Faith – the mountain mover

She who is most unusual
made of something akin to a tree
but magic be something that flows
all the way through her core,
in Faith, she sits ever so still
the littlest of the three
ever so still she will sit
never minding the birds that perch
or chirp, stirring
never would she flee
gaze rested upon a still rock
barely the size of her fist.
Faith sits,
in the hope that today be the day
her magic sparks,
like Clandence who can light a fire
or Papa who stands the mightiest winds
or even Mama who could sing
bringing mist over the mountains.
Faith sits,
Papa’s voice playing in her mind
‘Faith can move mountains, dear,’
and she stares at the rock
while the other treelings play
hide and still.
Watch her a moment
give her a glance
maybe now, maybe in a bit
Faith may move that mountain still…
for three long days
the mountain remains,
and Faith dismays
resorting to a rock,
maybe that she will sway…
except how the drowsiness betrays
her head lulling from this side
to that,
and when she wakes briefly, the rock can no longer be seen.
Had she done it?
In her sleep?
Resolved, she stares at the mountain then.
Perhaps tomorrow it shall move.



‘Hey Mr, Mr. What you be doing?’
chimed a little fellow
down he be glaring
intrigued and beguiled
watching a grown man scribbling
on the trodden footpath
and curiously he’d be asking,
‘Hey Mr, Mr. What you be doing?’
The man smiled up
wide and crazy
a certain gleam in his eyes
‘Just watch, my boy!’
‘Just watch,’
as he continued
picking this chalk and that
his hands dusty
and the boy did just that
dancing on his tip toes
over the man’s shoulder.
Slowly and slowly
the scribbles took shape
sported colours and shades
and in that strange concrete jungle
that once used to be healthy
came to life a giant tree.
‘Hey Mr, Mr. What strange thing is that?’
The man stood and dusted his palms
eyeing the buildings tall around he
and he sighed
‘That my boy, is what we used to call a tree!’
‘What’s a tree, Mr?!’
the boy beamed
drawing a greater sigh from he
‘It used to home, somewhere we could breathe,
fresh air, and greenery!’
‘Oh,’ the boy mumbled, pocketing his hands,
eyes on the tree on the asphalt.
‘I only ever seen them in books.’
‘Aye,’ said the man, packing up his pastels.
‘Nowadays, that’s the only place you’ll find it.’
‘Why? They look beautiful.’
‘Because we killed them all, little fellow,
one tree at a time till there were no more.’
‘That’s a shame, Mr. Maybe my friends and I would have liked them.’
‘Maybe,’ and with that the man walked away
in search of another path
another boy
another soul
for whom he could draw a Tree.

(I do hope this is not where the world is headed!)

Sunshine and Pail

At the crack of dawn
in the pale light of the antique waterhole
he stirred
awakened by the chirps of birds
and the rumble of cicadas,
by the cool water lapping
against the crumbling old stones
upon which lay a carpet of moss
green and luscious
despite the dark gloom he felt.
No longer the Sun shone like the old days
where he had been of use
pulled up from rope still tied for water
a source of life
it had been something to be so revered
to hear the mumbled speeches of village women
or children playing nearby
the gush of water as he emptied himself onto the ground with a splash.
An age it’s been now
you can tell by the weed that grew
like a halo around the well’s mouth
the lowered water that plunged him deeper and deeper down
and since that night long ago
when the rope had slipped off
leaving him falling in a panic
to the cool embrace of water, doomed.
None retrieved, they knew not how
instead one morning he heard another splash
hoping some how it had been himself
but upon inspection he was still rope-less
and beside him plunged into the water’s depth
a shiny new metal bucket
gleaming and gloating
his rope thicker and knottier than ever seen.
However, even those jealous days were gone now
for the old wooden Pail waterlogged and drowning
in his own sorrows and memories
of fresh air, and tall swaying grasses
or the laughter of children of men
what he’d give to see that beloved sunrise again
the happy colours of the past.
As the storm overheard thundered and rumbled
through cracks of lightning and torrential rain,
poor old Pail turned on his belly
he’d rather look at the green of moss
than the darker clouds.
So ignore he did the pattering rain and fell asleep.
In the clear morning when he woke
he almost jumped in surprise
for upon a flooded field of talk grasses lay he
with dawn creeping up the sky.
The rain had filled the well
and released him of his solitude.
Water, his old friend.
So there, in waist deep he stood
gleefully watched the day rise
bringing back colours in his life.

Dark Guardian

With the dark days
I walk
head dropped and collar up
remaining in the shadows
as the rifeness of disease rumbles
a city already at the brink of a fall
their wars futile
their grudge petty
yet more and more innocent fall
if only they knew the price paid
the askance of a life
the soul it takes watching your own crawl
on hands and knees in a pool of their own.
I stalk, unable to help
unable to lend a hand
for they will run, for sure
at the sight of me
my pallor, unmistakable red coursing through my eyes
and from my shadows at night I watch
their mortality fall so easily
what I wouldn’t give for a death such as that
or any death at all.
Decades have melted into centuries
all my own gone
either scared of me, or never knowing what I’ve become.
Now I keep to myself
unsure how many more losses I can bare
and in the shadows I linger
unable to ask if I may step out
into their precious light
and help.

Until one night
I see her
and the forgotten desire rises
I follow her, enchanted and watch her step
into the safety of her home
and from that night I linger
forever near that door.
I finally have a purpose
a figure to revere
in the gloom
thus the shadows no longer haunt me
but help as I guard a flower in hell.

Royal Debacle

She sighs
sitting upon her divan
gloriously done
in silken threads and chiffon
like a royal adorned
with flowers in her hair made of gold.
Yet a trembling sets in
as she sits with eyes closed
and a finger tracing her own lips
as if holding on to a memory.
‘Miss Caroline,’ her name was called
and she rose ever unsure
was she doing the right thing
another caress of her lip with eyes shut
recalling the kiss.
Was she sure?
‘Miss Caroline, are you ready?’ came the maid’s voice,
heading popping around the corridor.
Caroline stood upon shaky legs and followed,
ever turning to look out the window
to the horizon her desperate eyes seeked
the prince of her dreams.
He had made a promise to return after all,
but when? It had been a year and more.
Yet the kiss lingered as a phantom
wrecking havoc galore.
As she enters the hall,
all the guests, the distinguished men and women stand tall,
welcoming the future Royal Bride
who till this last moment wished
and hoped a known face would hurtle through that door
and whisk her off her feet
adornments and all.
Yet the time ticked and the door remained closed
and upon her slender finger was slipped a ring
small yet it weighed the world
her own world
asking a question again and again
what happened to that promise
that dream
of love.
Around her went applause and cries
inside her a silence that yawned wider
ever wider,
for how long she dared not think.

She was Miss Manroe

Beauty pays a price
walking down the road of life.
Don’t think all the perks have no flaws
no rotten air poisoning the soul.
The leers and looks
and the hoots and toots,
these are endured with a smile.
She, who turns heads
as soon as she steps
out her door.
This young and vibrant soul
gets unravelled, all rearranged
for the show.
Always for the show.
She smiles wide her cherry lips,
flicks her curls of gold,
and walks down the road, as though floating
from a cloud.
She loves all who see her
she falls for the charm
the wide-eyed dreams of home
a place to call home.
But beauty paid a price
walking down the road of life
hand in hand with only those who stole
her self-respect, her confidence, her drive,
leaving her empty, filled with nothing but thoughts of demise.

And one fine day, they found her
all but a mannequin upon the bed
one they’d been trying to force,
cold, lifeless,
and no longer alive.
No longer the young, vibrant woman
who’d come stumbling upon a life so demanding,
so alone.
Such was the tragedy
of Marilyn Manroe.

(Don’t ask me why I felt compelled to write this today, for I do not really know all that well myself. In my defense, all I can say is that I recently -yesterday- watched a documentary on her life, a documentary based on some of Manroe’s own writings. It was a very compelling and driving tale, and I dare say, it obviously left a mental mark. I didn’t really set out to write this, but here it is, and it’d be a same to keep it hidden.)

Romancing Chef

He sat there in gloom
covered in soot from head to toe
his nice suit marred and slightly charred,
what he set out to do
and ended up happening.
He eyed his watch, almost 12:15
in the night that is,
and she would be here shortly
tired from her trip, and perhaps hungry
and what a brilliant moment that had been
when the idea had struck him like gold
that he should make a romantic dinner for her
crack open a bottle of sparkling wine
and douse her exhaustion in music sublime.
How ever did that idea turn to this
with him sitting sooty and coughing
between the smoldering remains of a house that was
before his culinary skills brought it to the ground
leaving all but the sky above peering down.
That’s when he saw the headlights of her car
pull a corner and slow down
obviously in shock at the sight, no doubt.
He could almost see the frown that may be on her face
and wondered however he would ever live this down.
He rose slowly from the belly of the kitchen,
or what was left of it,
and heard the ding of oven bell
– perfect timing
at least the chicken was done!