AFRICAN TALES

I had always dreamed of going to Africa, I just didn't know in what capacity. An opportunity had arisen whereby I had 3 weeks off work and I decided I would volunteer for a HIV/AIDS organisation in Africa. That seemed both a righteous and noble thing to do. Not for one moment did I think it could possibly change the way I viewed the world forever.

I went to Africa expecting to volunteer and make a documentary about HIV/AIDS, I should have known better than to control what was in store for me, I should have known better to control my destiny.

I had imagined providing education on HIV awareness, training nurses and being busy with the NGO Hope For Living. Expectation is always based on our own values, judgments and hopes. It is no wonder we feel surprised when our expectation is not met as it is fuelled with so much personal gain.

I felt very ready to give myself to Ghana however was Ghana ready to receive me? In Ghanaian custom, 'time' has a very different meaning to what I was use to. 'Time' is governed by the sun and the moon, by the light and by the tide. Hence, I did not expect to spend my first week doing very little. Well, that's what I thought. I was in fact doing quite a bit. I was adjusting to a new way of life, a foreign culture, built on ancient custom and tradition.

The following is a collection of poems called 'African Tales' and is a personal account of my experiences as a white industrialised woman, traveling to a foreign land, holding firm ideas and thoughts about how I could save the world. I had also met a new lover just before I left for Africa. This, combined with my outlook for my trip, was always going to be a recipe for some wonderful poetry, if nothing else!

Sad Love

A chemical infusion that is so intense,
Between two people unbearable it makes no sense,
Impossible to be with or without their love,
Yet while apart one can fly like a dove.

Unable to sit in a room without wanting to touch,
And kiss their lips the feeling it’s such a rush,
Like an addiction a hit heals the pain,
Yet dependant and destructive unable to gain.

Lust perhaps or purely a strong connection,
It’s like a fast and growing viral infection,
Unable to treat or find a cure,
Except to remain far so never to lure.

When distant the flower is able to grow,
And the pain extinguishes never again to show,
Independence is reached a higher plane to travel,
And no more jigsaw puzzle to unravel.

It’s a ‘sad love’ for two cannot be united,
Or experience the fondness when lovers delighted,
Feel sure that ‘sad love’ stops the healing,
From the past pains that life’s cards have been dealing.

The Brighton to London Poet

© 2005 MCARB

New Insights

For those who do not know,
To Accra I could not go,
A visa slipped my mind,
Returning to fly another time.

A week later I board my plane,
Running late with many delays,
Amsterdam to Ghana I now soar,
In six hours I arrive at their door.

The unknown and new experience,
To explore a land of such deliverance,
A continent with history so ancient,
Their hurts and crimes so blatant.

Africa a land so rich and poor,
The great divide, a paradox no more,
For its riches have led to its demise,
Greed and gluttony the clever device.

I sit with two sisters sweet delight,
A large continent they leave from their sight,
Passionate and eager to participate,
To improving society’s future fate.

North Carolina the accent so strong,
To Ghana a group they will bond,
An itinerary which schedules their time,
Historical perspectives a wondrous sublime.

We share this space, our travel,
As we reach a place of great marvel,
The airport will be our goodbye,
As we part to gain our new insights.

The Brighton to London Poet

© 2006 MCARB

The Sound of Africa

I woke to the sounds of African women singing,
To birds ringing,
And roosters whining.

I woke to a beat,
Which one cannot sleep,
For it keeps you alive,
As you rise,
To welcome it

The sunbursts a loud hello,
Alone and amidst the bright blue sky,
And banana leaves sway in time,
With the warm breeze,
With ease,
The day begins,

And my sense of sound has been ignited,
Coupled with the oh so familiar smell of Africa.

A sensory explosion,
For it has long been touched,
I have desired this much,
For my land of origin sings the same song.

My blood longs to dance this fine tune,
Of morning dew,
And summer nights.
For England has made my blood thin,
And the greyness dim,
Perpetuates the longing for something grin.

I am but a mere stranger to this land,
Yet unknown of its foreign sand.
I wait in anticipation of future elation's,
Or perhaps deflation.

This is but the pure anxious excitement
Of entering naively the adventures of new,
As I weave a unique thread,
And wed the fabric in stitch,
To which a blanket is made.

This blanket will guide me,
From the pitfalls of human frailty,
And I must believe in the power of the higher deity,
To keep me safe on my path of desirability.

I now leap off the mountain,
A fool wise and unnerved,
For I deserve to be free,
And see how life can be.

The Brighton to London Poet

© 2006 MCARB

Food and Water

In a foreign country I sit,
My visit testing new ground,
Of unfamiliar territory and sound.

A place taken by one in-charge,
I sit hungry and thirsty I want to discharge
How I feel.

Yet in respect for this foreign land,
I remain silent and suffer alone,
For soon I will go somewhere close by,
Where food and water,
I shall not die.

Comforts I surround myself with and rely,
And now I have been removed from that safe womb,
Into a forest of wild and inextricably sun drenched landscapes,
that shape a continent so vast,
Where things stay slow not fast.

And my body is adjusting to the pace,
Confused and delirious the space it creates,
For I am hungry and thirsty, and anxious to go,
To that somewhere close by.

Yet I know I will not die,
Yet comforts call me home.

I shall display courage and strong will,
To remain still,
And far reaching content,
By the bewilderment I now sense.

The person in-charge in now asleep,
And I could sleep for this strange course of events
That blends my anxious desire for food and water,
Put out this fire.

I reach a point of being out of control,
My role now much more submissive,
Leaving me unable to be completely decisive.

My choices taken away,
And the day drifts from morning to late,
My hunger a symbol of life,
Of primal instinct my strife.

To refuse my need so basic would be wasted,
And I now crave to taste a sweet smell,
To hear a soft touch,
And see a safe tune.

Yet I know I will be somewhere close by,
Where food and water,
I shall not die.

The Brighton to London Poet

© 2006 MCARB

Sweet Seduction

What sweetness can I speak?
When the taste of you is a memory,
But a memory I relish and yearn,
For when you return I will relearn the memory of sweet.

But don’t let these mellifluous words deceive,
Because despite those memories,
Redolent with every colour and hue,
I can still taste the sweetness of you.

Oh how you speak such aromatic words so naively,
Could be a fool if you deceive me,
For a fool leaps into the wild unknown,
Searching for seductive sweetness alone.

When I do return shall you taste,
And my absence will be no more to waste,
To devour the intricacies of our human make-up,
For passion and frenzy will lead to our inner wake-up.

For words refined yet speak so blind,
For how are you yet to feel the decline,
Of my sweetness it has been so raw,
Of protem time unlike before.

Perhaps you speak from heart alone,
And for this I fall for such sweet tone,
My mind restricts the flame to rise,
I long to feel and still be wise.

I fear the union may travel near,
The distance far our time may sear,
I thus remain the valve enclosed,
To open and release engorges inner woes.

Fear not your questions will be answered,
Our time surpasses all you've wondered,
But what do I receive in turn,
Or is my role to help you learn?

I feel for you and hasten to be close,
Talk no more, silence rules verbose,
One day you may waken and be alone,
Yet your heart will glisten like a precious gem stone.

The Brighton to London Poet

© 2006 MCARB

The Dream

I visit you at night, despite,
The distance our bodies disunite,
I can clearly envisage your face,
Whilst I engage in acts of much disgrace.

A dream, a reflection of mind's altered state,
The thoughts and feelings encircle and berate,
I travel to a place of discontent,
A temptress I become I now relent.

But what does this dream really mean,
And is it to cause me pain I have seen,
Or is it simply the projection of anxious thoughts,
And in this way it's a mish mash of sorts.

Yet I awake feeling the guilt of such misconduct,
And I question the accuracy of ill-fate or of luck,
For dreams extend to a realm of inner conscience,
And become entrenched in my waking inhabitance.

Such vivid and alive images do prevail,
Awoken by African women who sing to hail,
I re-enter the state of another plane,
Regardless of my conscious emotional disdain.

Two men I surround Aphrodite she calls,
A barrier erects and I collide with the wall,
My choice and unreluctant acquiesce,
Abates my character such power unbalanced.

In disgust today I willingly search,
To seek redemption whereby I may,
And if this fails I will now perch,
My dream instructs a new seed to sow.

The Brighton to London Poet

© 2006 MCARB

The Professor

I met a professor from Ghana University,
He challenged the nature of spirituality,
A background in physics and solar energy,
The University of Sussex he did his PhD.

What are the chances of meeting him so,
In such a vast country and many places to go,
A small village called Ashoma I do reside,
A precious moment in time I do oblige.

A solemn service the ‘prof’ does so desire,
Or is that the rationalization for his faith has tired,
Unsure which religion to now participate,
To question and challenge may be his fate.

A scientist by trade his dogma is told,
Reason and logic a formula so bold,
Religion and science are foundations for truth,
Subjective, objective, they can be so crude.

Is truth the search for so many today,
And what do these dogmas really say?

Today I attend a service to observe,
For many to worship God creator of earth,
A report to the ‘prof’ I am to provide,
An honest account no feelings to hide.

But how to I describe these feelings inside,
My confusion of the intrusion of one so high,
And who am I to judge this place,
Christianity its dogma to many a safe space.

Prof, I leave you with my words to ponder,
Your faith, your truth, all such wonder,
Together we share a similar story,
To question and challenge religious dogma our fury.


The Brighton to London Poet

© 2006 MCARB

Accra Central

Today I traveled alone to a foreign ground with ancient sounds,
Transported amongst the locals, peered on by strange and curious looks,
I felt strangely like a minority, of lesser than white man’s superiority, and this felt gratifyingly apt.

For white man has destroyed this land with its demands and somewhat gruesome strands of leadership. But I am a white woman, what has this got to do with me, can’t they see I have not infected their earth yet today I felt the mirth of a people subjected to politics of dirt their hurt runs deep and why should they trust a white woman who travels alone.

External influences infiltrate my thoughts and myths, morals and misperceptions seep through and judgements and values creep in yet they are not deep and I trust in the people of Ghana for they are my equal and history shows they have climbed great heights of their steeple and survived the demonstrative results of colonialism, imperialism and many other isms.

The people of Ghana showed kindness to me, yes they can see I am a white woman with no harm to cause, others have created the wars. Yet I remain mindful I can be perceived as part of those who deceive with ulterior motives and this in mind I act in kind and show my utmost respect to the people of Ghana.

Perhaps it is my own internalized fear and I subconsciously seek to reprieve for past hurts. Maybe the people of Ghana do not project the hurt of their ancestors and do not detest white people at all. I shall rest tonight with this foresight, feeling deep inside the pride I feel for overcoming my own prejudice and move forward blessed with a new knowing to help me keep going in this world free from judgement and the ability to overthrow the incredulity of external forces which poison and divorce me from the soil which grounds me.

I am pleased for today I was able to see, and subsequently be free.

The Brighton to London Poet

© 2006 MCARB

Age Sabotage

I meet a young man from Canterbury,
He leaves me with such frenzy and fury,
A lion so courageous is he,
I wonder how long together we will be.

Again I find someone their age unlike me,
I fret for one day he will go to farewell our time,
Am I sabotaging my happiness this way,
Is the universe testing my character I dare say.

Perhaps I must walk away now and hurt no more,
Ethics and morals I decree as my law,
A social construction no need be a limit,
Yet my instinct says the contrary oh god dammit!

We seem so perfect in so many ways,
His charisma, his mind blow me away,
Physically the chemistry is gratifyingly intense,
His taste, his smell leave me blindingly entrenched.

His age discriminates and leaves me wondering,
To end it now to save a future blundering,
To do so will require a greater person than I,
To my grave I will crave for him and on earth I will die.

The Brighton to London Poet

© 2006 MCARB

Wonderment

Eyes wide open his lens a landscape great,
Absorbing which surrounds so that little dissipates,
Dark colour outlines the cornea he seems so eager and so willing,
To embrace the shades he shall collect to be part of his worldly filling.

He unknowingly strides the soil and emulates,
An innocent young prince he captivates,
The awe of small and precious stones,
He exhumes a sense to him unbeknown.

What lies behind and deep below his sight,
Of mystery not unlike an undiscovered plight,
To venture beyond the shadow of his capacity,
Searching for external love and prosperity.

His eyes sing a song of wild and rhythmic beats,
He dances Brazilian steps with no defeats,
His blood flows like a rapid limits unseen,
And his mind articulates profoundly all that has been.

I witness a rare and an exuberant being,
And observe his desire and intent on seeing,
The world from hidden angels he’s been sent,
To offer a picture of such wonderment.

The Brighton to London Poet

© 2006 MCARB

Marginal Difference

I look for the difference in worlds apart,
At first to witness an equal start,
A race if colour their familiar desires,
Seeking to survive in a place which tires.

Money, religion and sugar tend to dominate,
No different to developed places I do relate,
Yet amongst this forest the trees do shape,
A unique and individual printed drape.

The people so poor basics necessitate,
Politicians corrupt and speak debate,
Chickens, goats and mangy dogs walk the streets,
Markets array with sounds of African beats.

No shopping mall, air conditioning not heard,
Broadband non existent dial-up the word,
Time takes new meaning of ebb and flow,
Be careful not to judge it as backward and slow.

The people such grace and deference,
White man the source of a dividing fence,
It’s too late now the damage is done,
And African culture fights so the war is won.

The food such delicacy of taste and spice,
Of beans, of meat, of chillies and rice,
Water as precious as blood to the sick,
One treats it as gold knowing when to pick.

I struggle to understand the marginal difference,
And feel somewhat confused and rather incensed,
The indiscriminate access to resources and life,
Once can only summarise this is the African tide.

But where do I go with no conclusion to reach,
Do I lay my own values in order for Africa to peach,
It’s a land like many others I have seen,
Can it not grow evolving from its own means?

Education a privilege the rich can seek,
For others the situation remains quite bleak,
Little access to books, computers so rare,
The government dictating control they dare.

The people are dying alone they suffer,
The aid received acts as a useless buffer,
It doesn’t reach those in need and affected,
By poverty and inhumane acts inflicted.

Fear did bring slavery to light,
And commenced the history of the colourful fight,
As a white woman in Ghana I felt the power,
Of being unequal, inferior so sour.

The taste of bitter unripened fruit,
Eaten with hasten fermentation in pursuit.
No trust in the indigenous tribal land,
Unable to communicate to the song they chant.

Nelson Mandela fought for equal rights,
However he failed to consider capitalise plights,
Race his main issue he fought and raised,
Ignoring socialist approaches as alternative ways.

Thus black people remained victim to financial gains,
Allowing equality to fall short from the reigns,
Classism blocked a fair distribution of wealth,
Leaving Africa in poverty no powers no stealth.

Now America controls all its richness,
Although the locals are blind to this deceitfulness,
They strive to work in offices and suit,
Ignoring the land and the delicacies of their fruit.

How does one begin to overthrow capitalism,
It’s woven in every aspect of the world’s complex prism,
Yet to delay that money so toxic a peril,
Is to disregard the essence of corruption and evil.

With no resolve my case remains open,
And my concern remains true rather than token,
Africa must reclaim what has always been theirs,
And walk proudly amidst their colours and flares.


The Brighton to London Poet

© 2006 MCARB

Missing

What is this thing called missing?
A human weakness or pure emotion,
The thought of him stays constant,
And only him I crave, I have wanted.

Away from him I lie,
Unable to smell or touch his skin,
The longing runs deep in my veins,
The missing kind of hurts.

The more I think of it the worse it gets,
Perhaps ‘missing’ is like a virus which mutates,
And the more you fuel its life,
The more you feel in despair and strife.

I’ve never been one to miss or be missed,
And shy away from those who declare it,
It frightens me that someone would need me,
Because what if I’m not able to sooth their missing.

Yet those times when I have truly felt it,
I understand it more and fear it less,
It’s almost endearing to know someone misses you,
A comfort so tender it leaves you yearning.

Despite this I don’t know how I feel about it,
The minds’ consumption with something unattainable,
The frustration and longing pains in my soul,
Perhaps the reward is worth the wait.

And in the missing does the mind wonder recklessly,
Constructing realities based on fear,
Or is this a symbol of a deeper conscience,
Meaning the missing takes different shapes and forms.

I have missed before fearlessly,
When love was solid and assured,
I suppose this missing did not pain me so,
And in a way my heart a fondness did grow.


The Brighton to London Poet

© 2006 MCARB

Intensity

Intensity reaches maximum density,
And my body rides on a function of uncontrollable sensibility.

Intensity overrides all means of rationality,
No logic survives the banality of such unreasonability.

Intensity cures lonely moralities,
And up surges and shoots deep beneath the layers of human skin with little controllability.

Intensity leads to obsessive analities,
Creating new vocabulary unrealistic and unheard of are these profanities.

Yet humanity desires intensity,
And intensity desires humanity, respectively.

The Brighton to London Poet

© 2006 MCARB

My Hunger

It starts with a craving,
A mild yet unrelenting craving,
An itch yearning to be alleviated,
The craving increases in intensity,
Now wanting to be fulfilled,
It requires a response.
A mild craving transcends to a somewhat persistent desire,
Which one can no longer refuse what it requires,
The persistence becomes consistent,
And the imagination of the consumption runs wild,
Like a snow leopard hungry to devour its innocent prey,
With no consequence.

The craving now remains nothing more than the beginning of my hunger,
And like the snow leopard I shall not be deterred on reaching my satisfaction,
I have imagined the taste, the smell, the sight of that first bite,
I am hungry beyond my capacity to control myself,
And in my audacity I think of nothing but my object of desire,
I can not go back to the craving for the hunger dominates,
And I run naively for the sweet taste that only he can provide,
Without him I remain hungry,
And I shall starve whilst away,
Yet this day I rather starve that have no hunger,
For the hunger drives me to ambitiously gratifying starvation,
And amidst my painstakingly, poverty stricken organs,
I relish and embrace the hunger,
For it means I am alive.

My object of desire has unleashed my hunger,
He has awakened my spirit,
And it is my spirit which will protect me from dying from starvation,
This hunger is unlike any other hunger,
For it feeds off the absence of my object of desire,
And as my hunger increases my spirit becomes enchanted,
Filling the frenzy with mystical and magical qualities,
Leaving the spirit energised and satisfied in the hunger,
If I were to be hungry for him for eternity I find myself assured and my spirit rested,
I shall crave the hunger rather than despise it,
For to be satisfied breeds greed,
To be hungry breeds an enlightened spirit,
Feed me no more,
I remain content in my hunger,
And I thank thee for the revelation of my starvation.

This is my hunger,
I crave no more,
But seek to ambitiously desire you form afar,
You are the hunger of my heart,
The hunger which keeps me alive whilst we are apart.

The Brighton to London Poet

© 2006 MCARB

Coming Home

The knowledge of my return eager's me to leave,
To begin the foundation a new quilt to weave,
Excitement flows freely in search of new hope,
I feel empowered having given up the dope!

Anticipating the sense of my new beau,
And in trepidation to observe a heart will grow,
Despite the future this Sunday I will,
Be coming home to be with him, to be quiet and still.

I can not begin to describe the patient longing,
For leaving him so soon increased the craving,
The clock now turns in his direction,
And in his arms I shall feel the sweet perfection.

Three days, two sleeps anxiously I wait,
My concentration detracts from my present state,
Unable to shift from the thought of you,
Coming home is all I really want to do.

Reluctant to lose where I am now,
For my purpose here I must endow,
To reap the rewards of a place so great,
Stories and proverbs to share with inspiring debate.

This land has up surged a new heightened spirit,
And I am grateful for the power that made me do it,
To travel and witness such raw terrain,
And leave me full of delicate gain.

The Brighton to London Poet

© 2006 MCARB

LOVE

These poems have been inspired by love, the love I have observed, the love I have given, the love I have received, the love I wanted, the love I didn't want, the love that is conditional, the love that is infinite, the love I crave, the love that I seek, and the love that just is.

Unfinished No End

His skin on mine ignites
The flame of indiscretion unites
A past love unfinished no end
Moroccan spices exotic blend

His body so strong and robust
The passion of sin full of lust
Temptation unable to resist
He slides his hand I cannot desist

His mind once free from scandalous desire
The chemistry sparks a ravenous fire
The heat protrudes the layers of my heart
Our bodies infused the wanting now starts

Moist and burning sensation he craves
The touch he can no longer refuse he stays
The fight he gives up for pleasure arrives
Pulsating rhythms extreme sexual drives

There’s no point fighting such powerful desire
A natural force from a place much higher
Electrifying energy from the touch of his skin
On my naked body the intensity begins

The magic our bodies know so well
Time passes yet we commence from our previous farewell
It’s like the touch was never meant to fade
Perhaps our love story is yet to be made

The Brighton to London Poet

© 2008 MCARB

The Steps of Love

To dance the steps of love
Rids the toxic waves of hate
The more you dance
The less you hate

To dance the steps of love
Expels the poisonous vacuum of hate
The more you dance
The less you hate

To dance the steps of love
Transcends the bitter taste of hate
The more you dance
The less you hate

To dance the steps of love
Dispels the potent forces of hate
The more you dance
The less you hate

To dance the steps of love
Eradicates the viral nature of hate
The more you dance
The less you hate

To dance the steps of love
Stunts the contagious growth of hate
The more you dance
The less you hate

The more you dance


The Brighton to London Poet

© 2008 MCARB

Rushing Love

I see him standing on a corner
From a distance he starts to rock my world
Could this be the man who holds the key
To my heart its closed who could this be

Love seems so far from my infected mind
It hurts the past tempered sores remind
That love can’t be true only full
Of lies and secrets of push and pull

I can’t fight this feeling no more
Its love I know it’s rushed before
Letting go of toxins from the core
Its love I know it’s rushed before

You walk toward and close to me
I can no longer hide behind the wall
You look into my soul so deep
The key you hold it’s yours to keep

The love you show powerful and raw
The pain extinguished from my sight
The rays of lights from bright high
For love and happiness my soul does cry

The Brighton to London Poet

© 2005 MCARB

Ignited Flame

They dance so close together,
It seems they will be united forever,
The passion runs wild you can see,
Arm in arm, eyes to eyes they perfectly be.

Together they look like one,
Their energy shines as bright as the sun,
Dancing to roaring twenties they appear,
Fresh and exciting with nothing to fear.

Their flame is ignited so intensely brave,
For love surrounds their world untamed,
Laughter and unrequited happiness,
They move in harmony such sweet caress.

Enjoy this precious moment in time,
For it is a blessed with an ever soft sublime,
The warmth you create is wonderfully bliss,
Your tight embrace and excitingly filled kiss.

I witness this love amongst friends so new,
Lust or love, they question it too,
For it seems so raw, can it be so?
Five years long it’s true love can grow.

I’m pleased for them but for me it means,
That perhaps true love I am yet to have been,
For confusion rests on what is love,
In time my heart will open and fly like a dove.

That day will come and the feeling will flow,
The stars will shine brightly with an earthly glow,
And light up my world for now it is clear,
For love is so radiantly pure with nothing to fear.

The Brighton to London Poet

© 2005 MCARB

Senses

Touched by his sense, gifted by God,
Held by his father, together they plod,
Reaching for my cheek, a softness to his kiss,
His touch is so tender, so totally bliss.

He listens to my voice, what does he hear?
I wish it’s my courage, more so than my fear,
He travels from Madrid to visit his brother,
Seen as his equal there is no need to smother.

I prepare him some food, how will it taste?
He devours it completely, leaving no waste,
This pleases me immensely, smiling to show me,
I have done good, this fills me with glee.

His head wanders knowingly, what does he smell?
Unable to see, like a child in a well,
Aromas in the air, flowers and incense,
Unlimited senses, a boundary no fence.

A brief moment in time, his touch in my heart,
For here it will stay, never to part,
Making this world brighter, ridding its tenses,
For you bring a lightness, with all of your senses.

The Brighton to London Poet

© 2005 MCARB

Erupting Emotion

Our bodies meet and erupt with emotion,
For the closeness creates a rhythm and motion,
He touches my skin blood starts rushing,
And I feel intense passion my face starts blushing.

He begins to caress my body from low,
And gently and slowly kissing my toe,
His soft lips my legs he does kiss,
And the feeling amazing such total bliss.

The thought of him going higher drives me insane,
Teasing my body and mind I have no gain,
Unable to control his actions to me,
I close my eyes and heaven is all I see.

My legs moist and body throbbing so,
Wanting to climax I tell him where to go,
Touch me inside he refuses my plea,
And continues his hand moving all over so free.

The womb a sacred and powerful place,
Of childbirth and orgasm a wonderful space,
He uses such care as he reaches my breasts,
Licking them fondly around and in between the crest.

He says he can smell and taste all of me,
Into my eyes he looks so deeply he can see,
Our special connection that I so treasure,
For now I wish for this feeling to stay forever.

The Brighton to London Poet

© 2005 MCARB

Chemical Flame

He says that I am soft such perfection,
I make him smile glass eyes reflection,
It feels like together we have been,
Many years and lives together we’ve seen.

Past, present and future we’ve had,
Times of fun and pleasure so glad,
His world unites with my domain,
Age obscure on similar plane.

We connect in spirit so very well,
The west sounds of chimes and funky doorbell!
Our tight embrace lights dark sky,
Our wings expand so we can fly.

His eyes brown with nature’s green leaf,
Oceans blue waves collide crushing reef,
Earth and water we are one,
For now we meet to have some fun.

The connection rides a rounded wave,
Courage and passion together so brave,
Our bodies make a sparkling chemical flame,
Burning brightly goat and crab perfectly tame.


The Brighton to London Poet

© 2005 MCARB

Tree Surgeon I

I see his eyes from afar,
And feel a beat, a shining star,
Appearing right in front of me,
Does he hold that special key?

Approaching him I find I can,
Queuing and waiting here we stand,
A local boy lives by the sea,
Seven Dials not far from me.

We travel along to different places,
Never to see one of those faces,
A brief encounter for me today,
To work I leave I’m on my way.

I take a seat on London train,
To write and read with such lovely terrain,
My mornings often a fun filled ride,
What today will bring in my great stride.

A familiar face I see get on,
A great surprise the sun has shone,
I smile and feel glad to see,
He approaches and sits next to me.

We talk and talk so easily,
Two common souls how could this be,
I share my stories with him so,
He listens well, his eyes don’t go.

He looks into my soul he sees,
An innocent child and all her fears,
Yet his stare makes this go away,
A moment in time or here to stay.

Food now trees his daily tasks,
A surgeon he oh what a blast,
He works with nature by his side,
He’s made my day, a fine delight.

© 2005 MCARB
The Brighton to London Poet

A Woman Does She

By the coastal waters this woman does live,
A gentle mind and open heart she does give,
My mother she befriended in recent years,
Together they have shared joy and many a tears.

Three sons and a husband this woman does share,
Her love and compassion it is thee she does care,
For peace is her message to spread to all,
Always available to those who do fall.

Softness and warmth this woman does show,
Walking the central coast streets so thoughtful she does go,
Touching people’s lives in a very special way,
Leaving them content to get on with their day.

In her spare time writing and reading this woman can do,
Her talents are endless and she is creative too,
The coastal waves reflect her clear crystal eyes,
And brightens this planet below the heavenly skies.

This woman she does and a woman does she,
Her strength and courage she shows for all to see,
I wish her success in her future life,
For I know she is a remarkable woman and wife.

© 2005 MCARB

The Brighton to London Poet

Tree Surgeon II

I see him at the station again,
He purposely misses his morning train,
To sit with me and travel together,
We discuss my poetry and the weather!

I read to him along the way,
His body moves to things I say,
I mention love and soft kisses,
I feel his pulses and hear his wishes.

My tree surgeon, good or bad?
Chopping trees would make me sad,
He reassures me that he’s a good one,
Protecting nature, conserving, he feels the sun.

His eyes seem lighter with lashes so long,
He liked my poetry what could be wrong,
He looks intensely deep within,
Perhaps its lust, that’s no great sin.

Today he asked me for my name,
With quiet confidence and no shame,
His sweet demeanour attracts me so,
He likes my name, he’s charming and I must go.

My train not ready I hang around,
Reading TIME and taking in the sound,
Of people bustling off to work,
Today I meet not one single jerk.

How exciting for me that he can see,
That something special, that spark in me,
Trees and cats, two precious items,
What a catch, a sexy indictment.

I wonder if we will ever kiss,
His tight embrace, a feeling of bliss,
Will he ever find courage to court me,
Only the future, only time can see.

© 2005 MCARB

The Brighton to London Poet

A Blanket of Unlimited Love

To a woman so close and dear, when far and near she weeps, for the longing creeps in for the closeness conceived at birth.
The umbilical cord did tie the connection of such wondrous affection,
from mother to child with no affliction.

This woman her world she made, her children their life came first, for sickness and for worse, her choice made clear, to wipe our tear, in sadness and in joy,
the foundation of her story.

Three children the love she shared, forever her role she declared,
to see our growth, our failings, our strengths, a mother the love she dared.
Her courage, her faith, her will, to offer us a chance in life,
to give us what she wanted so, far places we would go.

Her desire to love did not tire, unrelentingly putting out the fire, of our misdoings, our mishaps, and our naive misperceptions.
Her mind is blind to deception, her heart open for all to see, and her soul blessed by the gift of the power of high above.

Such love, such grace, such tender feminine touch,
she walks this earth with pride hiding her self-doubt, her self-inadequacies,
so no-one can see, her tear, her fear, her own timid story.
All, so we can be free to experience the fullness of life, refraining from strife, and excelling in our own individuality with an abundance of humility.

A true mother she has been, her strengths and weaknesses I have seen, and I love her even more, the times she has let go of her role and shown me her core, for that person deep inside no longer run and hide.

For Emily is her name and as her daughter
I have no shame to write these words for her –
Mother I love you so and thank you for teaching me to go, into this world alone with a blanket of unlimited love.

And in times of doubt and fear, I wrap my blanket and remember, the person you taught me to be, the individual who is free.
From the deep pockets of my heat I forever shall thank thee.

Happy Birthday Mum

© 2005 MCARB

The Brighton To London Poet