Market Moments

Inspired by view from a Prado Lounge Café Bar.



A great-white van
blocks me from

trying to see beyond
to market stalls;
tent tops – pink, green and humbug – flutter out and up.
Kites restrained.

A great-hairy man, tattooed, from white van – steps out,
phone in hand,
checking for messages.
A lover’s words?

Breeze sweeps him up –
he retreats back
in.
A lover’s call?

Image from wikepedia.com (Creative Commons)

Now, will he move the van?

Knees up, phone in hand, he sits      on.
Humbug.

He revs up.
Message received?
Phone, still in hand, he    exits.

Ladies bouncy, and ladies brittle    swarm.
Golden melons – trophies       balance.

And scarves, £5 a piece      float.

Lone man – green, unshaven, rugged in denim      relaxed
presents himself.

The ladies disperse, and
he strolls on                    through
without regard

Another moment
gone.

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, September 2018

Tipped

Inspired by an upside-down painting in Prado Lounge Café Bar (see image – artist unknown).

Upside-down, a dish mop hangs
Throttled, death-like by longing pangs.

Waitress, I ask, how can this be?
A weary waiter, he wanted free.

The tips he sought, they could not be!

We tipped him up, and shook him
down.
Hence, this portrait wears his frown.

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, September 2018

Shards of Prado

‘Shards’ by Jay Cool

Inspired by tea at Prado Lounge.

Hours spent
at Prado Lounge,
with a one-cup
pot of tea.

To write out angst
in a café full
of strangers.

Strangers who strangle my
words with
talk of

Facebook, overdrafts
and
specials.

I sharpen my pencil
for shards of
wood that crisp
into fans
for fairies.

Shards of words,
phrases and idle gossip –
a never-ever-nose piercing

punches its way
into my
scribblings.

What to do now
with the
shards?

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, The Silly-Savvy Salopian, September 2018

Boston Beans Brunch at Prado

‘Lost at Prado’

Inspired by brunch at Prado Lounge Café Bar
.

Egg yolk bursts forth.
Happy vibes for ailing poets.
Smoky beans begging to be seen.
Skins spiced up to tingle
tired has-beens.

Mini-browns, promoted hash,
bunched in old-tin cup,
begging to be free – to be
dipped in sauce –
to be lifted up.

Crisp, crack, crunch –
too few – now gone.

Lost.

Submerged into
a bucketful of short-gone
memories.

But,
for now,
I feel better.

Copyright of text and photographs owned by Jay Cool, September 2018

Cottages in the Myddle

Inspired by a trip to Myddle, home to my paternal ancestors. Composed, accompanied by a pot of tea, in a Prado Lounge Café Bar.

‘Cottages in Myddle’, photographed by Jay Cool

Neglected cottages.
A terrace of three,
hidden from road’s view
by guarded bushes.
Avoiding camera’s view.

My mind travels in
between brickwork
cracked and sliding –
seeing within, its own view.

A broken hearth with

rusty pot intact,
still waiting to
share its brew

of ice-cold darkness,
of spade and broom,
of props for a splintered
table – legs for a
family strewn.

Three boys, three girls,
and an infant’s cries –
just three years lived
‘fore the life ran dry.
A young child buried
by sandstone wall.
Brick upon brick
raised up by a
father’s toil.

My grandfather, great,
a stonemason’s son.
Seven born and one, now gone,
refreshes solace with
rusty brew.

A wife’s face falls –
her pain too much
to carry on
through; her thoughts drift out to be stroked away,
swiped,
as a young hand, not
yet four,
beckons.

He tends his garden,
not yet middle-aged,
as one by one, three
sons take leave.

Three girls left, all
keen to follow, all keen to step
inside and beyond the prints of brothers.

A young lad  winks,
taking his girl away.

Not yet middle-aged,
a father tends his garden.

Sweet voice, a song, calls
him in: A rusty brew?
    The last I can offer
    ‘fore joining my beau.
    A transport man – I’m
    keen to travel,
says she.

He tends his garden –
one more to go.
She loves her father –
perhaps, she’ll stay?

He tends his garden,
not yet middle-aged.
But old, tired, lonely and
indifferent
to a blood-red radish.

    I’m moving out –
    just up the hill.
The house he owns –
    no rent to pay!
    Come father, come!
    Come live with us!

He tends his garden,
not yet middle-aged.
A strong hand pulls
him, takes the
strain.

    Come.

He still sits there
by the rusty pot.
Old bones cracked,
burnt, fragile.

Alone.

    Come.

My thoughts drift on      out.

Holding camera high,
I take a shot,
and snap them.

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, September 2018

Breakfast Shrimp

‘Shrimp Fishing’ image from Pixabay.com (Creative Commons)

Inspired by Forrest Gump’s shrimp-fishing adventure.

I wake up, still in fog of
sleep, and plunge
back in to oceans deep.

Sinking, floating, not
quite ready
to make the trip
deep down forever.

So reaching up, with
weary arms, I gasp for air –
consume a fish.

It’s just a shrimp, hardly
fills my toes.
I gasp, struggle, grapple
for another.

A bag of oats.
Reality kicks in.
Milk.
Micro-waves.
Sugar.

Day.

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, September 2018

The Errant Poet

Image from Pixabay.com (Creative Commons)

Composed in an inspiring Prado Lounge Café Bar.

To rhyme or forego?
To love or to not?
Does the poet who woos
count syllables like lovers?


Copyright owned by Jay Cool, September 2018

 

Thoughts

Composed whilst partaking of a recovery pot of tea in a Prado Lounge Café Bar.

Banish the thoughts of others
thinking.
The only thoughts that
matter are your own.

Thoughts –
for the taking.

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, September 2018

Portrait in Middle Age

Inspired by portrait of a middle-aged gentleman, on display in a Prado Lounge Café Bar (artist’s name unknown by poet!).

Portrait in Prado Lounge Café Bar, Suffolk
(artist unknown)

Sons born.
Some gone.
Dead.
Daughters birthed,
raised up,
married,
survived –
or died
in childbirth.

Wife disillusioned,
tired, but –
still living.
Job done.

Time
to sit,
frown,
contemplate.

Move on.

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, September 2018

Lonely Hand

‘Hands Folded Woman’ image from Pixabay.com (Creative Commons)

Lovers’ hands
still holding on,
gripped,
suckered,
stuck

like the suckers
on windows
of wooden
toy-shop
arrows

bought,
aimed,
fired,

landed,

then pulled off,
popped off;
all leftover traces of
once-was
washed off
without regard
by a sloppy
window
cleaner.

And a note
shared through
a door;
a request for payment
for what once
was.

A lonely hand,
wrinkled, struggles to
sign a cheque –
trembling.

Illegible.

A singing soul
signs.

Remembers.

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, September 2018