Of Friends and Foes

I do not like insincerity,
It irks me to the core,
Be my friend,
Or not,
For I will not give you more,
If you do not commit your heart,
Then leave it at the door.
As I will fully give of me,
I expect the very same of thee.
No half-measures,
No short-cuts,
No hidden pleasures,
No false starts.
Do not find me
With veiled promise,
For I will see you,
Clear and honest.
Intuition is my friend always,
Keeping true and close,
Those very friends who stay.

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A Blessing

All that I am,
I have to give,
Even my torrid heart.
If all that I am is this old heart,
Then my life is surely had.
Beaten once by fortitude,
My weakness my desire,
I cannot strive to be so strong,
If along the way I tire.
Judge me not; this broken heart,
That beats its timeless rhythm,
It beats for you,
All of you,
Who dare to even listen.
The pain it heals to have this heart,
My words cannot express;
A schism sealed by tales so old,
That thought is not permission,
To grant it life beyond this soul,
Unless all is long forgiven.
God bless my broken heart.
My broken heart God bless.


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The Pride of Venice

What light through yonder window breaks?
The artifice of all that’s fake.
An understated memory of love gone bad;
The window now shuttered and ivy clad.
Wherefore art thou young cavalier,
That you should rent such grief from here?
Fair Romieta; young Julio wandering woods so dark and strange,
In search of freedoms not yet given names;
Yet like seeds cast upon the breeze,
Your love escapes the hands of thieves,
Who would have you bound and cast aside,
Lest you break the Winged-Lion’s pride.
But times do pass, and history blossoms,
With the swell of change that you dreamed could happen.
Naïve, yet brave you were strong Nave, fair Maid,
Would that others be less afraid.


Seventeen lamenting seagulls tapping on my windowpane,
Telling me I’ve overslept, even though my eyes have only closed.
Seventeen lamenting seagulls reminding me that life goes on, despite my tired legs and heaving chest, and desire to tape their beaks and my eyes shut.
Sixteen lamenting seagulls tapping on my windowpane. If I’m to be awake when I should sleep, because the sea-raptors decree it so, then one less will not be missed. After all life goes on, and I will be lamenting far longer than they.
Sixteen more nights, then no lamenting seagulls tapping on my windowpane, to remind me that nothing ever really changed.
Who needs sleep when you’re alive and full of chips and fish, and taking life on the wing?
Sea-chicken tastes just as good as a late night snack, enjoyed with a nice-cold beer to numb the head and wash down birdie cries,
That boast so loudly, and so proudly of my and their demise.


The Queen of Spears

Abuse is like having every bone in your body broken, then being ordered to rise up or face the consequences. Once you break something, it becomes something else. No longer what it was made for. Even though the bones may heal, you remain misshapen and broken, ever reminded of the damage that was inflicted upon you, by the ache in your muscles and joints, the heart motor that doesn’t quite keep its rhythm, but ticks along out of fear that its stopping might be preferable. The scars remain visible in your countenance; the sad look in your eyes despite the laughter lines.
Every once in a while you allow yourself to fall back into a heap and let your bones settle as they have reset, rather than trying to stand tall, because that is what you have been trained to do. Not because you wanted to, but because you had no other choice. But nothing is comfortable and, even the tired heap is not tolerable for long. So you fidget and move around and, learn never to stop moving just in case your joints lock and you can no longer articulate, or breathe without being in immense pain.
Abusers are bastards and, should be punched in the face, because by that point it’s already too late for them to be anything else.
The irony and, most unfortunate affectation of any abuse is that it teaches you that it’s ok, normal and acceptable, whether self inflicted or inflicted on others. It makes a mockery of trust and fealty. It makes us incapable of drawing lines, so we learn to draw circles, ever destined to repeat old patterns. Like the cogs of a machine already well oiled and set in perpetual motion. It makes us believe that through self governance any old crap that we are fed and are consuming is in some way good for us.
Abuse is akin to a religion, in that it takes dedicated grooming over years, indoctrination of habits and learned behaviours that develop with continued exposure, but that are no more than one person exerting their will over another. Even if only imagined. One person getting away with the murder of another, even if all that is killed is the spirit and will to engage fully with life and continue. It’s still a violation.

So here I stand, broken and in pain, still standing tall even though I don’t want to because it hurts. Wishing that I could, of my own free will, without fear of reprisals. All I want is to start again. Erase the memories that still linger and have killed my spirit and damaged my physical body beyond repair.
Perhaps my next life will be better. Perhaps my parents will be gentle and kind next time and teach me to feel valued for the person that I am, and not the person that they see me as. A mistake and a shadow, a doormat to have the world wipe it’s shoes on, because their parents and, all of society told them it was ok to be that way. Maybe next time.


Yāska – Of Wise Men

“You have my full attention.
The river of knowledge runs
Wide and deep. Words mingle
In amongst the fishes; scaling
Depths that know no shiver
Of doubt or remorse. Winged
Syllables fill the air with resonant
Compulsion; to breathe forth
Lamenting changes in the blossoms
Of the trees. Cranes digest nouns,
And phrases are borne on the winds
Like star dust blown into the heavens,
To descend once more
Many centuries from now
Like a rain of thoughts
Caught in ageless time.
To you a lotus flower I shall give
To show that I am honourable;
With fingers to mouth, and hand
Outstretched, an offering of peace.
My future lays in the earth
As my sentences reach forth
Carrying the past wisdom into
Present, and the present into memory.
Know that you are the receiver
Of such wisdoms, falling from a
Heavenless sky, the receiver of gems
Formed by smiths of consciousness,
Adorning your shoulders
With responsibilities to speak
These truths.
Take this knowledge, forged
Deep within the fires of the earth,
Feel the power of keen spirit within
And, forge new wisdoms; testaments
To the strength of your will,
Measured now only by clarity.”


Snapshot Story: One more kiss.

“To each his own.” She said. But she was already red in the face with exhaustion. Her lips were dry and, her throat rasping as though she had swallowed sand in her attempt to sate her contempt.

Someone protested at her indignation, a waif of a lad not two stalls across, glaring at her with open mouth and an estranged look in his eye, as if she had taken it upon herself to attack him personally.

“To each his own indeed.” Echoed another. A tall fellow dressed in smocks-and-black. Frock coat down to his knees, and raven tresses spilling from a three-point hat and, over his shoulders.

In a final fit of ire she cleared her throat and spat her sand at his feet. Giving him a look sharp enough to cut his throat.

“And that,” she said, “is for your good wife, and the lies she endures from you!” Her eyes snarled at him, her mouth full of judgement.

The gentleman in black wiped the spittle from his polished slipper on the back of his other stockinged leg, using the woman as temporary prop. Her face reddened further, and for an instant she felt as though flames might issue from her nostrils and venom  from her mouth. She hated this man with every fibre of her being, despising the very stench of his indifference.

“I curse you, old man!” She hissed through anchored teeth.

“You dare call yourself husband to me, you foul-smelling wretch! I have heard my final lie from your weathered tongue. Would that you would rot in the pits of the darkest hell!”  With a sharp movement she flung her heavy skirts in the direction of her will and, staggered off through the parting crowd that had now swarmed about the duelling pair. The air was thick with latent fury, like the charge of a storm before the thunder.

The man dressed in black adjusted his coat, straightened his hat and strode away in his wife’s wake. By morning she will have forgotten it all, and his lies would be as butterflies around her auburn tresses, feigning delights and kisses that she would collect like petals from a flower. She’d hold them close to her bosom like precious jewels, but that with time would temper and harden into razors edges, an arsenal of screaming shards. And although he knew he was to blame, that her contempt for him was valid and true, he could not bring himself to speak the truth because he feared that death would certainly follow. At least this way, he lived another day though his end was almost nigh. One more lie, that’s all, he thought. One more kiss goodnight.