Writings and Musings

“No one can tell your story so tell it yourself. No one can write your story so write it yourself.”— Unknown Author

Children Are Our Future

They say children are our future

But what future will it be?

These children are disillusioned

Blinded by the deafening intrusions

On their senses. The intensive offensives

Of their defenceless young minds.

Overstimulated, pixilated—wasted ene-rgy

En-tro-py.

 

They say children are our future

But what future will it be?

With their attention spans

No longer than seconds

Video games, mobile phones and computers

Beckons

No time or energy for learning

Teachers’ presence only disturbing

 

They say children are our future

But what does that future hold

These young soles are sold

And controlled by the latest gadgets

Tiredness their daily habits

How will they achieve their full potential

Without suffering— existential

Like we had to suffer

But these young soles have it rougher

 

More distractions, interactions and pressure

It’s another time, another life altogether

They have so much more to deal with

So much more than we had to deal with

Who would be in their shoes now

No, I would not wish to go back

They like me must find their own soundtrack

Through life’s amazing pages and mazes.

September 2017

Rejection

Your refusal to say goodbye with a hug.

You stayed in the car and waved

Me on my way through closed windows.

The forced barrier of glass and metal

Made me feel rejected.

 

That time you left me in the supermarket because you were angry

We argued by the deli counter.

The nonchalance of a dismissive hand

A barbed comment meant to tease.

Then your coy smile in apology.

But you saw my face; you knew

I felt re−jec−ted

 

The intolerance, you sometimes show

Your clipped tones at the end of a conversation

Saying you want to go

Like we’ve been talking too long

Then not answering your phone

When I call back, to tell you I love you

You know that makes me feel reje—cted

 

Yesterday when I come home from work

After a long day. Stress weighed down my body

Only to find you on the phone cackling with laughter

Then I spent time cooking you dinner,

Lighting candles to make it special…

Then you say you’ve already eaten−

Don’t you know I feel rejected?

 

Remember the time we made love,

Your mind was elsewhere. ‘Where were you?’

I could tell you would rather it was over

And sometimes when your climax comes all too quickly,

Then lasts so long, a sign not to touch you anymore

Yes I feel reject—ted

 

The storm in the teacup, the threat of rejection in every move, in every stare. The lights dim and my heart jumps, I relax not into your arms knowing as I do What you think and feel. The button is permanently depressed so the sensitivity And intensity is heightened… My love is dispelled and quelled in a single frame.

 

Cos this is what rejection feels like

This is what rejections feels like

This is what my rejection feels like

This is how rejection feels like

 

Tomorrow will be different

I promise myself, today is gone and our love still lingers,

But still my heart pales and the fear rises,

Catching in my throat

The fear of rejection,

The pain of your rejection,

Of rejecting myself.

March 2015

Billy Five

The drowning face seen just before it disappears into the sinking ship,
Mum beside me drinking beer in a cup, the last lonely sips, a gasping slurp, then a burp.

A quiet storm brews over our heads, I look up in amazement, the colours arrange themselves like a moody tempest about to devour us. My unwavering happiness clouds any sadness. Then my father’s voice rings in my ears, like the sound of the bells of the village steeple. They killed Billy Five! They killed Billy Five! My father’s prize pedigree racing pigeon.

Billy’s memory tumbles into my vision. His plumpness giving testament to his breeding and worth. Feathers that flutter in full glory, once so meaty and solid are now flattened and sullen. I see the tears roll down dad’s cheek.

Mum lights a cigarette inhales with satisfaction then blows blue smoke into the air. I sit quietly watching. Billy Five’s body, limp and crumpled, nestles against the box destined to be his grave.

The snivelling boy responsible comes, stone still in hand, body lank, matching his hair, his father is a replica. Both now seem unsure—even remorseful. The father pushes the boy forward.

‘I’m sorry Mr Smith, It was an accident, we were just playing’

‘Playing at what, stone the pigeon—do you know what you’ve done? Can you see what you’ve done?’
Dad’s voice is hoarse, it crackles. He blows his nose on a handkerchief, puts it back in his pocket. He sniffs in deep bursts, then he hiccups. His eyes are rose red.

‘Please sir it wasn’t my fault, I didn’t mean it…I’m sorry!’
The boy snivels louder, his distress palpable. His body trembles.
He drops the stone.

Mum and I are silent. Outside the rain beats the window, the wind shrieks. Then a sudden gust blows open the doors of the parlour. A loud clamour, something falls to the floor. It’s the shoebox meant for Billy Five’s burial. The box is broken….

Then Billy Five’s body twitches, does he move? The air in the room chokes, no one breathes. Billy’s body convulses once, twice then shakes into life. The bird jumps to its feet, ruffles his feathers, puffs out his chest. Then takes to the air, gliding about the room.

Our eyes follow Billy transfixed. Mum lights another cigarette. Dad screams, his eyes ablaze. The boy feints. His father catches him.
I sit quietly in awe… Billy Five flutters his wings then gently lands on dad’s head. He coos softly.

I burst into laughter, followed by mum, then father, lastly the boy.
Billy Five claps his wings gaily. The wind abates.

February 2015

The Truth Inside

And deep inside she cries; she cries pitiful black tears that pour out of her like tar, aching and scaring the depths of her soul. She cries for the loss of innocence, the loss of love and simply for an unending self-pity. She is broken, just a shell of what she projects outside.

Outside its confidence and bravado. Outside she’s the hard edge of success and respect with the ‘I don’t care, I don’t need you!’ attitude that has served her well. But in truth, it’s not who she is behind the masks. The masks she wears like a thick coat, enfolding her more intimately than her own shadow.

The numerous characters of her masked personalities that arise and fall have become so much a part of her; they’re like her skin. She barely notices them. And just as the skin protects the internal viscera, weakness cannot be shown, no crack in the armour can be seen; she must survive at all costs. She’s a chameleon, changing her face in an act of unconscious will.

The perfect camouflage, she hides her real colours. The pearl, the flawless gem that was born but was so quickly destroyed in her childhood. She shields that part of her, hides it deep inside like the precipitous crags of a volcano hides in its depths, the source of its red-hot lava. And just like larva she bubbles and churns, disquiet rampaging her innards like the crash of the tide on a lonely beach.

And why? Why all this? Why this inability to be her truth, to release her putrid, festering heart from its shackles? It’s walls so calcified and hardened from a lifetime of disappointment, at the hands of those who should have loved her unconditionally? Why? Because her heart, frigid, stony and unsmiling, lies encased in the deathly cage she unknowingly built around it so long ago, strangling her very life force… So why; you ask again? Because of fear, because of her unrelenting ego, because she must protect herself– But mostly because it hurts so deep to be that vulnerable, to be so exposed.

Yet still, her withered heart beats, still blood and nutrients feed and energise the body. A body, which like a soulless corpse feeds but has no life. No heart connection, no connection with self. The subtle silent screams of her inner child; sometimes become a frenzied howl of such power, it often stops in her tracks, so she notices the searing pain, frittering away her guts. A lifetime of rejection, the sorrow of separation, of feeling unloved and hopeless. There’s a longing in her sadness. A longing to matter, to be noticed, touched or loved. There’s a yearning to express her innermost thoughts, her deepest desires to the one with the real power.

Her Divine.

Call of The Inner Voice

Let the call of your inner voice raise you

Let it blaze trails through your life

Because opening your heart to truth is not easy

When life and challenges leave you feeling queasy, uneasy

So listen carefully, for the call may be subtle

No more than a muffle in times of your deepest troubles

 

Hard times come to us all

You know life is not always a ball

We sometimes crawl about in a daze,

The difficulties in life keeping us hazed and phased

But there’s no need to look outside of yourself

For the call of your inner voice is there to help

 

The call becomes stronger and stronger

The more you’re able to honour yourself

No longer acting to please or appease

But living large and fully at ease

With all aspects of your authentic self

Even the parts you dislike, the parts you want to hide or shelf

 

The ugly and the beautiful are all a part of you

So learn to love them in sacredness

In true essence of all that you are, you were made this way

Individual and set apart

So be who you are, live in your greatness

Letting go of sedateness, tameness or safeness

 

Live shameless and free

The true embodiment of all you were meant to be

Listening out for your own voice of reason

A beacon of love, light and inspiration

The call of your inner truth is an inner call from you

Hear it then live your life anew

August 2017