122.Bhajis and black coffee. (28/03/2016).

The first three lines of this piece were the second part of a Facebook post this morning. I re-read them after posting it and liked them thinking I’ll save them for some other time maybe. As I saved them in a folder for odds and ends and snatches of words and phrases I could feel they were not going to go away. They were demanding to be put down on a page of their own. 

So I did so and the rest seemed to tumble nicely and without much of an effort. Good to catch them like that sometimes. Where you just hold a hand out and let the words fall into it. Facebook, when I finished it, told me it had been 47 minutes since the original post had first been made. But I thought I’d take some time out from this and then come back and see if it still stood up to my scrutiny. It appears it does, but then the final judgement, with anything published in any form, isn’t really mine.

Note: Originally the title was to be “Friends with benefits”, but it was decided that “Bhajis and Black Coffee” was more intriguing. I kinda like it.

122.Bhajis and black coffee. (28/03/2016).


Breakfast of onion bhajis and black coffee,

And Jason Isbell singing sympathetically,

For the mornings pace,

Rolling over and not seeing you

Just got a bit more difficult,

Everything just got a bit harder to swallow,

Even though you’re only,

A text or phone call away,

I could’ve lain here and thought of you,

With only the comfort of the coffee,

But the spices say I need you near me,

I need your warmth first thing in the morning,

The memory of your breathes not enough,

And then there’s the music,

That really chokes me,

That plaintive croak of being lonely that he has,

Where he sings of years taken from his mother,

Just by the accident of his birth,

It was such a simple little big thing that came between us,

When I yearned to trust you,

Like my unborn’s mother who I wanted,

But you never saw anything more,

Than just an occasional lover,

Someone to share your problems with,

But never your womb,

The last thing you were going to be, was anyone’s mother,

Because the only example you had to go by,

Was one of how it shouldn’t be done.


© Jim Laing 2016.

About Jim Laing

The Buddha said there were four kinds of people. Those who run from dark to dark, those who run from light to dark, those who run from dark to light and those who run from light to light. From a life going from dark to dark to having a few years running from dark to light, with scuffed hands and knees from sometimes falling, I may be getting the hang of it now. How it began is not now how it is, I need a quiet space, After the noise of the day, So I take sanctuary in the creativity, And my soul feeds, On sometimes dark, Sometimes light fantasy, And I dare like many to work, But stay up off my knees, To dream, perchance to suffer, But always still to dream. Here are things mostly lyrical and poetic, with nonsense sometimes, reviews and personal musings. The coffees hot and always black. The words not necessarily so.
This entry was posted in Lyrics & poems and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.