Poem: Gratitude

Make time for and give gratitude…
Blocks the intentions of the ineptitude,
Balances out the excessive cattitude,
Brings justice to the blood feud,
Ensures projects reach that time to conclude,
It’s the only one worth having, you know…attitude,
Helps Gaia heal herself in quantities of magnitude.

Poem: Know Thy Enemy

You’ve read the stories,
Watched the movies,
Now take heed of the warning,
Of those who can’t stop singing their illusionary glories,
Slimy, slippery and a scent like yesterday’s sushi,
Face them with your truth, sense them scorning.

Egos higher than endless storeys,
Bragging about diamonds, pearls and rubies,
Psychic vampires….zzzz. Nah, they just goddamn’ boring,
Trying to snatch others’ inventories,
Can’t pull a fast one, grey matter less than a Trump groupie,
Dead by dawn, Top o’ the Morning!

© Medeacine

Poem: Bard to the Bone

Spitting bars in his mama’s womb
A bonafide wordsmith, profusely sweating rhymes
“What are you? Make up your mind” olde fart English-Lit teacher asked, for his crimes
Can’t fit this brother into a tomb.

Some sit in a lecture hall poncing over Proust
While Ed’s ticked off TikTok with his YouTube comedy shorts
Some laugh, some cry, some get on the phone to resolve their differences, others check into resorts
The power of the Bard – touch lives, heal hearts, etcetera – and so what have you deduced?

No “formal” degree, self-taught higher education from the likes of Q-Tip, KRS-One and Guru from Gang Starr
Bards before him, leaving a legacy for the next gen sisters and brothers picking up the baton
It’s not about the wonga, gold teeth and bad boy jewels from London’s Garden of Hatton
The likes of Ed and his counterparts, one-stop edutainers that reveal the truth of phonies as hamster.

To edutain, deeply embedded in Ed’s DNA
Sorry, can’t pull it apart, can’t alter it, can’t separate it, it’s all or nothing guv’
Acting, singing, writing haunting songs to moving melodies to serve your greater good, it’s all about the love
He’ll beat the “darlings” at Scrabble, stitch-up the negativity pouring off the haters – his talents, they sure are an array.

Thespian, writer, poet, producer, musician – yeah, he’s all o’ that and none o’ that
Just take him for what he is – Bard to the Bone or Bad to the Bard, he chooses
His words carry the weight of worlds’n’wisdom, he is his own muses
Sharing life lessons with you, a problem shared a problem halved, the rest up to you to combat.

Image Credit: Dumbshirts

Short Story: The Lady of Zac’s Dreams by Rosa Medea

Zac strutted down the Harrow Road rather hurriedly, especially since he was “gagging for a drink” as he had informed his friend who was hanging on the other end of his mobile phone. The heels on his chelsea boots did a tap dance, while his West London swagger was attracting quite the attention of some 15-year-old girls stood outside Chicken Cottage tucking into an after-school meal of fried chicken and french fries. The one-time class nerd, with his pre-braces buck-teeth and round-rimmed glasses that hid the magnitude of his crystal blue eyes, had blossomed into a six-foot, skinny-as white guy who could bust some serious moves on the dance floor and had the ladies “in a jam” as he put it.

“Hey,” shouted one of the schoolgirls. “Where are you going, hon?”

“Somewhere you’re not allowed darlin’”, he said as he walked past her.

“You gonna buy me a drink?” said another one of the girls, a short, chubby Ghanaian girl with golden brown eyes. Zac clocked her eyes, astounded by her adult-like beauty while kind of gutted at the same time. “Sweet cheeks, if I’m still single when you’ve reached that ripe age, come and find me,” he said cheekily.

Flattered, the Ghanaian girl giggled then took a slurp from her can of Pepsi. She giggled once again when she saw the look on her classmate’s face whose flirtatious banter had failed to engage the blue-eyed 30-something.

“Seeerious bruv, you picking up ladies on the Paddington Green now?” yelled Zac’s friend on the mobile phone. Paddington Green, ironically not too far from the local police station, was a notorious hangout for prostitutes and drug deals, and all kind of denizens of city sin.

Zac creased up laughing, that kind of Muttley snigger, before squawking: “Nah dude, I’m on the Harrow Road. Those were schoolgirls, 14 or somethin’.”

“Well,” squealed Zac’s friend. “Can’t blame a guy for asking, bruv. They don’t call you snake hips for nada.”

The friends wailed with laughter, bringing some much needed high-vibrational energy into that small pocket of London. “Ok gotta go dude, I’m at the bar now,” Zac said.

Zac bent down and stopped to catch his reflection on the metallic door handle. Before he had a chance to push it open, his colleague Lucy had already pulled it open and landed one of those PR-type kisses on both cheeks. Lucy had been on Zac’s coat tails since he started at the TV production company two years ago. She had a boyfriend, an older guy who worked as a freelance cameraman in factual and documentaries, but that hadn’t stopped her from trying her chances with Zac. She took the “alright darlin” and breakout room jokes to mean he was interested in her. Lucy tried to take that PR kiss a step further and pull a Frenchie instead on Zac that time he caught her in tears outside the office after her pregnancy scare. He pulled away from her with speed and she started to wonder if he was gay.

“Do you want a drink, Luce?” he asked politely. She was a little loose on her stiletto heels and it was still only just gone six o’clock. They were celebrating their boss’ birthday, and most of their colleagues had been in the bar since four o’clock. Zac decided to meet them later as he had a few loose-ends to tie up before he parlayed.

“Sure,” Lucy replied, trying to lean on Zac’s less than muscular body to keep her standing somewhat straight. “I’ll have a glass of Meerlot.”

“You what, meerkat?” he joked.

“No silly, meerlot,” she said, continuing to slur her wines. “Meer, mer, merlot,” she said looking at Zac like she was going to try and kiss his face off once again. He gave Lucy a prop up and told her to go join the work party while he went to the bar to get the drinks in. It was a Tuesday night and the bar was filled mostly with employees from Greener TV. There were cameramen, both young and veterans too, post-production staff, and runners. A couple of freelance scriptwriters had also shown up for Neil’s birthday.

Neil had set up Greener TV in 2014 with his business partner Moira to make TV production more environmentally-friendly. Their emphasis was on local production to cut down on carbon miles. They made some great TV shows – the kind of stuff that was by no means glamorous by production standards but really great stories and interesting characters. Greener TV had also launched the careers of many young film directors, screenwriters and actors, who even when they were making mainstream movies and TV shows would still return to Greener TV to guest direct or act because they were pretty much given full creative carte blanche.

Lucy had started out as a runner for Greener TV four years ago. She initially thought that she could flirt her way to another position, until Neil politely informed her at a Christmas drinks gathering that her “dizzy blonde” persona wasn’t going to fly at Greener TV and neither was trying to “climb him” going to win her a step-up. Zac admired Neil’s terse nature, but his way of handling Lucy was gentler, perhaps. Brusque wasn’t Zac’s style but he was always clear with Lucy and any other females that had mistaken his kind words for  something unfathomable.

Zac was the office’s favourite male as far as the ladies were concerned. He was charming with everyone in that office and always seemed to say the right things at the right time. He made the ladies laugh and lifted everyone up when the mood seemed gray. He was always respectful and never once lecchy towards any of the female staff. Granted, he was hands-on on the dancefloor with the ladies because he loved to dance, including the up close-and-personal styles. Lucy appeared to be the only one in the office who had the wrong impression of Zac. “You and me are the same, Zachary,” she whispered into his ear when they’d gone on the afternoon coffee run and he had complimented a barista on her coffee-making skills. Zac didn’t respond to Lucy’s words. Infact he never responded to her perceived ideas of who he was. Truthfully he couldn’t care less. Honestly he didn’t care what anyone thought of him. He was just himself, and if that meant that complimenting females got misconstrued as flirtations, so be it. Not his problem.

In Zac’s 31 years, he had one serious relationship when he was 24. It lasted four years, but the whole time he was with her, he always had a sense she wasn’t the one. He was surprised it had even lasted as long as it did. He had been pretty much single since then. Sure he had a few women and a whole lot more who wanted to get their claws into him just like Lucy did, but Zac got shot of them as quickly as he could say “see ya”. There was just no interest in them whatsoever.

Zac made his way to the bar – as he did, he noticed a young lady sat on a stool reading a book. He’d never seen anyone read a book at Zap Bar before, that was most certainly a first. He chatted to the barlady and friend Jodie as she poured Merlot into a wine glass and pulled a pint of Stella for Zac. He couldn’t help but strike up a conversation with the book-reading lady as he etched closer in her direction.

“Hi, bookworm, I’m Zac,” he said.

The young lady failed to look up, until Jodie stood in front of her at the bar and said: “Gurl, This charming young male over here is wondering if you would like a drink.”

“Excuse me,” the young female said, looking up from her book.

“Oh, thanks for the translation Jode,” said Zac. “Just wondering what you are reading….and sure, would you like a drink?”

The young female was starting to look a bit flushed and embarrassed.

“This is Zac,” Jodie said pouring her customer a double serving of Captain Morgan rum into a glass.

“Oh, thank you,” replied the female. “I…er I mean thanks for the offer of the drink, but I am fine thank you.”

“Sorry gurl, but I’ve already made you a Cuba Libre,” Jodie remarked, presenting the lady with the drink on a cardboard placemat. “He’s one of the good guys,” Jodie whispered under her breath to her customer.

“By the way, what’s your name?” asked Jodie.

“Delight,” she said.

“Serious,” said Jodie in her dramatic-without-drama kind-of-way that she was ever so good at. “Your folks named you Delight, that’s frickin’ awesome gurl. Positive vibrations, highly blessed gurl.”

“I’ve kind of gotten prepared for all sorts of jokes when people ask my name,” Delight replied, opening up a little as she relaxed her butt cheeks, a bodily part that Zac seemed to have engrossed himself into its side profile while fairy godmother Jodie worked the breaking of ice and the introductions.

“Delight,” he said. “Delighted to meet you.”

Jodie burst out laughing, quickly followed by Delight too.

“Jeez…Zac, only you can pull off those cheesy one-liners,” Jodie said.

Zac’s smile suddenly dropped. Someone was tugging at his hips. It was Lucy.

“I can’t leave you for a second without you talking to some girl,” she said, giving Delight the once over with her idiotic glances.

“Oh I like your hair,” said Lucy. “Is it relaxed?”

“Excuse me,” said Delight.

“Here luv take your chardonnay,” Jodie said now losing patience with Lucy’s ignorance.

Lucy put her hands on her tiny waist signalling her irritation at Jodie’s response. ”I wanted a Merlot, not chardonnay,” she whined. Jodie was now looking at Lucy like she was going to be her goddamn dinner at any given moment. “Zip-it gurl, it is a Merlot,” Jodie said, while gesturing at Lucy to shoo with her hand. Lucy of course had no comeback to Jodie’s bullets of facial and vocal expressions. With her curt words, it was no surprise then that Jodie and Neil had history. Jodie and Neil’s older brother, Simon, had run a bar together in Ayia Napa years ago. Before the party scene started to simmer down there, they returned to west London and set up shop, not far from their humble beginnings in North Acton where Jodie and Simon had gone to secondary school together.

Diffusing the situation and changing the subject, Zac turned to Delight and asked her once again: “So what are you reading?”

“Oh,” she said. “Just a science fiction book.”

Zac’s heart started to race and pace.

“Imagine that,” said Jodie. “You know, this nerd over here is a writer – all that Beam Me Up Scotty and feel da force-type malarkey.”

Zac had a boyish grin on his face and his dimples were starting to show. Delight looked at him in slight awe. “Oh wow, that’s so cool?” replied Delight.

“Is it now?” said Jodie. Jodie’s matchmaking skills were on fine form, but they were to come to an end as a gaggle of people started to stream into the bar. “Talk to you sci-fi love birds later.”

Zac glanced over at Delight. For once in his life he appeared to be lost for words. He took a long swig on his pint whilst still staring at Delight. She took a sip of her rum and coke. It was some moments before they resumed conversation again, in between those stares, those sips and those swigs. They were clearly both extremely comfortable in one another’s company and energy.

Then suddenly Delight found her voice again. “Hey,” she said. “I don’t usually do this but my friend stood me up tonight, and I have two tickets to this sci-fi secret cinema double-bill at Electric Cinema. Would you…um…like to be my plus one?”

“Hell YEAH,” Zac replied enthusiastically as if he had met the lady of his dreams.

© Rosa Medea, 2021

Disclaimer: Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Storytry: When Candy Lips Lost Her Sweet Tooth Habit

Is it poetry? Is it a story? No..it’s storytry – a mixture of poetry and story with a moral to the tale…

There was a young lady nicknamed Candy Lips,
Who liked nothing more than sweet tea and sweeties,
Fruit chews, toffees, honeycomb and sherbert pips,
She had a taste for sugar and an eye for the cuties.

After waking and before bed, she brushed her teeth twice a day,
But that was neither here nor there, the real issue being the pattern and habit.
Everyday she stopped by the local grocery store, for sure, never possibly or may,
Then one day she saw a “cutie” outside who offered her one of his Tangfastics, then took a stab-at-it.

A thud, a splatter and a splosh – Candy Lips’ grocery bag fell to the ground,
As she knelt down to gather her groceries, the mean guy took off with her handbag,
It wasn’t her belongings that she was upset to lose, but that he had violated her defenses like a tainted blood hound,
Candy Lips’ stomach churned, the sweet taste had turned more than sour, hurt like a punchbag.

A grocery assistant called the police and offered Candy Lips a sweet tea and a digestive biscuit as she sat on a cashier’s stool,
“NO…thank you,” hailed Candy Lips, adamant that she would no longer be clueless nor ditsy,
From that day onwards she vowed to curb her sweet tooth, not be fooled by appearances and to pay attention only to her inner guidance system – no more the fool,
Candy Lips’ life got better each and every day, she was able to have new experiences and be consciously aware all the time instead of just those rare moments, itsy bitsy.

© Medeacine

Poem: The Storyteller

Have an idea,
Put it into action,
1,2,3 steps forward, my dear,
Easier than fractions.

Gracefully, roll with it,
Don’t run it off a cliff,
Stop…come back later, candle’s already lit,
This is the start of a new hieroglyph.

Let go of the rush,
This isn’t a hectic newsroom,
Express the truth, no hush hush,
Less of the Zoom, more of the va-va-voom.

Relax into inner flow,
From harmony comes harmonies,
Smooth like this morning’s cup of Joe,
Tell the stories, our odysseys.

Poem: Praise Be for Wetlands

On the wets of South-West London,
Natives returned – voles, geese and otters,
Reclaiming the Thames water dungeon,
With the assistance of conservation Harry Potters.

“Let’s turn it into wetlands”, said the barnacle goose,
A native of Svalbard, offering it’s Norsk wisdom.
“Yes” agreed the water vole. [Btw it’s not a rat, moose].
“Sure,” said the otter. “Easy peasy, it’s no conundrum”.

Bamboo, reeds, water lilies flew in,
Natives from further afield responded to the calls.
Reverse the Thames’s industrial workings, that’s no sin,
Cooperation in full effect, no time for brawls.

A natural “wonder of the world” the wetlands is not.
A natural and normal part of this world – yes, yes it is.
Natural flood defense, carbon storer, it has got,
Pollutant trapper, water purifier, this one’s a whizz.

105-acres once again home to wildlife and wetlands,
A testament to the two and more-legged working in unity,
Beautiful and peaceful, just like the Shetlands,
It too a shining example of climate change immunity.

Poem: House of Unity

Best friends on a roll,
Spoken word a rare thing,
All about heart and soul,
Not puppets on a string,
One-2-one relays, block the mole,
Telepathic speed dial, ring-a-ping-ping.

Strike a chord,
That’s right, I on keys, you on bass,
Harmonious rhythms, pause only to raise a sword.
We back in the manor, pick up the pace,
You on drums now, me on the gourd,
Finish off with a fish supper, chips’n’plaice.

Open house for us and our crew,
One on the decks spinning records,
Another in the kitchen, cookin’ up spicy beef stew,
There’s chanting in the backroom, destroying unwanted cords,
One in magickal silence, another meditates for a few,
Peace and prosperity, all in accords.

Each doing different things, yet still attuned,
To one another’s voices,
Some of us crooned, some of us harpooned,
For these connections we’re grateful, ’nuff rejoices,
Always one for eternity, heal that wound,
Highly blessed, ain’t no need for Rolls Royces.



Say what?: Translations of the Universe

Some call it jazz;
The Universe calls it music.

Some focus on what they don’t what;
The Universe calls it “ok this is what you do want so we’ll give it to you”.

Some take from others what doesn’t belong to them;
The Universe calls it karma.

Some make allowances for mean-spirited, nasty beings because “oh, but they’re family”;
The Universe calls it chaotic evil.

Some think their opinions matter;
The Universe calls it like-attracts-like energy.

Some believe that their cultural and religious beliefs are the gospel;
The Universe calls it null and void.

Some do only that which serves the greater good for the planet they’re on;
The Universe calls it Divine Love.

Image Source: NASA

Poem: Living Life With Heart & Soul

Bring on the words of power,
Affirm your truth and raise your vibrations,
Let go of the stuff that turns life sour,
Wave your hands in the air, sun salutations.

Happiness is right there, within you,
Can’t be found outside you, truth be told,
Step back from the madness, and take a pew,
Then stand your ground, no less than bold.

Your goals are easier to achieve than you think,
Close your eyes and visualise,
On cue with your intuition, make the link,
Dreams are real, no need to buy into lies.

Got to follow your passions,
Money ain’t your daily dough,
Heart and soul always, not monetary rations,
Here to touch lives, just so you know.