THE AROMA CAFÉ COLLECTION
Song: The poetry of words weaved through a melodic tapestry of sound. If all comes together, the picture is complete.
I stood there for a while, under the sun, watching my shadow move around me, only to disappear into a pointless night.
And when night became your companion, I was left wandering in a dark place. Though the light you left behind was too bright to ignore.
A great artist understands the balance between perfection and imperfection, where both are perceived as genius.
If you think life is simple, you’ve never loved. If you think love is simple, you’ve never lost. If you think too much, you’ll never know.
Sometimes, all we have left is words. Choose carefully, as it is then they are at their most powerful.
I loved the way you held your cigarette, a Hollywood pose behind a soft focus of smoke. But when cancer took you away, the fantasy ended.
The older I get, the more I see things from a child’s mind, but rationalise with an adult’s cynicism.
Don’t be a shadow inside your child’s imagination. Sometimes you have to step aside and allow them to fly.
And when you left, the light you had given to me disappeared for a while, only to return in moments of contemplation.
Evening: An argument of sparrows swing from the peanut feeder; they chase the silence into part of my mind reserved for the remaining light.
To listen to a blackbird whose song has been sung. It’s there, inside your mind, where everything that has been is left behind.
There were no footprints into your night, no window to glance into your sleep. Instead you visit me in my dreams, where love remains secure.
Dementia: She had no memory of her grief, sat in the bright lights of her youth, cradling the ghosts of a family I never knew.
Memory: My grandmother loved lavender; she kept tied bunches in every drawer and sewed them into the hems of her curtains.
It isn’t too difficult to pretend to be someone else; life’s challenge is to be yourself. Only then can you be sure of your true friends.
Café This Morning: An elderly lady rushed in; she left her handbag on the table. She said: ‘There’s nothing in it of any value, only money.’
Sometimes I wish I were someone else, other times I think I am. And then I get back to being me. It’s usually best to keep things simple.
Don’t be too proud to learn from your children, they have a wealth of imagination and new ideas.
To create something beautiful doesn’t always come from a beautiful mind. But to create something ugly, usually has its ugly intentions.
I have a pocket watch that belonged to my grandfather. Sometimes I wind it, close my eyes, and listen to it tick.
Sometimes, I hear the sound of your sleep, but take care not to wake you. Instead, I reach out to touch your dream, and make it my own.
First Dog: A tiny heart beating fast in my palm. I needed time to unwrap my thoughts, but somehow you nudged your way into my life. Kizzy.
I felt awkward when you first held my hand, strutting me down the high street. But in your sleep, I held onto yours, not wanting to let go.
My grandfather taught me his quiet ways. It was to listen when there was no sound, to sit in a noisy room and hear only your own thoughts.
Dementia: I panicked when I felt I was erased from her memory. But time showed me, for as long as she was there, my memory carried us both.
You are the still night, the moment when I hear the heartbeat of a bird hovering in a sky not yet dark. You are in the silence only I can hear.
Moving On: When your light has faded from my dreams, I shall open my eyes and know your journey has ended, even though it has just begun.
We watched a sheep chew flowers scattered over an unmarked grave, its lamb resting in the shadow of a headstone, on which someone had carved, cariad.
Bees hovered between thistle heads that glowed like fairy lights in the evening sun. And we looked back at our shadows, linked hand in hand.
There’s something about rain in the valleys; it’s the only place I know where walking and getting wet allows me to daydream unhindered.
Dementia: She sat, staring at a closed door, her past never threatened, though her present just the dark part of a dream. I missed her love.
Pit Head Baths: The clatter of a bucket, ladies laughter echoes in a silent place. Men walk away through a cloud of steam. A door slams.
Dreamers are those who dare to see beyond the impossible, and believe in what others can only dismiss as a fools delusion.
Share with an open hand, receive with an open mind, give with an open heart and be open to change in yourself and in others.
Memories are not always a true indication of the past, but a reflection of how a particular event affected you.
Someone I Knew: Outside the boundaries of her home, she walked long nervous strides, carrying her thoughts beyond the reach of passers-by.
Grieving became your world, sat alone in a room, where light stole a moment, and dark took it away. But time gave you back to us, to me.
I found a photo of you as a young girl; hair a tangle of salt water, your sepia toned smile hidden in a shoebox, in an unused room.
Blackberry Picking: I always pricked my arms trying to pick the ones out of reach. Life is sometimes like that; we hurt to achieve the unnecessary.
There’s change in every child, but not every child needs to change. Often they are judged by their faults, and the best in them ignored.
Behind a kindly smile is often a grieving mind. Only a close friend can understand the difference.
A child hides in a dark room and becomes invisible. An adult hides away and becomes a recluse. An old man grieves alone, and we wonder why.
What you are is the person seen by the majority. Who you are is the person seen by a few. It’s the person in between who you live with most.
If you keep your dreams in perspective, you will always be a passenger and never the driver of new discoveries.
Facts are the politician’s interpretation of a truth established by statistics that can’t be disputed until the opposition proves otherwise.
You stepped through a cloud of wakening, opened your mind to a window beckoning you to fly. And a butterfly emerged from your empty shell.
I sat with you for a while, searched behind the shadows of your closed eyes. But the shadows were mine; eclipsing the light I failed to see.
Imagination: To slip through a closed door, step over the roller coaster hills to a place that couldn’t possibly exist.
Cafe Observation: Inside this explosion of conversation, my pen writes the secretive whispers my mind chooses to hear.
If you feel you have to reinvent your past, brace yourself, your future is about to become even more complicated.
Time falls from the trees in Autumn colours. A new season invites you to walk its golden path. Age still has its beautiful moments.
There are few people we know and many we think we know.
Feeling pain tells us something is wrong. Feeling someone else’s pain tells us we care.
Love may be assumed in a moment of silence, but words are always more clearly understood.
The world is yet to be changed by the dreams of a child not yet born.
If you’re falling, don’t pretend you’re flying, it only works until you hit the ground.
The optimist plans for the best as the pessimist plans for the worse. The realist considers both and often achieves neither.
Some dreams are too precious to fall asleep inside our heads.
Love can be fickle as the imagination. Both have their dark places where imagination has the power of misconception.
We are not born with prejudices, though many are instilled into our lives at a young age. Change is needed with the old as well as the young.
Love plays a major part in the theatre of life. Though, for the most part, it is hidden away behind closed curtains.
Cafe Observation: an elderly lady saying, my daughter keeps telling me to act my age. She’s beginning to sound more like my mother every day.
Dementia: She was always there, in her private room, occasionally peeping through her curtained eyes at a world she only partly remembered.
We all need to spend some time inside our own heads, if only to check out if we’re still there.
Cafe Observation: Women are chatting and laughing, men whispering and sighing and children in their own imagined place. I’m with the kids.
Time is never wasted with someone you love. Even those quiet moments spent together maybe cherished memories to come.
A friend is for life not just for Christmas.
Others only see a shadow of who we are, most of which we are unable to see in ourselves.
Cafe Observation: Three elderly ladies are chatting and laughing about the men in their lives. A middle aged lady looks on in disgust.
Imagination: To hold an acorn and see a hundred year oak. Can’t see it, it’s because you’re trying. Just fly on the wind that isn’t there.
I see you when I’m not looking and hear you when I’m not listening. It’s as if you touch my soul, only to fade to a place I cannot reach.
Don’t hide your light until all that’s left is your own darkness.
Growing up is best speeded up when young, so you can regress at leisure in later life.
A tender heart touches more souls than godly words.
There’s nothing wrong in striving to be perfect, the problem starts when you believe you are.
Sometimes we need space to develop our thoughts. Other times we need the distraction of others to put our thoughts into perspective.
Having the power to change things isn’t the same as having the ability to understand the consequence of its outcome.
A child’s mind is a book yet to be written and to be read by adults not yet born. Be a positive influence in their extraordinary world.
Cafe Observation: Men whispering about their difficulties as women laugh through theirs.
Friends you may find, but good friends find each other.
Instinct is something we wished we used when logic causes more problems.
Moving on doesn’t mean forgetting; it just means carrying your memories forward without grieving.
Cafe Observation: Grandfather stretching out his arms to show how big the world is. Grandson says, ‘isn’t the world round like a rugby ball.’ There’s hope yet.
Every choice has its consequence, but not every consequence has a choice.
Cafe Observation: A mum chatting to her friend as her daughter scoops the chocolate chips from her cappuccino.
Memory: Dipping my finger in the inkwell at school. My grandfather said, ink stained fingers are a sign of an intelligent man. Perhaps not.
My dream is to be special, where i can fly outside of my shadow into the sky’s heartbeat. there you can step into light and be part of me and I of you.
Rowland Hughes 2014 ©