Poem: Bygone ways

Can it be you can breathe fire

in place of air?

Or touch the hot ice where ever it lay?

Feel the still wind against your skin,

or swim amongst the frozen water

like it all made sense?

Does the moon’s rays reach you like a fireplace 

and the sun douse out the heat of the night? 

Do mockingbirds sing of disarray

or can that all be repaired to the corners of mental grey?

Do the words sound melodious to the dead,

the colours brighter in blindness,

or the well toned muscles feel frayed?

So silly. 

So silly it is, the vanity of all that exists. 

For a moment forget, forget that you live not for you,

but for me,

the bygone ways. 

Poem: 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 sought,
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.

Tides of time

Recently I saw a little program on TV that addressed the issue of bullying in schools and how that influences how some teens nowadays are driven to suicide more than ever before.
Obviously I can’t pretend I’m the only voice for the cause, but have to say the following poem was inspired by this story of a 15 year old who felt she couldn’t take the taunts anymore and hence took her own life. As you read this, please take a moment to think about all these young people who feel stifled.

Tides of Time
Turn the tides of time
I want to see your face again
chiseled as it were
out of golden Sun and clay
striking hearts a plenty
a little God among men
to think how silly in retrospect it all is
to think of youngsters who dared say
‘Here I am, worship me’.
Turn the fate of life
show an alleyway
to lead me to see you
as you are now – grown older
but would you be wiser
still feeling yourself made of Sun
and chiseled in clay
as were the great men of legends and myths
or will I stumble upon a face the years have changed
into etched lines that reveal the very human you betrayed.
Turn the tides
let us see
how the years have treated you, and me
the Gods and the mortals we be.

Don’t be so greedy!

Oh boy! This is a rather unusual piece for me. I normally write about human emotions and odd situations, but I’m not one to sit there and write a period piece. This poem seems to have gone back to the time just before WWII was starting, and I think covers the perspective of the women, watching the men in their lives go to war in one piece, and never come back the same. I’m not sue how this has turned out in the writing. :s

Don’t be so greedy!
What kind of wars did we wage,
where boys barely out of childhood strayed?
First the fathers did we bid well,
barely knowing of the next embrace.
World saw little but heard a lot of ruffle,
booms of all the trouble,
the boys in boggy trenches faced.

Though it all rests now in history,
parts of the wounded world is yet to heal,
some booms are still being felt.
Let the stories lay their,
between the pages where men are fond of telling extravagant tales.
We care not to hear your glorious victory for all the battles you never fought.
Don’t be so greedy, these boys have just come back home, in all their various forms. And some, not at all.
Just let them be, let them have some peace.
The world can do without sending, anymore young ones to sort out your power rows!