Monday, 16 October 2017

the sound of a kitchen (16/Oct/17)


the sound of a kitchen waking up….
one of my favourite aural delights….
that first thing in the morning after it’s been asleep all night…
even the clatters and clinks, tuning-up each and every instrument the players are assembling gathering, orchestral manoeuvres in a pan and maybe two, everything plus the kitchen sink…. as every clock ticks its own tocks so every kitchen compiles its own chord sequence rising from its zen retreat into a promise of possibilities…. let the stainless serenades begin, the click and soon impending roar of the kettle, a knife sighs through a loaf, a cooker easing silent warmth into just-awakened pans coaxing oats to stir and bubble, steaming into life… a wealth of auditory clues inform a plethora of gastronomic hues  from a kitchen no longer sensory-deprived dragged from overnight hibernation given the kiss of life until the beating heart is beating full and deep again the house can huddle round looking on in awe knowing all too well this is where the action is…. a note is struck, conductor waves their spatula and soon enough notes are picked from culinary strays and fed to swooning staves…….
the sound of a kitchen waking up… but hush, don't wake up the mice.......


© robert greig 2017

Sunday, 15 October 2017

if you were made of air (15/Oct/17)


if you were made of air how would you fare?
there’s a calm before the storm but if you were made of air how would you fare
the season’s on the turn but if you were made of air how would you fare
time to baton down the hatches but if you were made of air how would you fare
while time and tide wait for now man but if you were made of air how would you fare
there’s a hole in the sky but if you were made of air how would you fare
got to keep the home fires burning but if you were made of air how would you fare

there’s an ill wind that blows no good but if you were made of air how would you fare
someone walked across my grave but if you were made of air how would you fare
cheer up it might never happen but if you were made of air how would you fare
a silver spoon, a wandering star, under a bad sign, blessed, broken, premature, late, still, but if you were made of air how would you fare
it’s a bitter pill to swallow but if you were made of air how would you fare
red sky at night shepherds delight but if you were made of air how would you fare
red sky at morning sailors warning but if you were made of air how would you fare
ring around the moon rain real soon but if you were made of air how would you fare
life is what you make it but if you were made of air how would you fare
death is how you break it but if you were made of air how would you fare
empty vessels make the loudest sound but if you were made of air how would you fare
the more things change the more things stay the same but if you were made of air how would you fare
out of sight and out of mind but if you were made of air how would you fare
if you were made of air how would you fare
at a whistles whim
in a million voices chattering at once
in a clap
a waving hand
in a sigh
In a gasp
in a doldrum
in a mistral
in a monsoon
in a draught
in a scream
in a laugh
hanging like a haunting over killing fields
filling in the space between two lovers
keeping sky from falling down
torn apart by turbulence
if you were made of air
if you were made of air……..



© robert greig 2017

Saturday, 14 October 2017

these scribbles (14/Oct/17)


they were little more than scribbles, graffiti on a wall, could've been Tahiti or Bali but no..... it's Bardsey, as in the island of...... some were the kind you make when before too long  you'll be painting over, your silent snub, a chance to be a rebel for a day even though only you will ever know.........
some caught the light which through its modest windows barely scratched while others hardly visible are frozen almost dazzled by a light-referred from open doors cracking just a crack, ajar..... the stairs, the landing, a room or two, but not every wall... a chosen few, or random few?........ here and there some more expansive but despite their boldness of scale remained shy nonetheless, never shouting, never craving attention, never meant to stay the time but here they were, still are staring back with a certain entitlement that was never meant to be.......
and they stayed, squatting until such time squatters-rights made it theirs and as such they live out their days unowned, disowned, unknown..... however long their days'll be isn't important when you've long ago stepped outside time to a place between the moment before and the moment after......
without them would the house fall?.....
are they the 'ravens in the tower'?
perhaps........
though who would take the chance..... tempting fate is tempting but is it that tempting?...... you' can't erase the past you can only refuse to look at it..........
the hands that once charmed them, these scribbles, graffiti on a wall, from the air, of them just shadows in the onlookers eye, a mote, an undisturbed glimpse lulled into false securities.......... they invite you, these scribbles, graffiti on a wall, and with breathless intent keep you at a safe distance..... they weren't intended for you and yet, here you are.....
      ....... that's close enough.......
did one just move?...........
they watch you as much as you watch them, see you as much as you do them, every minute you're there they follow you around the room just about to tap you on your shoulder.... they are present more than even you are as you're merely passing, an incidental...... but they aren't for you, listen to them, that's what they're telling you these scribbles, graffiti on a wall, their secrets stained in plaster, paint, dust and distances you can only imagine.


          © robert greig 2017