to my Senior Prom?)

We will float yellow rubber ducks down the water at your wake (one by one) and eat food-court teriyaki because no one is allowed to be sad (says you)

(Jesus, baby, what's your dang address?!)

In the end, you ride off into the sunset on your unicycle, like the bad movie that this is
(Screaming, "this thing's killer on the *****!")
In memory of Talon Cohen, 1995-2013
For years, Tim had the visions
Seeing things that no one could
If he spoke of them, he's crazy
He kept quiet, like he should
Just normal, little, visions
Of people who were dead
Just wandering in places
He knew weren't in his head

It started on vacation
He saw the "grey lady" in a room
At first, he thought the lighting
made what he saw there in the gloom
But, later, in his bedroom
while reading pamphlets on the place
she appeared there in his bedroom
But, he couldn't see her face

He kept his little secret
Not telling people she was there
She was mentioned by no others
So, he didn't really care
An undigested bit of beef
A piece of moldy bread
Like Dicken's Scrooge before him
She wasn't real, because she's dead

While still on his vacation
He saw two more, this time more clear
He saw one upon a staircase
And the other, much more near
They never interacted
Didn't know that he could see
But, he wondered "why could no other"
"see them 'cept for me?"

Two years had passed, he was at home
He was living on the coast
When one day he saw the woman
And he knew she was a ghost
The house was large, and gothic
With a widows walk on top
It was there he saw the woman
He shut his eyes to make it stop

She walked upon the rooftop
Looking out over the waves
Her dog was there beside her
Looking for someone to save
He walked away in silence
Turned to look, she was not there
He knew better than to think that
It was a trick of light and air

Turns out the spirit walker
Lost her husband in a wreck
He was a whaler, up in Portsmouth
He drowned and broke his neck
A wave came out of nowhere
Sank his boat, "The Lucky Hoof"
Now, his widow walks and watches
She is a fixture on the roof

He's seen children in the bushes
Not quite sure if they were real
But, could he talk about his visions ?
His dark secret to reveal
They never seemed to notice
That he saw them, they just were
So he'd watch them and he'd listen
Till the day that he saw her

She was sitting in the corner
Of a restaurant, alone one night
But as he watched a little closer
He saw no shadow from the light
She sat alone in silence
No one ventured where she sat
She was dressed in twenties clothing
A classy dress and flapper hat

Two nights went by, he saw her
Sitting exactly as before
When he asked about the table
He saw the table was no more
He had to find this woman
find out why she showed up here
He would investigate the building
But, first he'd have a beer

Turns out her name was Maisy
At least that's what he found out
She went missing from the building
Of this there was no doubt
No one knew which way she travelled
No one ever saw her go
But, the stories, oh the stories
Maisy, turns up...don't you know

The corner with the table
Was just a bricked up wall, that's all
It was constructed when she left here
By the old owner Joe Paul
There never was a reason
For the wall, it had no use
There could only be one reason
And I think you can deduce

Maisy never went and left here
Joe killed her late one night
It was an accident of passion
He had to hide her out of sight
But like Poes tale "The Telltale Heart"
She would show up in her seat
Only Joe could ever see her
No one else would Maisy meet

Tim went to the new owner
Told him of Maisy and her tale
Told him of The Widow Hanker
And her husband and his whale
Was he crazy ? or a mystic ?
The owner said "you are no clown"
And he said tonight at closing
The wall is coming down

They found dear Maisy waiting
In her dress and flapper hat
She was sitting at the table
She was dead, and that was that
The owner, shocked to silence
Stood and watched our mystic Tim
As he stood there while Maisy's spirit
Left this world and passed through him

Tim still has the visions
Still sees the woman and her hound
Still watching for her husband
Tim knows he won't be found
He knows which ones he's needed
To investigate, set free
And the rest of all the spirits
Well, Tim knows what is meant to be
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2016
beyond the whiskey
and the beer drank along the familiar
path, with memory stressed
as to no accomplished ego coupling,
drunk indeed,
but rehearsing the familiar path
that thought de-activates
and there's less of identifiers required.*

in terms of gambling,
in familial setting,
betted:

watford (21-20) home to newcastle
(5-2), QPR (6-5) against wolves (9-5 to win),
barnsley v. rochdale (draw at 11-5),
chesterfield v. millwall (to win, 11-8),
oldham v. bury (draw at 21-10),
port vale v. bratford (home-side 8-5),
coventry (13-10) away winning against southend (13-8),
plymouth (11-5) against bristol rovers (evs),
accrington (13-10) against exeter (13-8) too,
manfield (6-5) winning against luton (9-5),
portsmouth drawing with oxford united (21-10),
wycombe with leyton orient (11-5) too,
yeovil beating crawley (13-10),
dundee utd. losing to kilmarnock (11-5) -
scots wish me luck,
motherwell drawing with ross county (19-10),
brochin losing to aidrie (11-10),
montrose winning over clyde (9-5),
hamilton losing to edinburgh's hearts (6-5),
finally...
burnley overcoming derby (13-10).

if i got all nineteen right, i betted 2 quid
and won a million,
split it down the middle with my father,
bet for two quid, quid each, half a million each.
my father is a cautious gambler,
bets spare change to get pennies for a million
exchange, i only desire serious alcoholism,
i am a true scot between the two pulling
two pence apart to create copper wiring,
scots are the jews of the north, after all:
i don't gamble, i play chance,
the chances of me being prophetic about five
football scores will be a, a ref. to the guinness book
of records.

i aimed high today, feminism still hasn't the foggiest
of house husbands, lazy lions,
it's still thursday pay-cheque day for the women,
i can cook a killer korma (added late
grind cashews), and a serial killer kashmiri masala curry,
organic chemistry experiments 12h a week will do that to you,
you'll enjoy cookbooks more than chemistry textbooks,
too many esters i say, spices v. perfumes, your choice
the pakistani in my off-license looked amazed i was wearing
hindu perfumes after having cooked a meal he could
recognise that wasn't a concentrate of strawberries:
find a needle in a haystack, yes... find a berry in a haystack...
no.

i love hindi cuisine, much aroma that deviates from
what europeans claim to be aromatic:
pig sweat and oxen salivate a taste for synthetic
odours when an analysis of cardamon justifies aplenty
likewise: what opens necessary porous areas
of the skin as necessarily sweet
does not necessarily invoke a sweetness for the tongue
to match: fat cows better than anorexia voodoo
of *******-champagne girls i'd tell you.
The Crow flies.
Along the 5th motorway car to car,
Past the French coast flying,
Flying.
The ***** black winds, worn and battered
From the ride, the constant ride.
Truck to truck, warm to cold, stranger to friend.
Friend to Comrade.
Preaching my Gospel of love and peace.
The time has come for love and peace.

But the Crow still flies,
His nest destroyed long ago
His brothers and sisters scattered amongst the wind.
The cool, harsh, stinging sea air wind
Of Portsmouth, Southampton, Bristol.
Goodbye, so long, see you soon.

The Crow flies again,
Protected and blessed by Elohim.

The meditating Crow,
Calm to fly once more.
Is this the last?
He promises yes but his heart
Says the opposite;

Fly Crow ‘till you find a better world,
A peaceful world,
A loving world,

A Crow’s world.

So fly Crow,
Fly away and fly safe,
Preaching in the wind,
Travelling in the wind,

Crowing in the wind.
JidosReality Nov 2017
Sometimes in life you wait for time, than you come to realise hat time has come and passed by, SomeDays I just sit hear thinking thinking been waiting for so long forgot what I’m thinking.

I love day dreaming makes me forget my thoughts are screaming, Portsmouth City’s my Home play up Pompey can you hear the song?

I’m still waiting for a answer to my solution many years have passed by seconds and minutes gone to sleep.

SomeDays I feel weak other days I’m strong, sometimes I wish I never made that wish. And when I feel down and everything’s around me I take a walk to the seaside.

And watch the world look at me I only have one life no one hear to save me. My happiness and peace Portsmouth City gives me. May Portsmouth be blessed let’s all look after our city.

Jidosreality 2.10.17
Maza so much hope #JidosReality #Poetry #JourneysFestervel
Joe Wilson Mar 2014
He was sent to Aldershot for training
He would learn ******* or be killed
The training was all done with broomsticks
When he thought back it made his blood chill.

His unit was sent down to Portsmouth
To board a ship and go over there
It was packed to the gunwales with weapons
And the rations left no room to spare.

He practiced with his rifle on the journey
Like others who’d not held one before
He’d no sense of the horror he’d be facing
Nor the violence he’d always abhorred.

It was such a small piece of shrapnel
Caught both eyes as a shell case shattered
He never saw his two boys as they grew into men
Missing out on so much that had mattered.

His wife who he loved always helped him
And a life with new interests grew
He learnt how to read the braille papers
It pleased him he’d still know the news.

But the trauma from the experience scarred him
And ire with politics grew by the day
So he took to his new odd braille keyboard
And wrote articles and letters to complain.

He could sense the new way that the wind blew
In the corridors of power in the House
There was money to be made in new weapons
And politicians ignore those who grouse.

Then again two decades later it started
Another war that would mean more dead men
The obscenity rose like a bile in his throat
So once again he took to his ‘pen’.

©JRW2014
One in a group of poems recognising the centenary of WWI
There she is my pride and joy
her oak deck glimmers in the sunlight
been nearly a year in dry dock
repairs new paint work the lot

My crew have been chewing at the bit
ten months without putting to sea
today is a wondrous day
with crew 10 men strong

Ropes released and out of Portsmouth
back to the briny beauty
with her silver sails up
and at last anchors at bay

She can do 20 knots in fair winds
as the crew can tackle her motion
this my love my NightShade
that my crew and me give all devotion.


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
No Matter The Floor You Pass Out On

I awake as any other madman slash poet.
Apon the floor  naked  pizza box for pillow a members only jacket for a blanket.
yes the libary sure has changed over the years.

less and less people were reading buggets were cut meaning
libraryies were under staffed and rarely did anyone dare venture into
the stacks  and thank good for that. Cause being i preffered free sleeping
it was probaly for the best.

but no matter the the floor you pass out on most all fine
american men wake up with are god given birth rite.
That which after a trip to the restroom like
that early morning madness that was christmas  pressent openning
was over way to fast and was kinda disapointing.

Floors werent the best beds in the world in fact they
****** altogather but drinking and common sense dont even
belong in the same room togather.

Portsmouth Va  was a strange world indeed a place where upscale colided with skidrow.
Me I preffer the company of a outdoor sleeper to that of a
spoiled spoon fed yuppie ****.
the art school cranked out angst ridden buble people by the second.

They walked the street soaking in the pain of life.
there heads stuck so far up there ***** I always felt compeled to trip them as they walked by.
acting as though they were outsiders  yerning to be mainstream
they'd **** there mothers on a mtv reality show as dad cried in the background.

Just for a taste of stardom.
True talent who needs that?
but no matter the floor you pass out on one
thing was clear.

In a world were you could have a bus load
of kids and get paid for it.
fame wasnt such a rare thing anymore.

The floor I passed out on was cold and cruel but surrounded
voices from the past.
the floor these hollow  reallity show bottom  feeders
passed out on.  Had to besoft as there heads.

Otherwise there brains would splatter across the floor.
And some TV exect would have a brainstorm  to have a show
were washed up celebrities would have a contest.

To see who could bore us the most with there sob story  
Yes friends id rather have a pizza box for a pillow
than a reality show  pillbox for a brain.

and the truth effectsus all form no matter
which floor so you do choose to pass out on.
JidosReality Nov 2017
Let’s live and let live I put my trust in Portsmouth from the day that I got hear, to rebuild my life for my beautifully children.

Portsmouth my favourite the magical places it has taken me, walks down Southsea on the beach listening to the waves whispering I me.


Planning my future teaching English to adults and been a mentor for immigrants.

Helping them settle showing them this beautiful city called Portsmouth.

This city of culture, city of peace fills my spiritual energy with faith and belief.

Let’s integrate we can do it together we need more love to super side hatred.

We need more strength to resist our weakness,
we need more inspiration to light up our inner-minds. We need more learning to erase our ignorance.

We need more wisdom to live longer and happier, we need more truths to suppress deceptions. Let’s integrate for our children’s future awaits.
JidosReality 8.10.17
Poem done for Anita a local refugee who now calls Portsmouth City her home #JidosReality #Poetry #JourneysFestevel
JidosReality Nov 2017
My taste buds are tingling sitting Hear in my favourite restaurant wa

iting for my Chicken Nando’s you amazing. Watcng all the people around me filled with laughter and joy, I’m so proud to call Portsmouth City my Home.

See hope in my hands, nothing ever happiness like you imagine it will, but than again if you
don’t imagine nothing ever happiness at all.

Your soul becomes dyed with the colour of its thoughts, so be the change that you wish to see in this world. You see if you ever find your self in the wrong story leave.

I find my self in a story working towards
my dreams. From adapting to learning and
respecting those around me. Learning English my favourite words “


Thank you portsmouth For looking after me.
And one day

when your car needs a-bit of TLC I’ll be right Hear to help you with my Tool Box Spanner’s Nuts and Bolts.

For the hope portsmouth gave me and helped me to For fill my dreams. Now please Take he Hope from my hands and go and For fill your dreams.
JidosReality 3.10.17
Poem done for my journeys Festervel Project #JidosReality #Poetry #JourneysFestervel
It's only when your alone do we forget what a true pain in the *** people tuely are.
Maybe for some it's just missing waking up next to warm body your face burried deep within her hair.

Others may be something altogather different and for others it is a true friendship far beyond a cheap **** it's the laughter i miss.
Thoose moments I took for granted i guess it's just her I miss.

It was nine years of hell mixed with touches of heaven.
I had tried to erase the memorie with gallons of ***** and cheap flings
Forgettible faces *** can be empty at times and can do more dammage than we know.

The bar that sits only a few paces from her door is still there.
The places all the same yet they seem cold as I am no longer welcome there
Or was it just me and a paranoid refletion.
portsmouth is a strange place indeed where on one side of the street are people sitting outside in the summer sipping cocktails eating overpriced meals.
and right across the street people wait in line at the soup kitchen.

niether group looks towards the other like the old color lines during the times in america we'd all like to forget guilt is a ***** indeed.

Still no matter the problems in this world it always goes back to are own simple lives why you may ask?

Cause we cant solve the worlds problems and thoose who belive they can seem.
to have this habbit of always getting shot.
So here I sit in thumpers the local yuppie bar I used to look at from her window.

the view was a lot better  from her place but the drinks are a lot better here.

Do I miss her?
Yes.
Will I knock on her door tonight and beg her for her love like some desperate love struck fool?
No. I just sit here get drunk talk to some woman and if I'm lucky get laid close my in the mist of passion and pretend it's her.

Maybe I'm a coward but I'm  also a man and we all need that contact even if for only for one night.
If only I could reverse that view maybe then I'd just sit there and remember just what a pain in the *** she was.  

And rememeber why I'm in this goddamed bar to start with.
So I'll drink to her in my seat by the window underneath the neon sign.
And pretend that my life was misery with her so I can stand this crap i'm  living now.

Women are the worst drug you'll ever know.
But ****** there fun and I'll die befor I leave em alone.
Tom Balch Dec 2016
Gather round, sit down me lads
and I´ll tell to you a tale
of when forty men were lost at sea
in the mother of a gale,
the story starts at Portsmouth docks
and it ends face in the sand
so listen in don´t miss a word...
our night out never went as planned.

´twas in a pub down by the harbour
and we was throwing down the grog
we was laughing we was singing
it seemed our brains was filled with fog,
the doors they burst wide open
the press gang took us one by one
with wooden clubs they set about us
our lives at sea had just begun.

I woke up in a hammock
seemed like me head was split in two
the screams of show a leg you scurvy ****
was the start of days I´d rue,
they taught us fast to reef the main
and how to navigate by stars
they taught us not to cross the line
if we did the “cat” would leave her scars.

Six months it was we´d been at sea
and no more a motley crew
we were hardened trained professionals
who could cope when bad winds blew,
but the weather it was changing
far worse than we had ever seen
the ship she took a hammering
from pounding seas upon the beam.

The storm was unrelenting
for three weeks without a pause
we were weary sick and frightened
we were lost and way off course,
the wind it blew in from the north
force nine or maybe ten
the sky was black inducing fear
amongst us broken men.

The Captain he was sick in bed
and looking fit to die
the surgeon said he´s coughing blood
as black as that there sky,
the mast was shattered in the storm
the sails were ripped apart
´twas only us six left aboard
from forty at the start.

Fresh water kegs had washed away
the rations they were soaked
we had not eaten for three days
our hope and will was broke,
our ship she floundered in the sea
a sea that boiled with rage
a sea that would take all our lives
and no one will be saved.

´twas Davy Jones that made a pact
with strong winds from the north
that not a soul would live to see
a brighter day shine forth,
the Captains dead the surgeon said
so now we´re only five
lets pray to God that he can help
us feeble few survive.

We looked at him with knowing eyes
with eyes so filled with fear
we´re dead already said the mate
that sky is drawing near,
the wind it hit with such a force
the timbers they all split
the deck it heaved and broke apart
and splintered into bits.

The storm screamed like a witch on fire
who´s being sent to hell
and we all knew we´d join her soon
none left the tale to tell,
a giant wave then hit me
and washed me out to sea
all went dark and icy cold
and I thought it was the end for me.

When I awoke face in the sand
I thought I must be dead
with nightmares of the past few weeks
running through my head,
so now you have your answer
to why I sit here by the wall
splicing ropes to earn a crust
but that my lads not all,
I´ll tell you this my trusty friends
and I´ll tell you this for free
never will this man, I promise you,
sail again the seven seas.
Coyote Jun 2013
The sun shines
on Portsmouth
but not where
I am
It’s nothing but
wishing on stars
Two thousand five
hundred light years
from home
How did I wander
so far?

The east wind
is blowing
The anchor
is weighed
I’m turning
my back to
the gale
With a flask
on my hip
and a prayer
on my lip
and a promising
wind in my sail

And maybe
I’ll make it
or maybe
I won’t
The future
is so hard
to see
Too much
has happened
and so much
is lost
and I don't know
who I’m supposed
to be
JidosReality Nov 2017
Take a moment once in a while, to pause to breath reflect and smile. Let’s all stand tall with respect and pride. And make Portsmouth’s Hero Lord Nelson proud as he watchers his beautiful city smile.

Take my hands and let’s climb up the spinnaker tower, Think happy thoughts and look around.Thank you to Portsmouth City for welcoming me me into this amazing town. Take a run down the sea front pass Clarence pier.

Feel the sun on your face your feet on the ground. Count the stars and examine the sky. Catch the rain and watch the birds fly.

Make something from silence let words lift your soul, and explore every sweet bit of your beautiful soul. My life cuddles destiny and bought me to this place where I was meant to be.

The Gloves on my hands meditating in this boxing ring, my future whispering to my thoughts as I think. Determination and hard work early morning starts.

I will start from the bottom and work my way to the top. Heart beating fast many emotions trying to get out. My thoughts whispering to me.

Float like a Butterfly sting like a Bee” for you are a champion a role model the world needs to see. Inspired by the greats~ Lord Nelson- Mohamed Ali.

So follow your dreams and never give up, and always work hard, your day will arrive at the right time. Remember your stars always shining to bright up the night.

JidosReality 5.10.17
Amazing just so amazing #JidosReality #Poetry #JourneysFestervel
JidosReality Nov 2017
Break your shackles and reach out to your freedom, the world is yours the poorest man around is not the fellow with out a bank coin to his name.

But the poorest man is a soul without the right information to orchestrate for him self the right future. Cause it takes strength to be certain, it takes courage to have doubts.

It takes stents to fit in, it takes courage to stand out, it takes strength to share a friends pain, it takes courage to feel your own , it takes strength to hide it show it and deal with it.

It takes strength to stand alone it takes courage to live, Portsmouth City my friend what a good friend  you are. Have me the courage and strength to be who I want to be.

You allow me to bake chocolate biscuits and cake, you give me he freedom to clearly see my future, you listen to me as I speak to you at the beach.

You lend me your light house so the darkness stays away from me, I don’t say it much and I hardly say it to! But Portsmouth City my happiness thanks you, and wanted to let you know that it loves you two.

JidosReality 4.10.17
Amazing person we need freedom Madina #JidosReality #Poetry #JourneysFesterval
JidosReality Nov 2017
My life decided to rest me with determination, found my self in this city I knew nothing about called Portsmouth, the first emotion that attached it’s self to me was loneliness.

My mind was in shock but I knew I had to carry on and be strong. Cause I was about to have a baby this little life inside me needed me. Far away from my family a lot of mixed feelings going on.


And than like a nightmare it slowly faded away like an angel my best friend Shamilla was send my way. She threw away the loneliness I was feeling everyday.

Took my hand and said don’t worry from now on everything will be okay. And now I don’t worry my little boy is grown up and happy.

From shopping down Gunwharf to taking him for walks down the beach, watching my son grow up so happy in this amazing place we both call home Portsmouth City.

It took time to adjust and I may of felt trapped, but my future looks bright I have my little boy by my side.

JidosReality 4.10.17
I take my strength from Esobel #JidosReality #Poetry #JoirneysFestervel
John F McCullagh Jan 2019
Dearest creature in creation
Studying English pronunciation,
   I will teach you in my verse
   Sounds like corpse, corps, horse and worse.

I will keep you, Susy, busy,
Make your head with heat grow dizzy;
   Tear in eye, your dress you'll tear;
   Queer, fair seer, hear my prayer.

Pray, console your loving poet,
Make my coat look new, dear, sew it!
   Just compare heart, hear and heard,
   Dies and diet, lord and word.

Sword and sward, retain and Britain
(Mind the latter how it's written).
   Made has not the sound of bade,
   Say-said, pay-paid, laid but plaid.

Now I surely will not plague you
With such words as vague and ague,
   But be careful how you speak,
   Say: gush, bush, steak, streak, break, bleak ,

Previous, precious, fuchsia, via
Recipe, pipe, studding-sail, choir;
   Woven, oven, how and low,
   Script, receipt, shoe, poem, toe.

Say, expecting fraud and trickery:
Daughter, laughter and Terpsichore,
   Branch, ranch, measles, topsails, aisles,
   Missiles, similes, reviles.

Wholly, holly, signal, signing,
Same, examining, but mining,
   Scholar, vicar, and cigar,
   Solar, mica, war and far.

From "desire": desirable-admirable from "admire",
Lumber, plumber, bier, but brier,
   Topsham, brougham, renown, but known,
   Knowledge, done, lone, gone, none, tone,

One, anemone, Balmoral,
Kitchen, lichen, laundry, laurel.
   Gertrude, German, wind and wind,
   Beau, kind, kindred, queue, mankind,

Tortoise, turquoise, chamois-leather,
Reading, Reading, heathen, heather.
   This phonetic labyrinth
   Gives moss, gross, brook, brooch, ninth, plinth.

Have you ever yet endeavoured
To pronounce revered and severed,
   Demon, lemon, ghoul, foul, soul,
   Peter, petrol and patrol?

Billet does not end like ballet;
Bouquet, wallet, mallet, chalet.
   Blood and flood are not like food,
   Nor is mould like should and would.

Banquet is not nearly parquet,
Which exactly rhymes with khaki.
   Discount, viscount, load and broad,
   Toward, to forward, to reward,

Ricocheted and crocheting, croquet?
Right! Your pronunciation's OK.
   Rounded, wounded, grieve and sieve,
   Friend and fiend, alive and live.

Is your r correct in higher?
Keats asserts it rhymes Thalia.
   Hugh, but hug, and hood, but hoot,
   Buoyant, minute, but minute.

Say abscission with precision,
Now: position and transition;
   Would it tally with my rhyme
   If I mentioned paradigm?

Twopence, threepence, tease are easy,
But cease, crease, grease and greasy?
   Cornice, nice, valise, revise,
   Rabies, but lullabies.

Of such puzzling words as nauseous,
Rhyming well with cautious, tortious,
   You'll envelop lists, I hope,
   In a linen envelope.

Would you like some more? You'll have it!
Affidavit, David, davit.
   To abjure, to perjure. Sheik
   Does not sound like Czech but ache.

Liberty, library, heave and heaven,
Rachel, loch, moustache, eleven.
   We say hallowed, but allowed,
   People, leopard, towed but vowed.

Mark the difference, moreover,
Between mover, plover, Dover.
   Leeches, breeches, wise, precise,
   Chalice, but police and lice,

Camel, constable, unstable,
Principle, disciple, label.
   Petal, penal, and canal,
   Wait, surmise, plait, promise, pal,

Suit, suite, ruin. Circuit, conduit
Rhyme with "shirk it" and "beyond it",
   But it is not hard to tell
   Why it's pall, mall, but Pall Mall.

Muscle, muscular, gaol, iron,
Timber, climber, bullion, lion,
   Worm and storm, chaise, chaos, chair,
   Senator, spectator, mayor,

Ivy, privy, famous; clamour
Has the a of drachm and hammer.
   *****, ***** and possess,
   Desert, but desert, address.

Golf, wolf, countenance, lieutenants
Hoist in lieu of flags left pennants.
   Courier, courtier, tomb, bomb, comb,
   Cow, but Cowper, some and home.

"Solder, soldier! Blood is thicker",
Quoth he, "than liqueur or liquor",
   Making, it is sad but true,
   In bravado, much ado.

Stranger does not rhyme with anger,
Neither does devour with clangour.
   Pilot, pivot, gaunt, but aunt,
   Font, front, wont, want, grand and grant.

Arsenic, specific, scenic,
Relic, rhetoric, hygienic.
   Gooseberry, goose, and close, but close,
   Paradise, rise, rose, and dose.

Say inveigh, neigh, but inveigle,
Make the latter rhyme with eagle.
   Mind! Meandering but mean,
   Valentine and magazine.

And I bet you, dear, a penny,
You say mani-(fold) like many,
   Which is wrong. Say rapier, pier,
   Tier (one who ties), but tier.

Arch, archangel; pray, does erring
Rhyme with herring or with stirring?
   Prison, bison, treasure trove,
   Treason, hover, cover, cove,

Perseverance, severance. Ribald
Rhymes (but piebald doesn't) with nibbled.
   Phaeton, paean, gnat, ghat, gnaw,
   Lien, psychic, shone, bone, pshaw.

Don't be down, my own, but rough it,
And distinguish buffet, buffet;
   Brood, stood, roof, rook, school, wool, boon,
   Worcester, Boleyn, to impugn.

Say in sounds correct and sterling
Hearse, hear, hearken, year and yearling.
   Evil, devil, mezzotint,
   Mind the z! (A gentle hint.)

Now you need not pay attention
To such sounds as I don't mention,
   Sounds like pores, pause, pours and paws,
   Rhyming with the pronoun yours;

Nor are proper names included,
Though I often heard, as you did,
   Funny rhymes to unicorn,
   Yes, you know them, Vaughan and Strachan.

No, my maiden, coy and comely,
I don't want to speak of Cholmondeley.
   No. Yet Froude compared with proud
   Is no better than McLeod.

But mind trivial and vial,
Tripod, menial, denial,
   Troll and trolley, realm and ream,
   Schedule, mischief, schism, and scheme.

Argil, gill, Argyll, gill. Surely
May be made to rhyme with Raleigh,
   But you're not supposed to say
   Piquet rhymes with sobriquet.

Had this invalid invalid
Worthless documents? How pallid,
   How uncouth he, couchant, looked,
   When for Portsmouth I had booked!

Zeus, Thebes, Thales, Aphrodite,
Paramour, enamoured, flighty,
   Episodes, antipodes,
   Acquiesce, and obsequies.

Please don't monkey with the geyser,
Don't peel 'taters with my razor,
   Rather say in accents pure:
   Nature, stature and mature.

Pious, impious, limb, climb, glumly,
Worsted, worsted, crumbly, dumbly,
   Conquer, conquest, vase, phase, fan,
   Wan, sedan and artisan.

The th will surely trouble you
More than r, ch or w.
   Say then these phonetic gems:
   Thomas, thyme, Theresa, Thames.

Thompson, Chatham, Waltham, Streatham,
There are more but I forget 'em-
   Wait! I've got it: Anthony,
   Lighten your anxiety.

The archaic word albeit
Does not rhyme with eight-you see it;
   With and forthwith, one has voice,
   One has not, you make your choice.

Shoes, goes, does *. Now first say: finger;
Then say: singer, ginger, linger.
   Real, zeal, mauve, gauze and gauge,
   Marriage, foliage, mirage, age,

Hero, heron, query, very,
Parry, tarry fury, bury,
   Dost, lost, post, and doth, cloth, loth,
   Job, Job, blossom, *****, oath.

Faugh, oppugnant, keen oppugners,
Bowing, bowing, banjo-tuners
   Holm you know, but noes, canoes,
   Puisne, truism, use, to use?

Though the difference seems little,
We say actual, but victual,
   Seat, sweat, chaste, caste, Leigh, eight, height,
   Put, nut, granite, and unite.

****** does not rhyme with deafer,
Feoffer does, and zephyr, heifer.
   Dull, bull, Geoffrey, George, ate, late,
   Hint, pint, senate, but sedate.

Gaelic, Arabic, pacific,
Science, conscience, scientific;
   Tour, but our, dour, succour, four,
   Gas, alas, and Arkansas.

Say manoeuvre, yacht and *****,
Next omit, which differs from it
   Bona fide, alibi
   Gyrate, dowry and awry.

Sea, idea, guinea, area,
Psalm, Maria, but malaria.
   Youth, south, southern, cleanse and clean,
   Doctrine, turpentine, marine.

Compare alien with Italian,
Dandelion with battalion,
   Rally with ally; yea, ye,
   Eye, I, ay, aye, whey, key, quay!

Say aver, but ever, fever,
Neither, leisure, skein, receiver.
   Never guess-it is not safe,
   We say calves, valves, half, but Ralf.

Starry, granary, canary,
Crevice, but device, and eyrie,
   Face, but preface, then grimace,
   Phlegm, phlegmatic, ***, glass, bass.

Bass, large, target, gin, give, verging,
Ought, oust, joust, and scour, but scourging;
   Ear, but earn; and ere and tear
   Do not rhyme with here but heir.

Mind the o of off and often
Which may be pronounced as orphan,
   With the sound of saw and sauce;
   Also soft, lost, cloth and cross.

Pudding, puddle, putting. Putting?
Yes: at golf it rhymes with shutting.
   Respite, spite, consent, resent.
   Liable, but Parliament.

Seven is right, but so is even,
Hyphen, roughen, nephew, Stephen,
   Monkey, donkey, clerk and ****,
   Asp, grasp, wasp, demesne, cork, work.

A of valour, vapid vapour,
S of news (compare newspaper),
   G of gibbet, gibbon, gist,
   I of antichrist and grist,

Differ like diverse and divers,
Rivers, strivers, shivers, fivers.
   Once, but *****, toll, doll, but roll,
   Polish, Polish, poll and poll.

Pronunciation-think of Psyche!-
Is a paling, stout and spiky.
   Won't it make you lose your wits
   Writing groats and saying "grits"?

It's a dark abyss or tunnel
Strewn with stones like rowlock, gunwale,
   Islington, and Isle of Wight,
   Housewife, verdict and indict.

Don't you think so, reader, rather,
Saying lather, bather, father?
   Finally, which rhymes with enough,
   Though, through, bough, cough, hough, sough, tough??

Hiccough has the sound of sup...
My advice is: GIVE IT UP!
Not one of mine but I thought it a fun look at our funny language
Daniel J Weller Jul 2018
You weren't the poetic one, but I just read Kaddish
and thought of you;
           of 1998 beach photo, Sussex somewhere - as I
remember you, perhaps a bit younger;
           of sweet peroxide blonde, hiding brunette. I was
naive to the dye 'til I saw 'the Hepburn shot' - that 1950
something print, you in Rembrandt light,
           or the black beehive wig in family portrait—
1970ish— dicky bows and cocktail dresses - Dad, aged
seven, in a shirt and trousers;
           of youthful snapshots: Portobello Beach, Edinburgh
(4), with parents in Kent (8), your gang of girls some snowy
place (14), painting the house with Raymond in Croydon (20);
           of latter digital images, 2012, more gaunt and wrinkled,
but ever-beautiful - seemingly ageless, as you wished;

           of care and trust and overdone vegetables, thin gravy,
brussel sprout production lines - beautiful, mundane memories
at Cowfold breakfast bar or Langley Green kitchen tops;
           of seaside trips to Shoreham, Portsmouth, Brighton, dogs
homes and holding my hand past the loud ones;
           of picking roses from the garden for 'perfume' - sticky
hands, wet floors and beautiful smells;
           of early morning rude awakenings, met only with cheer
and offers of tea and toast - I still have your butter tray
(hospitable even in death);
           of my brother's wedding, taking time to jive and seem
alive whilst everyone else was dying inside, despite the fact
that it was you, and you only, who should care the most (and
thus, if you didn't, why should we have);
           and of that very temperament, infamous tempers never
shown—at least to us—just pure, kind acceptance and
forgiveness.

           You weren't the poetic one.
           You were; the ninth child of a ****** and his wife
                              the girl with the Scottish accent
                              the wife of an engineer from Mitcham
                              the mother of three, the loser of one
                              the stern face of discipline
                              the BT telephone operator, the masseuse
                              the grandmother of three boys
                              the ageless face of beauty
                              the one I remember best

           You told me you couldn't recall your siblings' names -
I've looked into it. Ada, Jack, Edie, Emmie, Mabel, Joyce,
Raymond, Terence.
Beaulieu, France, July 2018

(to my late grandmother Margaret Rose Olga Weller)
Hakim Kassim Sep 2016
(for K. Briggs, Portsmouth)

     All that ever was
        joyous, and clear
         and fresh,
     [your] music doth
        surpass "
             -Percy Shelley.

I do not know the
   reason why
The world turns with
   me when you walk
         by,

With a thousand
     words scarred
        across your face,
Breaking down my
    defense with a
      casual gaze.

Morning or evening
   when you walk by,
My heart skips a beat,
   lost in the 'you-and-
        I;'

With your light step a
  vivid link to a higher
     grace--
At a different time, at
     a different place!

Your eyes turn away
   as you pass, as if we
      were kidding one
         another,
As if no two were
   meant to be
     together!

You go your way,
   leaving me lost and
     amazed:
So much said in so
   little expressed!

      -by Hakim Kassim.
      (d.January, 2000)
A Nov 2018
It was the Morning
I loudly announced my arrival
My mother and father overjoyed

I had a mere scratch on my head,
But wounds heal,
And I grew

In the seaside of Portsmouth, Virginia
Walking, speaking, laughing, crying,
Bursting

It was in the morning,
When I had a chance to be
Anything:
JidosReality Nov 2017
I love Reading books on Kings and Queens.it’s amazing how I feel creating patterns that speak to me.

Inspired by the this city that has welcomed me. There is no other place I would rather be.

It’s like my designs are words that are hear to change the world, from henna to weaving creating and passion.

My imagination creates all these designs that start blushing.

See kids are our future teaching is my dream and I’ll teach them always to follow they dreams.

And give back to this place I now call home Portsmouth City. Remember your futures born with freedom follow your dreams and allow your imagination to speak to you.

For if I can take a plain page and bring it alive, you could work towards your future and watch it smile.

JidosReality 4.10.17
Nairah amazing talented Refugee Your futures born with freedom #JidosReality #Poetry #JourneysFestervel
JidosReality Nov 2017
Through all the ashes and the hard times, the first time she looked at me her eyes made me smile,

when I think of it, you are the life of my heart.
You’re the reason I smile when I find everything so hard.

With every breath I take and the magic we make. I’m yours and you’re mine, you, my best mate.

The feeling I feel when I’m with you and when you’re not around I always miss you.

I remember the day I said  i do put the ring on my finger Then I kissed you.
Marriage, this thing, this special thing that we are in, two lovers for life, as strong as this ring.

And now I smile I  have a wife in my life. romantic trips to the isle-of Wright candle night dinners down Gun Warf, watching the ships pass by.

Laughing trying to count the stars in the sky, many city’s Iv lived in who would of thought Portsmouth City, is the place I would call home don’t need nothing else but me and my wife.

Planning our future together travel the world to many places, from France to Dubai to Australia to many other city’s calling us.

For she is my happiness and he is mine two.

JidosReality 3.10.17
Amazing couple through all the ashes found happiness #JidosReality #Poetry #JourneysFestervel
Day #9: Grand Canyon to Williams Arizona (p.m.)

The East Entrance to the Canyon had always been my least favorite way to enter the Park. I usually arrived by the elevated and back canyon road from Flagstaff known as Arizona Rt.# 64.  Alpine and rural, it was more than a mile up in the clouds. Today though, I had no other choice and would enter the park from the lowest depths of a barren landscape.  It was dusty and hot (106’) when I passed the old Cameron Trading Post just before the Park’s entrance.  I turned onto the park road and looked high up into the distance before me. The greatest sight visible anywhere on earth, and the standard bearer of all God’s creation, was just beyond my reach — but it wouldn’t be for long!

I climbed the twenty-six miles toward the rim, and as the temperature dropped, my spirit soared.  The memory of Sam was now a spiritual bead on my Rosary to be remembered in my thoughts and prayed for every day. I saw two great hawks soaring overhead.  They were not moving their wings and remained motionless as they went higher.  I knew they were caught in the great updraft of something whose true height could not be measured and whose depths would never be fully explored.

The Comfort Zone Of Relative Size And Dimension Was About To                                           Disappear

At the top, I saw at least 100 cars parked along the canyon’s edge.  This marked the first series of rims and lookout points for what no first visitor was ever ready to see.  As I searched for a place to park the bike, the returning vision of something I had never been able to explain rushed out and overtook me again.  

I knew, after so many visits, you never looked into the Grand Canyon without permission. The only way to truly see what your eyes were about to embrace was to accept the changes happening inside of you as you stood in her presence. The Canyon took hold of all searchers and played with their sight while making it her own.  Finally, she gave back to the lucky few a new vision of themselves, affirming those things that they had up until now denied.

It was a mid-August day, and I had never been here during the height of tourist season.  As I walked to the Canyon’s edge, I had to weave through the packed in crowd of European and Asian tourists lining the rail. Looking off into her distance, a blessed transformance emptied my soul. It created space for what I was hoping to take with me, and with each visit I knew the cost increased. Each time I left, there would be an even greater part of myself left behind — a part that would call out when my confusion returned.  The Great Canyon cared not about reasons or circumstance, she stood only as she is, a GIANT, isolated from all ordinary things, a connective force that allowed us to dream beyond ourselves … and to eventually see.  

It led you beyond what you thought yourself capable of before.  And without guidepost or roadmap, it brought you only and exactly to where you most needed to go.  The Great Canyon began where your imagination ended and, by looking into her depths, you were at once changed and transformed.  Transformation being measured by what you left behind.

The Great Canyon neither pretended to know what you know nor portended your future. Timeless and unchallenged, she stood guard over all that is. Your questions here were but echoes from a distant memory.  It was, the one spot on earth, where you stood and heard the answers returned to you for what they were — disturbing reminders that much of your life had been spent in denial.  

She neither blessed nor forgave, and her message spoke only of today. Whether you looked one time or stared into her unending depths forever, she treated you the same.  All meaning was derived from what she taught and the immediacy of how that made you feel.

Like two things that must be shaken together to be truly mixed, the Grand Canyon joined your mind and spirit in a cocktail that intoxicated your soul. She inebriated your entire being.  Yes, she was that big and more.  To say otherwise only reinforced what you still needed to know.  She continually poured all that she was, and is, into everything that you were not. Like the arid canyons and valleys that were overflowing with her waters, our spirits hoped to become a small tributary into what she had become.  

Becoming was all that mattered in the Canyon, yesterday and tomorrow were for those already dead inside.  I looked up again and saw the Great Hawk. Its wings were tucked back in dive position, and it was headed toward its destiny in the Colorado River below.  All of life’s summation was contained within its dive, and all that would ever matter in my own life was contained in the connection I felt.

I stopped at ten different rims that afternoon, but one would have been enough. What stared back at me never changed until everything inside of me was again new. My first look into the eyes of my Spiritual Mother 30 years ago, and the one again today, released me from ever having to be in only one place. She called to me in the most distant reaches of my isolation and reminded me that whenever lonely or confused, with her — I would always have a home.

There was never a way to come ‘to terms’ or to ‘make peace’ with what the Canyon taught. The very best you could hope for was to live unguarded and within the message of her timeless beauty. Within your spiritual awakening there would be found an eternal connection, and in the release that it brought you … you could make peace with yourself.  

There were no rooms, either inside or outside the park, as I passed by Canyon Village. I gladly bypassed the tourist frenzy that happened at both sunset and sunrise and pointed the bike further South.  I did not resent or begrudge the tourists for what they did or for what they thought they wanted.  I just needed to be alone with my mother, but for today that might have to wait.  As I left the Park, I spotted the long gravel road that was used only by the park service. It was open and still had not been paved.  I turned left and traveled its half-mile length to a ****** rim which faced off to the East. I had worried, when coming up from Cameron, that it might no longer be accessible.  It was here that I had always been able to talk to my mother alone, and the place where her voice had always been loudest and strong.

  As She Sensed My Approach, The Ancient Memories Returned

It was a private access road, and by design was restricted to all trespassers like me. My mother had called loudest to me from here, and I liked thinking of this place as hers and mine alone. After less than five minutes in her presence, two hikers came out of the bushes saying: “WOW, the view is really spectacular from here.”  I realized at that moment that the concept of ownership was still one of my many faults and one that I had to work on if I was ever to become totally free.  I shared my mother with the two German hikers, as we celebrated in communal reverence an unspoken reflection.

An hour later, and having made two new friends, I was again on my way. I eased the bike down the old service road and made the left turn onto Rt.#64 toward Flagstaff.  From this spot on the Canyon’s Far South Rim, I had only eighty more miles to go.  In her neither giving nor taking away, my mother had put me at rest about Sam. As she said goodbye she left me with the words: “Your sympathy will never change what only your empathy can set free.”  

I exited the Park in a southerly direction and saw no other people.  The only sound I heard was my mother’s heartbeat. It was from the current she carried deeply inside of her so far below.  I thanked her again for having kept me close and reminded her of how much my father loved her. By returning me to her this week, he reaffirmed his deepest feelings.  And from the High Northern Regions that fed her each spring, he stood forever vigilant and on-guard. She smiled back at me from her great distance and expressed with her silence the things that only he could hear and the things that a son, no matter how dutiful, could never truly understand.  

The high pines that lined this back road out of the Canyon made it one of my favorite rides.  It was getting to be late afternoon, as I rolled past the cattle herds and cut timber that filled this high mountain plateau. Most would never associate this landscape with Arizona, as it more resembled Idaho or Northwestern Colorado. This part of the Great Canyon State was atypical of what you expected and special unto itself.  In thirty miles, I came to a major fork in the road.  To the left was Flagstaff, but to the right was Williams.  Both towns sat on Interstate Rt.#40, but Williams was closer, and since I had never spent the night there before, I took the fork to the right.

        Newness Was Always Birth Mother To My Anticipation

In a long hour I was in Williams. It was one of the old original stops along the Mother Road. At one time, Rt#66 was the main artery East and West across America.  It was along its corridor, and before the interstate highway system was built, that the great motorized migrations of Detroit iron began. Williams was still trying to eke out a living based on the myth of the old road, and a resurgence and hunger for 1950’s glory kept the tourists coming … especially those fifty and older. It was quaint and touristy, but then it always had been. It was also mostly authentic and looked just as it had when the autos were carbureted, the air-conditioner was a hand crank on the inside of the car’s door, and families were large.

After I circled the town twice on its two parallel (and 1-way) main roads, hunger overtook me, and I was in search of good food.  I was lucky enough to get the last room at the Red Garter Inn where I parked the motorcycle for the night.  After a quick fresh up in the bathroom, I left my helmet on the bedside table and hung my Kevlar riding jacket on the back of the closet door.  I was still in the lower half of my riding suit, with my boots on, as I headed into town.  It was something that I had learned years ago and was now a rule that I carefully observed. Staying in my riding suit prompted conversations with strangers and other motorcyclists that would never have happened otherwise.  Tonight turned out to be no exception.

It Also Allowed Me To Travel Out From Pennsylvania With Only                                          One Small Bag

As I walked up a side street from my hotel into town, I heard one of the two things I was looking for, ‘Live Music.’ The guitar player was halfway through ‘Gentle On My Mind,’ by the great Mississippi River banjo player, John Hartford.  Most people thought Glenn Campbell had written the song on his famous Ovation 12-string guitar. He did have a big hit with it back in the 60’s, but it was actually written by John Hartford and a song that I had always loved.  As I followed my ears, the guitar player morphed right into the great instrumental, ‘Classical Gas,’ by Mason Williams.  By now I could see the café/restaurant at the next corner, and from all outward appearances, it was everything I had hoped for.

It Was Called Pancho McGillicuddys, And The Food Smelled As                             Good As The Music Sounded

The waitress seated me at an outside table with a view of the street.  I was less than thirty feet from where the guitar player sat, as he started to play the great Harold Arlen and Yip Harburg song — ‘Somewhere Over The Rainbow.’  This is the greatest American song ever written, and he performed it well.  Upon finishing, he took a break, and the waitress came back for my order.  The quesadilla combo, refried beans, and local micro-brew, sounded perfect, as the sun disappeared behind me and off to my left. The last table was being seated, as the gas lights came on that lined the streets, and darkness became a backdrop to a magical sky.    

I couldn’t remember the last time I felt this hungry.  The waitress brought my food as the guitar player returned.  The first song of his new set was ‘Fire And Rain,’ by James Taylor, which is my favorite song of all time. I knew at that moment, that on this night, and in this town, I was exactly where I was supposed to be.  I decided to give my mind the night off and just go with the music.  If you’re ever in Williams, and in need of a travel break, I can’t recommend McGillicuddys highly enough.

Sometimes, Like Tonight, The ‘Road’ Presents You With A Special                                                    Gift

A big smile was permanently implanted on my face, as a family of four came in and was seated at the table to my left.  It was a father and mother in their late forties, and two teenaged boys. The father was wearing a lacrosse t-shirt from a school I didn’t recognize, so when he looked over and smiled, I said, “Nice to see a Lacrosse shirt so far from home.” He answered: “We’re from Portsmouth Virginia and out here on vacation, I played at Woodberry-Forest, and both boys now play at their respective schools.”

He then said, “So what are you riding?” The boots and the riding pants were a dead giveaway, as the guitar player started ‘Cheeseburger In Paradise’ by Jimmy Buffett.  He was sure it was a Harley, as I explained I was riding a Honda Goldwing. I told him that after 40 years of riding, the Goldwing was the best touring bike that God, or any engineer, had ever made.  As I explained to him the benefits of shaft drive over a belt or chain, his eyes widened, as he finally grasped where my travels had taken me during the past ten days.

“You went from Vegas to the Canadian border and then south to Arizona, all in a long week?”  Yes, I answered him, and every mile was a joy to ride. I wish there had been more time because then I could have gone further north, maybe even to Alaska.  At this point his wife’s eyes glassed over, as women’s often do, when mentally picturing their own husbands riding a motorcycle. They often saw only the danger and not the thrill and joy of riding to new places.  It was a shame, but it was a reality and a major hurdle that most men had to get over at home when they made the decision to ride later in life.

We continued to talk while they ate, and I came to find out that their oldest son’s high school coach had been a teammate of my sons when he was in high school. They were both on a team that had won the Pennsylvania State Lacrosse Championship back in 2000.  Sometimes, the very best things in life also had the smallest following.  Small, in terms of the numbers they produced, but large in the effects that their participation created.  Both long-distance motorcycle touring and lacrosse had been two of those special things in my life.  They created a spiritual and permanent bond between all those who had either played or ridden together and resulted in lifelong friendships that are cherished to this day.

On 9/11, Almost 100 Of Our Beloved Lacrosse Alumni Lost Their                                              Lives

His wife then asked me where my son had gone to high school.  “Haverford School,” I told her.  She brightened up immediately and said, “I went to Haverford College which is right next door.”  “Amazing,” I said, “how small the world really is.”  She then wanted to know what the college lacrosse recruiting process was like during the third year of high school. I was glad to share with both her and her husband what my son and I had gone through only ten years ago.  That small world we rediscovered through our common experience continued to get smaller throughout the evening. We continued to share more of where our lives had taken us and, in being together in this remote spot along old Highway Rt. #66, we grew bigger inside.

As the waitress passed my table again, I realized that I had already had one beer too many and was enjoying myself entirely too much.  I said goodbye to my new friends and started the walk back to my hotel glad that I didn’t have to get back on the motorcycle again tonight. After four beers, I knew that I would never try to ride, but the removal of temptation went a long way.

Sleep came easy on that night, and I did not dream —the effects of having lived beyond what on most days I only hoped for.  I thought to myself while still awake in the darkened room, with only the light from the train-yard filtering through my window, how truly lucky I was … even if everything ended tonight.  

Just then, the high-pitched whistle of a distant train approaching Williams, came through my wall.  It was a fitting exclamation point to another day beyond all planning and another example of why without a fixed itinerary, I continued to ride.  Just before sleep, the immortal words of Crazy Horse and the Oglala people flashed before my eyes. “HOKA HEY’, it is a good day to die.”  The Lakota knew that a good day to die was an even better one to live, and on this incredible day that ended in Williams Arizona, so did I.

My Prayer That Night Was To Avoid All Future Mediocrity, As The Back-Half Of My Life Continued To Unfold



Authors Note:
These chapters became longer as the sweetness of the days they told of increased.  Each one built upon the other until blockages were unstopped — with all knowledge running back to its source.

— The End —