In The End

In the end 

I’ll be like you.

Dust with

flakes of skin and bone

wrapped in long hair.

Teeth chattering

With no voice.

No sense of taste

or smell.

No reason.

In the end

we'll be invisible,

impenetrable,

anonymous,

figments.

But then, we always were

you and I,

we always were.

Published in Saudade, Issue 1

Half of the proceeds of sales will go to the schooling of underprivileged children in the Philippines. We have chosen Virlanie Foundation. Virlanie Foundation was established in 1992 by Dominique Lemay, a French social worker, with the help of his Filipino friends. Virlanie cares for children in need of special protection - those who are among the poorest of the poor, the abandoned, abused, exploited, neglected, and orphaned. 

https://www.createspace.com/5522912

A Rose For Gaza

Gaza is a garden full of roses.

Stone roses.

Rock roses.

No petals to crush and bruise

to release their fragrance.

Only dust.

Dust and the stench

of death.

No green space left.

No sweet tranquility,

peace or quiet.

No escape.

No garden of Eden here.

No gateway to paradise.

Rubble and rock roses.

So I shall plant a rose for Gaza

in my green space,

in my tranquil garden.

I won’t bruise it,

just gently sniff its fragrance

and hope that one day

fragrant roses will bloom again

in the garden of Gaza.

What else can I do?


Published in Zaira Journal 1

Half of the proceeds of sales will go to the schooling of underprivileged children in the Philippines. We have chosen Virlanie Foundation. Virlanie Foundation was established in 1992 by Dominique Lemay, a French social worker, with the help of his Filipino friends. Virlanie cares for children in need of special protection - those who are among the poorest of the poor, the abandoned, abused, exploited, neglected, and orphaned. 

https://www.createspace.com/5605584

Sunshine and Shadows

There are black clouds lingering over me.

Casting shadows.

Even though

there’s a big red sun above 

shinning down on me.

Warming my face.

Caressing me.

reminding me of other sunshine days

when the rays beamed more sweetly.

The clouds make today too close,

too hot,

yesterday too far away.

And the rays are stabbing me sharply.

Hurting me.

No longer warm and sweet

but hot and sour. 

Piercing me. 

Cutting me like icy splinters.

Because there’s cold there as well,

coming from somewhere.

This sun is too bright for me to see clearly,

too red and swollen,

like my eyes feel now.

Heavy.

Black with shadows.

So I’m waiting for the rain to fall.

Fall away.

Drop by drop until they’re empty and cold.

And I’m waiting for more cold days to come.

And I’m waiting for the empty clouds to pass 

and the sun to shine again

and warm me

if it can.

First published in Aubade, September 2015

Half of the proceeds of sales will go to the schooling of underprivileged children in the Philippines. We have chosen Virlanie Foundation. Virlanie Foundation was established in 1992 by Dominique Lemay, a French social worker, with the help of his Filipino friends. Virlanie cares for children in need of special protection - those who are among the poorest of the poor, the abandoned, abused, exploited, neglected, and orphaned. 

https://www.createspace.com/5522901

Transformed

We were such special people then, 

flying high above the rest,

like the arrogant angels we saw 

playing way above the clouds.

We could almost touch them

with our arms outstretched

as we danced our way through 

a youth of endless possibilities.

But other people were unimpressed.

They had no wish to touch the angels, 

or reach the stars, even if they could.

They looked down to us, not up.

Laughed and shook their heads

at our strangeness and waited

for our dreams to fracture as theirs had done.

We did not hear the soundtrack of their voices.

Did not see that their dreams had split open 

and rotted away consuming them in the decay.

Now we have become the rest

and know that we were not so special then. 

But just practicing for a life that would elude us 

as our dreams remained dreams.

Dreams which became decayed imaginings 

growing dusty with time and fading.

Like them, we were consumed in the rot of our dreams

as ordinariness reclaimed us and the angels let us fall. 

https://silverbirchpress.wordpress.com/…/transformed-poem-…/

                         Washed Away

        Cool cleansing water running over me,

        washing away my sins, my impurities,

        Cleaning me up, getting rid of the villainy

        and lack of chastity.

        Absolving me.

        But who’s to say they should be washed away,

        like the scruffiness of childhood innocence.

        Who should judge these scents and tastes and sweats 

        of a life cleanly and clearly remembered.

        What sins, what villainy?

        I wished they could remain unwashed and pure 

        retaining their essence within my reach.

        Hanging about me in my lived in face.

        A testament to my life, an affirmation.

        It didn’t take much water to remove them.

        But I was already clean.

        I can remember.

First published in Snapdragon “Your Wild And Precious Life”, September 2015

https://www.facebook.com/SnapdragonJournal/photos/a.387135344771906.1073741825.387134538105320/519366738215432/?type=1&theater

http://www.snapdragonjournal.com/store/c1/Featured_Products.html 

The Bucket Man

I saw the Bucket Man today,

Upside down, his head in his bucket,

his arms folded tight

to entertain the crowd.

“It’s my living”, his sign says,

“puts a roof over my head”.

Such focus and fitness,

such determination,

such imagination,

such creativity.

Will it lead him him 

to a different place,

one day,

this man and his bucket?

And what if his parents were wealthy

and had sent him to Eton or Harrow,

What then for the Bucket Man?

Such focus and fitness,

such determination,

such imagination,

such creativity.

Would it lead to a different place

for this man and his bucket?

But he does well, it seems.

And for every coin in the bucket

there’s a ‘thank you’ and

a thumbs up from an arm

released from it’s fold.

He’s a popular entertainer,

on facebook now and Twitter.

So, what if one day his head

meets up with the treasure in his bucket?

Will he kick his bucket away

and pay

to send his kids to Eton or Harrow,

What then for the Bucket Man,

would he still have his head 

in a bucket, screwed on tight,

or up in the clouds?

And what if he falls, or his body

says ‘Hey, I’m not designed

to work upside down’.

Will his bucket be kicked away from him?

What then for the Bucket Man?

What then for all the ‘bucket men’?

First published by Ealain in Issue 11, ‘What If’

http://www.magzter.com/ZA/MPA-Publishing/Ealain/Art/124528?