The Lost Land

*The second last stanza (before the one line, last stanza), is the reverse of the first stanza. The lines are written from bottom to top, instead of top to bottom.

Destined to wander these waters forever,

I close my eyes once more.

The lost land, a story that I am a part of, it was my home.

I disappear.

I step into the sea and let it caress me in its beckoning arms of water.

The tide came in and the sea took me way,

quenched my thirst but watered my grave, the last survivor .. now gone.

The village on the edge, a poetic past now barren,

screamed of voices, some feet below.

When the last breath was taken, the shadows remained,

there were no memories, for they had been detained.

The gnarled tree, once a sapling, now a wise grandfather of a thousand years,

watched all unfold.

Rooted to its roots, helpless it watched as the people slowly faded into obscurity.

The smell of the sea masks the stench of the tragedies that lie below the lost land,

where the pitter patter of children once echoed.

Sometimes I visit and let my tears flow,

sit in the shade, walk the sands that were once gardens, leaving no traces behind.

I step into the sea and let it caress me in its beckoning arms of water,

I disappear.

The lost land, a story that I am part of, it was my home.

I close my eyes once more,

destined to wander these waters forever.

I'm not sure when I'll visit again.

Jade

    *In Chinese culture, jade pendants can protect the wearer. When white Jade pendants turn green, it means the pendant is protecting the wearer. It likes the wearer if it turns a darker shade of green, every year. I have used this interesting aspect of Chinese culture to write this story. This is a story that deals with racism but also has a message and deeper meaning.

      "Excuse me sir, do you have spare change?" begged Corlo to a man as he sat in front of Divine Deli in the blazing summer heat. Begging had become his livelihood, yet as he begged, the sir's and madam's of this world passed by him without so much a glance and it took everything in him not to say, "Listen idiot, give me your money." At the end of the day, someone would drop a few coins in his cup and he would say thanks and maybe even profess how grateful he was for their generosity if they put more than five dollars in his cup. He hoped today would be the last day he begged for money for he had procured a job interview at Broderick and Associates for 6pm. If he could get that job, he would have no need to scrounge around for change and food; he could live the life he once had.

     Around 1:30pm, Corlo started to hear the lion like roar of his stomach that desperately craved food. He hadn't eaten all day and hoped he had enough for a couple of sandwiches from Divine Deli. A simple ham sandwich cost two dollars and he needed three to fill his belly so that when he slept at night, the gnawing hunger wouldn't keep him awake. With a sigh, he tipped his cup into his hand and slowly started to count the change. He glanced to his left and saw a short man in a long, black jacket (evidently a high-quality piece, for Corlo had worn a similar jacket in his glory days) and black bowler hat walking towards him. His head was tilted downward as if fearful of being recognized. His pace was rapid and every few seconds he glanced behind him as if wary of people following him. As he passed Corlo, he dropped a wad of bills in front of him. "Use it wisely," the short man said. He did not slow down his stride and continued walking as Corlo stared after him, at loss for words.

     There was something familiar about the man who had given him money, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. It took him six minutes to count his money and when he'd finished, he realized the man had left him ten thousand dollars.

     He closed his eyes as tears of relief descended down his cheeks and dripped onto the concrete sidewalk he sat on. No longer would he slave on the streets for money, begging people as if he had no right to live. Wu ... unbidden the name floated into his head. It was a name that incited volcanic rage into him but today his name brought a slight smile to his lips, almost smug. He would use his money and regain his former life, that would show Wu ... then he'd come for him. He closed his eyes and his past came back to him.

     Corlo is in his office on the 16th floor, talking with someone through the phone. It's nearly 4pm; he's expecting to interview a person for the job of financial advisor. As a hiring manager, he does his best to weed out those he deems unsatisfactory. 

     A loud knocking on his office door reaches Corlo's ears. "Come in," he says. The door opens and a man of short stature walks in. He is dressed in blue jeans that look as if it has been washed one too many times. The faded blue matches the  crinkled, tucked-in, checkered shirt he wears which speaks of a man that has fallen upon hard times. Around his neck, he has a small jade pendant in the shape of a half-crescent moon on red string and it appears to glow beautifully as if it were snow crystals on which rays of sun reflect and create a twinkling stone. He wears thick, black glasses but what strikes Corlo the most is his squinty eyes that remind him of a bored cat that appears to be sleeping but is truly alert. "I hope you can perform for me tonight, I've been looking forward to it. Lily won't be back for a week," says Corlo into the phone. A soft giggle echoes from the phone receiver and the man that his here for his interview senses that Corlo is having an affair.

     "I will see you at 6:00pm at the harbour ... wear the black dress I bought you, I want my women to look good," says Corlo ending the conversation. He now gives his undivided attention to the other man in the room; As he does, he can feel his blissful mood disappearing quickly, for the eyes of the man are the eyes of an Asian man. It was already too much that the law made him respect black people who were roaches that were blessed to be allowed to live on the bottom rungs of society but now the law defined every man, woman and race as equal and that intruded upon his personal beliefs. White is the superior race and the only race meaningful and damned if he was going to hire a Chinese man or whatever those Asian people were called. 

     He wouldn't have booked this interview if he knew the man was of the Asian variety. Mentally he told himself he would have to tell Charlene, his secretary, to screen out any peculiar sounding names, names that didn't fit with what he liked to call the 'caucasian lifestyle'. He couldn't tell the Asian man that he wasn't getting the job without a valid reason or word might get out, the Channel 13 News might hear about it and it would create a furor that would end his comfortable lifestyle. Everyone was sensitive to perceived slights against races he believed shouldn't have rights and he did not want to stand out like blood on snow.

     "Sit down," he says to the Asian man, gesturing at the chair. It was a courtesy he didn't have to extend to the critter but he did. It was his way of showing the Asian man that the white man can give and taketh away.

     "Thank you sir," says the Asian man, in an infuriatingly Chinese sounding accent.

     "What's your name and why do you want this job?" asks Corlo.

     "My name is the Wu Xi. I come from the China one week ago and have degree in the accounting. I have other qualifications to. I want this job because I come from the China and need to take care of my wife," says Wu innocently in English that was commendable for a man who had been an immigrant for a mere week, yet his honesty did not soften Corlo's resolve.

     "You have said twice that you came from China. You are giving me information not relevant to what I asked you and your English, well frankly its appalling. Sorry Mr. Wu Xi, you are not going to get this job. Please leave," says Corlo rudely.

     "Sir, you haven't looked at resumé. I am very qualified for this job," implores Wu.

     "I don't need to see your resumé. You are not what I'm looking for. Now get out of my office before I call security," says Corlo impatiently.

     "Please sir, give me one chance,," says Wu with tears in his eyes. Corlo sees desperation and fear in his pupils yet he does not heed the pleas for he simply does not care.

     "I'm going to call security," repeats Corlo firmly.

     Wu gets up to leave. He knows it futile to argue with Corlo any longer. As he is about to exit the office he turns around and faces Corlo. His face is tear streaked, his eyes are red and he is trembling from what appears to be anger and humiliation. "I will never forget this day. I hope you don't forget it either."

     "All I hear is ching-chong-ching-chong. Close the door behind you," says Corlo gruffly.

     As Wu leaves, Corlo picks up his phone to call Charlene and in that moment he remembers something odd. The jade pendant on Wu's neck had been snow white when he entered the office ... and yet when he left he was sure it had been a pale green. He ponders this for a moment but a minute later he dismisses any thought about the pendant completely and Wu becomes something of the past for him.

     When Charlene picks up her phone, she does not greet Corlo with a warm, "hello" or "how are you sir?". To Corlo's utter surprise she says, "Sir you left the intercom on. I could hear everything you said to Mr. Xi."

     "Mind your own business. I wouldn't have had to deal with him if you had done your job and not foolishly thought an Asian was worthy of this company," sneers Corlo. "Remember, my job is to hire but it's not too much of a stretch to say that I can fire you."

     "Sir, Mr. Xi ran out of here in tears. I'd like to think you're a good man. Please apologize to him," implores Charlene.

     "Don't tell me how to do my job," says Corlo angrily. "You are only a secretary and that's all you'll ever be."

     "Very well sir," says Charlene. 

     Corlo does not respond and after a moment he hears the phone click and knows Charlene is gone. By the end of the day, management informs him that he must vacate the premises by the end of the week. Apparently human resources has received a complaint about his, "inappropriate and unacceptable racist behaviour that goes against what this company stands for" as they put it. As he takes out his last box on the last day that he is allowed to step on company premises, he passes by Charlene. She meets his eyes but quickly looks down and does not say anything.  He exits the building and in his mind he utters one word angrily ... 'Wu'.

     Two weeks later, his wife discovers his affair and initiates a divorce that drains him financially until he is left with his mistress and the clothes on his back. Yet his mistress finds that Corlo alone is not enticing and leaves him in search of a lover that has money. He is now on the streets and with a cup in his hand, he begs for money. For each coin that drops in his cup, he thinks of Wu. Wu, the man who destroyed him. One day, he will have his vengeance ... one day.

     He opened his eyes, wiped his tears and stood up. The wind blew strongly and he clutched his money, fearful it might blow away. A small, white piece of paper danced in the wind and landed on Corlo's lap. He was about to brush it off, when the words 'hit man', caught his eye. He picked up the paper and looked at the writing on it. There was a 10 digit number and the word "hit man" scrawled beneath. Fate, that's what he would call this moment when he wrote his memoirs that only he would read.


     There was a pay phone right beside Divine Deli, so he went to it and with a quarter he dialled the number on the paper. On the sixth ring, someone picked up the phone but said nothing. All Corlo could hear was silence and it unnerved him. After a few seconds he decided he would say what he had to say to the silence on the other end of the phone. "I need a man killed." His words seemed to echo ever-so-slightly and for the first time Corlo fully realized what he was about to do. Saying it out loud and hearing his own voice uttering those words made him realize the power he was about to wield with money. He was going to to take a man's life and there would be no returning from this point. His hatred for Wu blinded him to reason and the only logic he saw was his own anger towards a man who had once asked him for a job.

     "His name and ten thousand dollars," said a voice through the phone. The utter lack of emotion in the voice stunned Corlo. This was a man who could not care whether someone lived or died for it was his livelihood to play god for money. Like a wolf that decides to hunt rabbits to survive, this man hunted and killed people for sustenance and his heart had become impervious to the human weakness, emotion. "Put both in an envelope. Go to 401 Holland Avenue, you will find an abandoned home. Push open the gate. Walk to the front door. Put the envelope under the doormat at 3:00pm. Leave. He will die by 6pm. Do not look back ... or you will die." The hit man spoke in short sentences, almost robotically. Clearly these were lines he had said time and time again; he was a man who was experienced with his trade.

     "How do I know you won't steal my money?" asked Corlo nervously. There was no answer from the other end of the phone. A beeping sound reached Corlo's ears and it was a few seconds before he realized the man had already hung up.

     By 2:59pm, Corlo had reached 401 Holland Ave, an old house, seemingly abandoned as the hit man had said. The house was surrounded by a black, wrought iron fence similar to the fences that enclosed graveyards where past victims of the hit man now lay. Although it was summer, the overgrown grass had faded to yellow, dead as this house seemed to be. The house spoke of neglect- from its dirty, grey brick to the roof covered in broken, black shingles as if someone had stomped all over it. The house cast an ominous shadow over the front yard; it truly was the type of house one would associate with the nefarious beings of society thus Corlo felt 401 Holland Ave was not only a place where murderous transactions were conducted but it was also the home of the hit man. Corlo walked quickly up to the front door of the house. In front of the door, a carpet so filthy that it's colour was no longer discernible, lay. Corlo took out a white envelope with the name 'Wu Xi' and ten thousand dollars in cash inside and shoved it under the carpet. Immediately he turned around and walked back towards the gate. He was tempted to look behind him but the hit man's last words rang in his ear, "Do not look back ... or you will die."

     As he left the property, he felt a sense of relief. Wu would be dead soon and perhaps then he could find a way to truly get his life on track. He smiled to himself, he had an interview at 6pm at Broderick and Associates. He had 10 years of experience as a hiring manager for Lolland Co., he was certain he could get the same job at Broderick and Associates.

     At 6pm, he sauntered into the building of Broderick and Associates with a smug look on his face. He knew he wasn't an important man right now but his luck was about to change. He would rise to the top where he had seen the sun set from a 16th floor window, many years ago.

     "Hello madam, I'm here for the hiring manager interview," said Corlo to the receptionist. He noticed her blonde hair, slim figure and her youth and made a mental note of asking her to dinner if he managed to nab this job.

     "You must be Corlo, we spoke on the phone. I will show you to the conference room," she said unsmiling. She stood up and gestured forward, "follow me."

     When I get my job, I'll hire you to do tricks. I hope licking is one of them, he thought to himself as he stared at her slim figure and her hips moving left, right, left, right almost like music that he could hear through his eyes. They took an elevator to the 31st floor.

     "Here we are sir," said the receptionist, interuppting Corlo's sexual reverie. "Please wait inside, someone will be with you shortly."

     Corlo pushed open the mahogany doors and stepped inside the conference room. One wall of the room was entirely occupied by glass that afforded a view of the city that even Corlo's 16th floor view at Lolland Co., paled in comparison. In the center of the room was a long glass table that could have seated at least thirty people but despite its vastness, it was empty and impersonal as if it hadn't been used in some time. It was here Corlo waited for his interview.

     Two minutes later, a man stepped into the conference room. Corlo glanced over at him and simutaneously a gun shot rang out. It hit Corlo with such an impact that he immediately dropped to the floor but oddly he could not move, not even to convulse in pain. He could not scream for help, all he could do was keep his eyes open and even that was starting to become an effort. A small bullet sized hole remained in the glass, evidence of a sniper of some sort.

     The man in the conference room immediately dialled 911. Then for a few minutes, there was silence as Corlo's life slowly slipped away. "I told you to use it wisely," Corlo heard the man say. The last thing he saw before he closed his eyes was a familiar jade pendant but there was something different about it ... it had turned a dark shade of green.

Virane

     In the land of Toro, Mira walked slowly through the woods that lay behind her home as her blonde hair fluttered in the breeze. She lived in secrecy, for her father and mother, once King and Queen of Toro, were dead. The Toroks betrayed the throne and anyone who supported her parents was killed ... only she had gotten out alive. It had been a year since she had found her new home, an abandoned cabin evidently unused for many years. It was here she lived in isolation, away from prying eyes that were keen to find the Princess, heir to the throne.

     Mira had no real purpose tonight other than to enjoy a leisurely stroll. It was the only luxury she could afford in isolation. Moonlight dimly illuminated her path as the trees made eerie shadows that seemed to beckon her with its dance. Unwillingly, a thought drifted into her mind ... the dance of Virane.

     Virane. It was an ancient name, the name of death as spoken by the Larigan people of old. The Larigan race vanished mysteriously thousands and thousands of years ago, yet they still existed in the words of stories whispered amongst those who feared the subtle truths that underlied these fables.

     Virane. It was this name that echoed in the deepest pits of her mind as she walked over twigs and leaves, admist the trees that appeared so lovely in daylight but murderous by night. She had heard stories of Virane from her mother but she was never quite sure what it was. It was said that in many ways Virane was death and more; it sought to spread misery wherever it went for nothing more than its own pleasure. Virane was a marked entity, for the sign of the flaming butterfly would reveal its identity. She shuddered at the thought of Virane and fearfully glanced around her as if expecting the shadows to be concealing it.

     Suddenly Mira came to a halt. Her voluptuos chest rose up and down rapidly like the wings of a humming bird, as she breathed heavily from fear.  She could hear whistling- a pleasant sort of whistling that one might hear from a carefree person. Mira could recognize the tune, Moonstone Jig, a song her father had enjoyed, yet thoughts of Virane lingered in her mind, keeping her fear intact.

     For a moment, the whistling ceased and the only sound in the woods was silence itself but it did not last long. A gruff, male voice started to sing the words to Moonstone Jig,

                                    ' Out on the rocks there is a glow,
                                     the darkness inside is the river that flows,
                                     the stone of the moon is the creature's show,
                                     dancing a jig, on craters she knows.
                                     Now love ain't a lover, but she warms my stones,
                                     stealing out into the night for all her moans,
                                     the moonstone jig is to set the tones,
                                     for in the morning, I'll be all alone.'

     A tear rolled down Mira's cheek but she hastily wiped it away. The song was a reminder of all that she had left behind. It brought her hope and happiness but also a deep longing for the past to be returned to her. Up ahead, a young man walked towards her. He had long, dark hair that covered the nape of his neck and moved in the air like waves. His dark eyes fixated on Mira as he continued to sing Moonstone Jig. He was a fairly tall man but of a stocky build and judging by the streaks of dirt that slightly marred his handsome face, he had been travelling all day long.

     "Eyy there pretty lady, don't suppose you know a place where I can stay tonight?" asked the man, grinning.

     Mira gazed into his piercing eyes and saw no intent to harm, rather a warmth that she could almost feel on this cool summer night. If he had wanted to hurt her, he would've done so by now; there was no need to create a ruse on the pretense of wanting a place to stay. She had not seen nor heard from a person in more than a year. She yearned for the companionship of another and at this point she may have even considered letting a Torok into her home and thus the look in his eyes was enough for her to decide what she would do.

     "I do know of a place," she said carefully. "What is your name?"

     "Call me Prons," he said. "Where is this place my lady?" There was no mockery in the flattery he bestowed upon her, rather his words seem to be respectful and genuine.

     "I live that-a-way," said Mira, gesturing behind her. "You can stay with me for as long as need be ... and please call me Mira."

     "Ahhh Mira," he whispered yearningly as if savouring the last morsel of a delicious meal. "I do not know how long I will stay but the Toroks have taken over my village and I am merely trying to find a place to hide until I can find a safer place. I will do whatever you ask to earn my keep."

     "The Toroks are headed this way?" she whispered fearfully.

     "I doubt any Torok would dare venture into these woods. I entered for I had no choice." His smile had disappeared and now his expression seemed grim. "No harm shall befall you, I am sure of it."

     "Follow me," said Mira abruptly. She did not wish to discuss her fears with a stranger and yet she felt relieved that she had decided he should stay with her. He did after all know of the Toroks coming. She turned around and walked back towards her house, with a whistling Prons in tow. Although she was opening her doors to him, she vowed to never reveal that she was truly Princess Mira. It was one secret she did not wish to share with anyone.

     It was after three months of Prons' company that she felt an affection of sorts towards him and it seemed he felt the same way about her. He looked at her lovingly with his dark eyes and his smile smoothed over the sharp edges of stone that her heart had become after being devoid of human contact for so long. Yet there were moments when she glanced at his eyes and thought she might have seen an iciness that only a man of anger could possess, but his kindness towards her pushed all other thoughts out of her mind. Soon Mira and Prons fell in love with each other.

     One late evening, she sat in the warmth of Pron's arms, which encircled her protectively. If I we were ever to have a child, I would name it after you, she thought contentedly. She felt happier than she had ever been in the past year. She hoped this peacefulness would last forever.

     A noise outside of her home shattered the silence. There was racous shouting and a clanging sound that rang like a bell as if signalling the end of an era. Mira glanced up at Prons and saw that his face had become deathly pale. "What is it Prons?"

     "The Toroks are here," he whispered. "Stay quiet, I'm going to try and divert them from here."

     "Be careful Prons," Mira said fearfully. Prons nodded as he walked towards the front of the house and as he entered outside to confront the Toroks, Mira noticed that they had grown silent.

     Then Prons spoke and what he said made her blood run cold, "The Princess? She's inside."

     I never told Prons I was a princess, she reflected as the first wave of pain hit her, nearly sending her into a realm of temporary darkness. It was not a physical pain but rather a burning scar that reeked of betrayal which grew in size until her mind was a pit of ashes.

     The Torok barged into the house and took her captive but by then she was too weak to do much. Her mind was still reeling from Prons giving her up to the Torok and thus she did not resist but meekly went along with them. "We killed your mother and your father, Princess," spat a Torok with a jagged scar running down the left side of his face from his eye to his chin. "But we are merciful people. You please us and we will keep you alive." The other Torok guffawed as the Torok with the jagged scar grinned.

     Mira said not a word. She was lost in her mind and unable to process what was happening to her. Even when they raped her, she did not scream or fight back, almost as if she had entirely given up. Within a week she was pregnant but that did not stop her captors from continually tormenting her. And as time passed, her heart of smooth stone cracked and eroded until the edges were sharp again.

     Nine months after Prons' betrayal, she gave birth to a beautiful, little boy. The Torok named him Grunder and the day after his naming, she fled from the Torok with her son in her hands. She had reason to live now and that reason was Grunder. She wanted him to have a life away from the enslaving eyes of the predatorial Torok.

     She wandered far east in Toro until she came upon a village, Quoznak. There, she took refuge in a kind elderly man's house and did chores for him to earn her keep. He died soon after and left her his house; it was here she raised Grunder all on her own. She no longer thought about Prons, for thinking about him would paralyze her and she could not afford to be in such a state- Grunder needed her.

     Grunder grew up to be a strong, healthy boy. He had dark hair but he had Mira's forest-green eyes that shimmered like emeralds. On the eve of his 14th birthday, Grunder told Mira he was heading towards the lake. The lake was known as Lake Rhowen and it was on the outskirts of Quoznak. It was a lake frequented by locals during the day for that is when the salmon were most active.

     As she gazed after Grunder from the front of her house, she heard a familiar voice that she had not heard in many years. She turned slightly to the left and saw Prons. In that moment, the memory of his betrayal swam up into her mind and with great effort she prevented it from possessing her. She did not want to rexperience that pain- she needed to stay strong for Grunder. The long, dark hair of Prons' that she had loved so much was now short and somehow gave him a more youthful look.

     "Are you here to give me back to the Toroks?" she asked, trembling fearfully.

     "No, no my dear. You must forgive me for doing what I did all those years ago. I am merely going to the lake, it's a nice evening for a stroll, perhaps I'll run into my son," he said smiling. The smile was not like the smiles that he had once given her out of what seemed to be love. This was a smile that was not quite right, crooked in a way she could not describe and the hint of mockery did not escape her. The man she once loved now terrified her but she had to stop him from going to the lake at any cost for she did not want Grunder to be in danger.

     As Prons turned around to leave, Mira saw a strange tattoo on the nape of Prons' neck. She had never seen it before for his long hair had always covered the nape of his neck but now it was visible. It was a small, black butterfly with red eyes that glowed ominously. The wings were adorned with bluish-orange flames, that seemed to pulsate and flicker as if it were real. She gasped as she realized that the stories of Virane were true. This was his mark, she was sure of it. Prons was Virane and she had become his victim.

     She blinked and he was gone as if he had vanished into thin air. She knew she had to get to the lake to make sure Grunder was ok. She ran faster then she had ever run along the dirt paths of the village. Her legs ached and her feet hurt but this pain was nothing compared to pain she had felt before, nothing compared to the pain she would feel if she lost her son. She needed more air but the thought of Grunder heightened her urgency and she increased her pace even more.

     Eventually she reached Lake Rhowen. The setting sun splayed a myriad of colours that danced across the surface of the lake beautifully. The surrounding trees loomed over her like giants that were angry at her for trespassing on their realm. "Grunder?! Grunder!!" she screamed as she looked around for him. Where is Grunder? I don't see him. As she walked along the grassy banks of the lake, she saw him. He was a few feet in front of her and lying on the grass, almost as if someone had laid him there. The paleness of his face was enough for Mira to know ... Grunder was dead.

     Like a stone falling from the sky, she dropped down, lifted Grunder's head into her lap and stroked it affectionately. She weeped for him, weeped for all she had lost and wished her accursed life had never been. Soon the tears dried up and as she stared down at her son, she fondly whispered, "Virane."

     As the last rays of sun disappeared, Mira heard laughter. It echoed all around her and she could not tell where it came from but she knew it was Prons ... and he was amused.

What it Means to be a Mother ...

What it means to be a mother ...

There are not enough words to describe this queen,
she is more than a shoulder on which we lean.
In her nest she sits, while we take shelter under her wings,
and when the tiger shakes the tree, she softly sings.
She doesn't sing a warning, she doesn't show her fear,
she shows us everything is alright, because momma is so near.
She protects us fiercely like a swan on the lake,
and she would give up everything, just for our sake.
We are her children, she governs us with instinct,
and no one will trespass into her precinct.
A mother's love transgresses, it is distinct,
and even when she passes, it is all but extinct.


What it means to be a mother ...

She is there for any situational crisis,
preventing enzymes from taking us via lysis.
She's the one we look up to, because she has a cabinet of spices,
she's doesn't use riddles, like my metaphorical devices.
She gives freely, she doesn't believe in prices,
she advises us of the fate of six number dices.
She celebrates our moments, our cakes full of slices,
she dissipates the darkness that instigated our vices.
She knows how to give, and exceeds what suffices,
she exposes the cloaking of all that entices.
She soothingly applies ointment to the scars we may bear,
she makes it alright and lovingly strokes our hair.
She tells us stories so that we may have imaginations,
she feeds our dreams, to make real our aspirations.

What it means to be a mother ...

From her womb we came, mewling little babies,
created by emotions, crying "please save me".
A woman she is and that's not a question,
she is my mother, and that's a confession.
As her children, we are her obssession,
being a mother, is her fulltime profession.
9 months she bore us, she took on the pain,
and when we were in her arms, she didn't look at us in vain.
She smiled down at us, while we cried in this new air,
she kissed our cheeks and said "there, there."
When we outgrew her arms, she was still our asylum,
bearing our tears with the strength of a xylem.
When she takes care of us, she feels truly content,
and the corners of her lips begin an upward ascent.
The years trickle by, her age in descent,
but her love for her children, is hundred percent.
Her sacrifices invisible, don't know the extent,
"Mother", is a language that I can't hope to attempt.






What it means to be a mother ...

It Came Looking

It was the summer of Reneé’s 24^th year that lingered as if it were a drop of blood that could never be washed away like the almost perfect murder. Try as she might, she could not forget the past but in the five years that had passed since then, she remained single and still lived at home with her parents and little sister, Lola. At times she was able to hold the oppressive cloud of that summer at bay but her sister had opened up fresh wounds- wounds that may have healed had it been five years ago.

It was five years ago when Lola, then 17 years old, ran into the house, tears streaming down her face. She was a silent crier, always had been, and even then the only noise from her was the thudding of her footsteps as she ran up the stairs. Reneé was torn between going up to her sister and comforting her, or meeting her boyfriend, Mark, at his house as she had promised him earlier. She chose to see Mark and spent a wonderful evening eating dinner cooked by him (he could cook a mean foie gras). Not once during that night did she wonder why her sister was crying.

As the days flew by, Reneé spent more and more time with Mark. Sometimes he would come to her place while Lola was around and she would notice the way Lola's eyes seemed to always avoid Mark's when he talked to her. Other times, when Lola thought no one could see her, she would glare at Mark angrily as if he had betrayed her in an unforgivable way. Soon she would mysteriously become absent whenever Mark chose to come over, claiming that she had an exam to study for and that the only peace and quiet she could get was at the library. If only Reneé had seen the signs ... if only.

Over the next few weeks she noticed bruises and cuts appearing on her sister’s body. Finally, she decided to ask what was happening. One night, after her parents had gone to sleep, she went to Lola’s room. Lola was still awake, standing at her window, gazing off into the distance as if in a trance. “Lola we need to talk,” said Reneé from behind her. Lola spun around startled. Reneé could see that her eyes were swollen red from crying. Lola wiped her tears and forced a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“About what?” asked Lola tremulously.

“Is something wrong?” asked Reneé. “I’ll always be here for you. Please talk to me.”

Lola’s smile disappeared off her face and was replaced by an expression of  startling anger. Her eyes seem to darken ever so slightly. “You don’t care what happened to me! It takes you weeks to ask me what’s wrong? Go away! Just go!” she yelled at Reneé. She turned around and resumed staring out the window, seemingly lost in thought again.

Reneé didn’t press the issue. She cared about her sister but if she didn’t want to talk about it, she wasn’t going to force her to. Yet it struck Reneé as odd that her sister was angry with her ... almost as if Lola blamed her for something. She left Lola’s room and now five years later she wondered if she could’ve been a better sister to Lola. She wondered if she had shown more care towards her, would things have turned out different?

A couple of months later, on the rainiest night of the year, Lola came home soaking wet. Not a word did she say as she scampered up to her bedroom and locked herself in. Not a word did Reneé ask her for Lola’s silence and distress had become almost normal these past few months. Reflecting back she realized she chose to be oblivious to Lola's suffering. It was easier that way. Yet that night stuck in her memory like a knife lodged in bone. As the rain beat against the window as if an angry creature were trying to get in, Mark disappeared. It was in the morning when the police came to interview her that she knew what had happened.  He had vanished without a trace and five years later, there was still no sign of him … nor was there any sign of Lola’s necklace. It was a gold chain with an ivory wolf pendant that her mother had given her. Reneé wore a similar one but instead of a wolf she had a swan. It was a necklace of more sentimental value than monetary worth. Lola maintained that she had lost it and that was that. There was nothing that could be done about the necklace … or Mark.

Up until a few minutes ago, her memories of Mark had been  quite fond. He had taken her to see Cirque Du Solei when it had come into town. He had taken her skating when it was a full moon, just so he could tell her that she was more beautiful than the orb that hung in the sky. He had taken her swimming in Talou Lake and then they had watched the stars in the skies and counted them until they fell asleep, wet and holding each other. When her cat, Poosie, had died when a car ran over her, he held her for hours as she sobbed into his shirt uncontrollably. Yet the last memory she associated with Mark were her sister’s words, spoken only minutes before.

 Her relationship with Lola had deteriorated to a point where they didn’t talk to each other. Reneé tried over the years to talk to Lola but Lola shut her out. Her bruises had long healed but evidently the ones inside of her had not. In silence she carried whatever burden was thrust upon her and yet today, as she ran past Reneé down the stairs and to the front door, she had something to say to Reneé. She had longed to hear Lola’s voice directed at her but she had not expected that five years of silence would mount to this: “Mark raped me five years ago on Talou Lake, the night he disappeared. He ripped my necklace off my neck and had me. I got away from him, made sure he wouldn't do this to me again. He did things to me all that summer but you just didn't care.” She spat it out as if she were chewing something bitter and unpleasant. Before Reneé could say a word, she stormed out of the house, leaving her with more questions than answers.

It was too much to believe that Mark raped Lola all those years ago but why would she lie? With great sadness she reflected that she had wasted five years mourning for a man who perhaps met a much deserved end. And suddenly the water works began, her tears gushing out as Lola's had many times before. Reneé went up to her room and crawled into bed, hoping that the last five years was a mere dream. Despite the cloying summer heat that made staying in her room unbearable,  she soon drifted off into deep sleep.

All was still in the darkness of the night, the only light, a dim glow from the moon that played peek-a-boo from behind the clouds. Somehow summer had turned into winter and snow covered the ground in a sea of white. More snow fell from the heavens accumulating in drifts. For reasons unbeknownst to her, Reneé found herself standing barefoot in the snow. She was dressed in light pink, pyjamas and shivered as the cold cut into her skin like a carving knife. Yet in her mind, she had a purpose. It was an urge to walk through the snow until she reached Talou Lake, a lake that once held fond memories for her. She was not worried or scared, she knew there were answers at the lake but for what questions, she did not know.

She trembled as the cold caressed her like a deprived lover as she set out slowly for Talou Lake. With each step she took, the wind blew harder but when she was within 50 meters of the lake, it died suddenly as if a switch had been flipped. She did not take another step as if she were waiting for someone to meet her here. The snow fell on her skin and melted like her heart had once melted when Mark was there for her. Her breath misted in the air, curlicues of smoky breath drifting off into the distance.

And from the depths of Talou Lake rose a figure, cloaked fully in black and although the face was not covered, where it should’ve been was a pit of darkness. The figure moved towards her, not quite touching the ground. As fearful as Reneé felt, she stood her ground for her mind told her this was who she was waiting for. It moved closer and closer to her, until it stood a meter away from her, a macabre specter indeed. Curiously, it was not dripping wet, despite floating out of Talou Lake. “Do you want Lola’s necklace?” it asked in a voice that sounded overwhelmingly beguiling and sweet.

Reneé felt that retrieving the necklace was her purpose, so without hesitation she replied, “Yes, I want her necklace.”

“Then I must have something in return,” said the cloaked voice in an almost mockingly, musical tone.

Reneé hesitated. The voice was familiar, yet in that moment she could not quite recognize it. She did not know what this meant and alas she asked the more pertinent question, “Who are you?”

The cloaked figure was silent for a moment. Then it spoke slowly, no hint of mirth in its voice, "Who I am is not important.”

“What can I offer you in return?” she asked reluctantly. Perhaps all he wanted was money, for that’s what everyone wanted.

"I don't want what you can offer. I merely want seven drops of blood," whispered the cloaked figure. Reneé did not feel at ease with the cloaked figure but she needed that necklace. Soon this would all be over with and perhaps she would never have to see this cloaked figure again.

The cloaked figure strode past her and beckoned her to follow. Reneé trudged through the snow, not knowing what to expect. She stared at the back of the cloaked figure- there was something familiar about its shape but she could not quite put her finger on it.

To her utter surprise, the cloaked figure led her to her own home. As they reached the front door, it raised a finger, gesturing Reneé to remain outside. It then melted into the door as if it were a ghost walking through it, leaving her in the cold as the snow continued to fall around her.

Two minutes later, the cloaked figure appeared through the door. By now, the moon was completely covered by clouds and the light of the stars was such that barely a shadow could be seen. “I put the necklace back where it belongs,” it said in a haunting voice.

Reneé did not say a word. She felt that the cloaked figure spoke the truth, yet there was something out of place and though she did not know what it was, she felt compelled to remain silent. The cloaked figure drifted off into the night, once again beckoning Reneé to follow.

Hours later, they reached Talou lake. Without a glance backwards, the cloaked figure slowly melted into the lake until it fully disappeared. Reneé’s mind warned her not to go into the lake. As she turned around to go home she heard a sound. “Reneé,” a voice whispered. It was a soft voice and its cadence seemed as if it came from under water. She had heard this voice before. Five years had passed but Mark’s voice was a permanent memory. She glanced at the lake  but all she could see was the snow that swirled in the air and floated downwards.

She walked back home in the miserable weather and eventually came upon her front door. She was exhausted, her mind numb with cold. She entered her home, whereupon she climbed into her bed and fell asleep.

It was from this dream that she awoke as the first hour of sunlight passed by. She hoped her sister would be ready to talk to her today. She needed to know more about Mark for his death had been eating at her like a flesh-eating disease for many years. She needed to know if he was truly the rapist that her sister had claimed him to be or was he the man of her memories, the man who thought she was more beautiful than the moon. She quietly went to Lola’s bedroom to talk to her. She knew Lola always woke up early. To her surprise, Lola lay asleep, her face as pale as snow.

As Reneé started to leave her room, she noticed something. Around Lola’s neck was a gold chain with an ivory wolf pendant. It was the necklace she had said Mark ripped off her neck the night he disappeared. Yet more startling, were the seven puncture wounds on her throat ... and in that moment she knew; Mark had come back for her sister.

Imperfect Man

      I am a burdened soul. I wish to thrive wholly free but I cannot, for there will always be someone in this world who wishes to enslave me with the tightest of chains. There will always be someone who believes that they are entitled to a part of me. Even in my most liberal moments I must realize that even my happiness is caused by something or someone else and in that I am never free. It seems that my existence is for them and not truly for me. So that begs the question … am I happy? If happiness is sitting in a small room, alone with a heavy heart, then yes I am happy … and if I’m truly this happy, then I’ll never be free.

     When I look into a mirror, the face that stares back at me scares me. It’s not the face of a man who has enjoyed the years pass by but the face of a man who has aged beyond his years and like an intricate drawing, the sadness is etched in his eyes. The tears stay locked away, for my mother once said, “A man does not cry.” In silence I weep, struggling to be a someone for everyone. ..And in trying to be that perfect son, perfect friend, perfect person … I’ve become this imperfect man.

     

     - Unknown

The Message

The Ouija board has always been an enigma to me. I've heard of people fascinated by its machination, others fearful of it. It is this spectrum of beliefs that has motivated me to enroach upon the subject of the Ouija board.
*For those who do not know what an Ouija board is, it is merely a device used to contact spirits ... apparently. It consists of letters, numbers and a small spinning arrow like 'thing' in the center which supposedly points at certain letters or numbers when a spirit is communicating (planchette).

            It was three days before the start of October when Bobby got around to buying an Ouija board- something he’d always wanted. The idea of communicating with spirits always fascinated him. He lived alone in a modest, one bedroom apartment that he was able to afford with his job as a salesperson at the local bookstore. For a person who lived alone, his apartment was far from what one might expect; his walls were adorned with pictures of family and friends as if they all lived here.

Bobby’s bedroom was a small but comfortable little haven.  In it, there was a closet situated next to the window that afforded Bobby a splendid view of the majestic maple trees that seemed to be prevalent in his neighbourhood. Near the door was a wooden bed that Bobby called home for seven hours every night.

When Bobby brought his Ouija board into his apartment, he immediately felt a sense of excitement. He had questions and he hoped the spirits could give him answers- that is if the Ouija board worked. The Ouija board was a wooden, black masterpiece with the letters and numbers carved in white.  The planchette in the center was a light brown piece that was clearly worn down with age. In each corner of the Ouija board was an odd symbol that Bobby didn’t recognize, yet the symbols gave the board the appearance of being an antique and the scratches sprawled across the board, enhanced its appearance to that of a relic.

 He switched off every light in the house and went to the dining table with his Ouija board.  He placed the Ouija board on the table and lit three candles and placed them behind the Ouija board, the shadows of the flames dancing eerily.  He took a deep breath, whereupon he sat down and placed his hand on the planchette. “I wish to summon a spirit who will bear me no ill will,” said Bobby quivering with anticipation.

There was no answer.

“I wish to summon a spirit who will bear me no ill will,” he implored again.

Again, there was no answer.

“I wish to summon a spirit who will bear me no ill will,” he said sadly for a third time.

This time there was a response. The planchette moved from letter to letter spelling out a message for Bobby. Go to the bedroom. Turn on the lights. Turn off the lights. Turn on the lights. Look under the bed. Look out the window.

“Spirit, who are you and why should I listen to you?” whispered Bobby. The planchette did not move.

“Spirit, who are you and why should I listen to you?” Again the planchette did not move.

“Spirit, who are you and why should I listen to you?” Still the planchette lay still. Bobby was joyous that a spirit had communicated with him but it had left him with instructions that seemed to have no purpose. Nevertheless intrigued, he went towards his bedroom, turned on the lights, then turned them off and then on again. He looked under the bed half-expecting to see something under there but there was nothing. He then looked out the window but saw nothing but the night sky covered by the light of the stars.

He had done what the spirit had asked, but nothing had come of it. Puzzled, he went to bed, intent on using the Ouija board again. After work the next day, he immediately went to his apartment to fiddle with the Ouija board. Once again he lit three candles behind the board and switched off every light in the house. He came back to the table, placed his hand on the planchette like the night before and again implored a spirit to speak to him. “I wish to summon a spirit who will bear me no ill will.” The planchette lay still.

“I wish to summon a spirit who will bear me no ill will.”

There was no answer.

“I wish to summon a spirit who will bear me no ill will,”

This time the planchette moved and it spelled out the message of the spirit communicating with Bobby. Go to the bedroom. Turn on the lights. Turn off the lights. Turn on the lights. Look under the bed. Look out the window.

Bobby was surprised. He thought spiritual contact through an Ouija board was random but this was clearly the spirit from yesterday contacting him again. This time, he did not waste any time in questioning the spirit. He decided to follow the spirit’s instructions immediately, hoping that it would be less reluctant than yesterday to continue communicating with him.

He went to the bedroom, turned on the lights, then turned it off and then on again. He glanced under the bed and out the window and ran back to the table. He placed his hand on the planchette, his heart thudding furiously. “I have followed your instructions, spirit. Why did you ask me to follow these commands?”

The planchette did not move.

“I have followed your instructions, spirit. Why did you ask me to follow these commands?”

Again, the planchette did not move.

“I have followed your instructions, spirit. Why did you ask me to follow these commands?”

Still no answer.

Frustrated, Bobby went to bed, determined to contact the spirit the next night.

Later the next night Bobby set up the Ouija board, placed three lit candles behind it and switched off all the lights. He placed his hand on the planchette, hoping the spirit would communicate with him. “I wish to summon a spirit who will bear me no ill will,” he said slowly.

“I wish to summon a spirit who will bear me no ill will.”

Still no answer.

“I wish to summon a spirit who will bear me no ill will.”

This time the planchette moved and a message appeared on the board. Go to the bedroom. Turn on the lights. Turn off the lights. Turn on the lights. Look under the bed. Look out the window. Look in the closet. Good night.

Bobby went to his bedroom, switched on the lights, switched off the lights and switched it on again. He looked under the bed and glanced out the window. He then approached the closet and opened its door. It was filled with his clothes but there was nothing there.

Suddenly a man stepped out of the closet, grinning wickedly. “Good night,” he said and then the lights went out.

When Bobby didn’t show for work the next day, his manager called the police.  The police went into his apartment but there was no sign of Bobby. They found Bobby’s Ouija board on the table but thought nothing of it. Perplexed, the police left the apartment, securing it with yellow crime scene tape. As the police officers headed towards the lobby of the apartment, a Detective Morton realized he had left his cell phone on the dining table in Bobby’s apartment. He went back to the apartment and retrieved his cell phone. As he was about to walk away from the dining table, the planchette began to move of its own volition. It spelt out a chilling message, “I’m Bobby. Help me.”

Detective Morton stared at the Ouija board in disbelief. He didn’t believe in ghosts and spirits- let alone communicating with them. Nevertheless he couldn’t deny what he had seen. He trembled nervously, unsure of what to do. He quickly decided that the best thing he could do was to get out of there. As he started to move, another message appeared on the Ouija board, “He’s in the closet.”

The Blanket of Irony

As the moon emits an effervescent glow and the clock strikes twelve,
an uneasy chill persists, seeps in through every crack- the tangible cold that dwells.
The bones of ice, held together by sinewy cartilage- cannot be thawed,
for the dragon's breath, is the sunshine that is flawed.
See the lustrous heat, shimmers in waves and drifts in flakes,
as the frosted soul of life shivers and quakes.
A cocoon of comfort, the warmth of a blanket is why a baby sleeps,
as the infant makes an indistinct noise, dreams but does not weep.
There are many ironies, that is what I know,
but who can keep warm under a blanket of snow?

The Echo of the Anemone

To build a wall, one does not need to be a bricklayer,
to play a game, one does not need to be a trick player.
There are ways to achieve without taking the worn path,
even equations won't explain this complicated math.
The betrayal of soliders on the blood of the motherland,
bounded by the same oceans but staining different sands.
Inside, pumping blood to the beat of the drummer,
the vessels break, these pipes ain't fixed by the plumber.
Each drop that falls, another victory against the casualty,
casually a casualty, but what happened actually?
Unable to forget, this ain't USB memory,
the memory an entity, an endless anemone.
The anemone poisons, its a life long enemy,
and each victim looks up and says "why you ain't telling me?"

The past, present and future echo in our echo,
when our pleas go unheard, we hear the echo, "let go".
Mind over matter is why these atrocities are committed,
while the truth is omitted, the soldiers are acquitted.
The voices from the past linger but not permitted,
transmitted intel,  but nothings admitted.
Reports are submitted, yet the lies are knitted,
the defected piece of the puzzle- it ain't ready to be fitted.

The tears have made wet, the dry riverbeds,
the valleys are full of our liver and heads.
When the plundering starts, our livelihood is gone,
even the invaluable heirlooms that once stood and shone.
When the raping starts, its the song of screams,
and now the dress is ripping right at the seams.
When the murdering starts, there is no pity or care,
bodies, tears and a lot of blood to share.
Genocidal values or the indifference of the being,
that's what being a human being is truly meaning.

Lorelléi

     There was once a fair maiden named Lorelléi who lived in the town of Solon. She was extremely beautiful, that even poetry could not do her justice. She had eyes of green that matched the leaves of the Solon forest, where she loved to frolick about. Her long, black hair always smelled of pine and everywhere she went, she would spread joy.

     Lorelléi had simple pleasures and often she would descend into the heart of Solon forest and sing a song so melodic that even the wolves would stop howling to listen. She was loved by all the animals and it was said that even the trees grew from the sustenance her voice provided.

     Lorelléi's beauty and kind heart gave her many admirers but she did not care for them for she was in love with a man named Jorge. While Jorge was not gifted with an appealing exterior, his hard-working, kind hearted self was enough for Lorelléi. It was said that they loved each other so much that often they would gaze into each others eyes and it would be days before they realized that days had passed since they set eyes on each other.

     Lorelléi's beauty and kind heart did attract one man who felt he deserved her. To be sure, Roge was a handsome fellow and very wealthy but he had a heart of stone. It was said that if he had been stabbed in the heart with a knife, the knife would've shattered- such was his condition. He lusted for Lorelléi and truthfully he was better suited for her for his livelihood would make her life easier. Yet his heart of stone would make her miserable- the happiness she sought lay with Jorge.

     Roge approached Lorelléi thrice. The first time he brought her a rose of such whiteness that it may as well have been made of snow. He asked for her hand in marriage but she spurned his advances. He knew of her love for Jorge -the whole town did- but that did not sway him on his quest to have Lorelléi. He wanted her and so in his mind she belonged to him. Even though she had not accepted his proposal, he was far from ready to give up.

     The second time, he brought her a rose of such redness, that it may as well have been made of blood. Again she spurned his advances, scorning him. He was starting to get angry. He was better in every way than any man in town and yet she chose to waste her time with Jorge. Jorge was a simpleton and it made Roge angry that Lorelléi seemed to be lost to him, because a man of no status had beguiled her with some charm that was hidden to him.

     For the third and last time he approached her, determined to make her his. He found her singing in the heart of Solon forest, as a nearby tree seemed to sway to her voice. "Lorelléi, I have sought you out twice before and each time you have turned me down. You are mine and you will always be mine. Forget Jorge and come with me. I am worthy of you."

     "You are not a good man. Your heart is of stone. Please leave me alone. I love Jorge as he loves me. It is his heart that has won me over and he is in every way a better man than you'll ever be," responded Loréllei with contempt oozing in her voice.

     In a sudden fit of anger, Roge picked up a nearby rock and smashed it into her head, killing her instantly. He threw a rose of such blackness, that it may as well have been made out of death and darkness, on her and said "so be it,". He walked out of the forest, never looking back- unrepentant of what he had just done.

     Within hours, the townspeople noticed Lorelléi was missing but after weeks of searching they knew one thing: Lorelléi was gone forever. The forest that once was home to many animals and that lived off Lorelléi's lilting lullabies, slowly wasted away. The trees began to die and animals began to disappear- it was a sorrowful time. Hunters found that prey was not as bountiful as before and soon had to seek other means to provide for their families.

     One evening a hunter went into Solon forest, hoping for game. He went deep into the forest before he heard a rustling sound and soon a young doe bounded forward. He chased the doe with his bow but he could not quite catch it. The doe was a welcome sight in this forest and as the sun slowly set, the hunter gave up chase and headed back towards town. He vowed to himself that he would kill this doe someday.

     Word soon spread about the beautiful doe that could run and leap like no other could. Hunters from all over flocked towards Solon forest attempting to kill the doe but to no avail. The doe was simply too quick and smart; she could not be caught.

     As the doe was seen more often, the forest slowly revived back to a pleasant place and once more it was filled with greenery and the sounds of animals trekking through it. Yet strange stories started to float around Solon about the doe. It was said that when the sun set in the sky, anyone who dared walk through Solon forest was set upon by a woman with a gash in her head. A man who swore he had encountered this woman said that the doe transformed into Lorelléi when darkness washed over the forest and that she would kill any man who entered her forest after dark. Moments after he uttered his words about Lorelléi, he passed away, her latest victim.

     The rumours swirled about in whispers as more and more men disappeared after dark in Solon forest. Their bodies were never recovered. The whispers eventually reached Jorge, who had been in a deep depression ever since Lorelléi disappeared. One night he entered Solon forest, seeking to be reunited with Lorelléi. Yet in the darkness, Lorelléi could not tell that Jorge was Jorge, she only saw that he was a man and killed him. It was afterwards that she realized what she had done and let loose a cry of such grief, that no one who heard it could've kept in their tears- such was the sadness.

     Over the next few weeks, hunters who went into Solon forest reported seeing the doe and a stag which had never been there before. The doe appeared to be chasing the stag but the stag would always stay ahead of her as she stayed ahead of the hunters. The doe would let loose a cry that sounded like an echo for forgiveness but the stag would not respond.

     Roge was curious about the stag and doe. He knew their pelts would catch a fair price at the market and that if he were to bring them down, the praise he would receive would know no ends. He armed himself with a sturdy, wooden bow and arrows tipped with silver before entering the forest in daylight in search of the elusive stag and doe.

     Roge never returned from his quest but his bow was found on the outskirts of the forest and near it his footprints as if he had left the forest and made it out before darkness fell. After this the stag and doe were never seen again. Many were curious as to where they had gone but were relieved that it was safe to travel after the sun set now. It was twenty years later when another hunter found the body of Roge in the heart of Solon forest. The body was fresh as if he had just been killed. An arrow tipped with silver stuck out of his chest. Around him there were hoof marks- that of stag and that of a doe.

Under the Rocks by the Lake

I knew it was going to rain, when I saw the expression,
spiralling out of control she was in a depression.
This is the underworld, but it wasn't Hade's place,
it was ruled by the shadows of the gangster face.
To strive alive, she strove hard to survive,
as they sought to deprive her of all and connive.
She was shown no mercy, it was all so live,
she was exploited by the bees for the honey in her hive.
She was an object of desire by no choice of her own,
on fire, perspire, her work made her moan.
In this darkness she waited, afraid and alone,
but she held out hope for a time to go home.
She was missed by no one, it was as if she never were,
in silence she took it in, but she screamed for sure.
It was by chance that I stumbled upon her story,
and immediately I was drawn to her with a worry.
I was in the area, but I was not here for the honey,
she came over to give, in exchange for my money.
Yet she soon realized, I wasn't there for her meat,
so she got in my car, and she sat in my seat.
We started to meet often, I think I was in love,
she told me stories, that gave my reality a shove.
In the dead of the night, we would sit on the rocks,
she preferred the lake, for our moonlight talks.
She told me of a story of a woman taken away,
hidden in the world where the light doesn't stray.
She said it was her friend that disappeared one day,
5 years ago, she was taken to play.
It was of this story she often talked the most,
it was only later I realized that she was a ghost.
5 years ago, she vanished as if into air,
but she was an escort, so who really cared?
Under the rocks by the lake, her killers hurried,
where we sat and talk, is where she was buried.
She searched far and wide for someone to care,
about where she had gone and how she had fared.
Under the rocks by the lake, I came to listen,
but today I was here on a different mission.
I found the remains that were ravaged by time,
but the clock was the rapist only after the crime.
I was her rock and she's buried with me,
she gave me her sorrow, she told me her plea.
Under the rocks by the lake, while the moon is still bright,
she has faded away, she is no longer in sight.

The Memoirs of Jacques Silo

October 31st, 1774
     Silence, that is my world. I cannot speak, I cannot hear, I cannot see, I cannot smell, I cannot touch, I cannot feel but I do have a story. I wasn't always like this; in some ways I am better now than I was before. Back then I was an inarticulate, burden to society, passed on from school to school, patronized by teachers because I was the antonym of genius. They disciplined me, coddled me- yet neither method worked. They gave me medication, hoping that I would at least achieve average intelligence within my lifespan. I disappointed everyone, as I had my father when it was revealed that I was conceived a bastard, and not his.

     I was a simple fellow; whether they abused me, misused me or attempted to care for me, I did not care. I was too stupid to understand that I was a leech to the people forced to take care of me- an amusement at best. They would say I had no brain, as if they had discovered a theory of substance through their own perserverance- but for a society of prodigies, I thought it pretty stupid that they thought a man who could at the very least speak, would have no brain (In later years I would discover that when people said that I had no brain, it was not literal but a reference to the limited faculties of my brain).

     One evening, I sat in a dull classroom, alone with my inherent stupidity, waiting for my lunch to be served to me. Lunch was as usual a tasteless ham sandwich- apparently being stupid meant that my tastebuds were seemingly desensitized. After this I would take my medication, a white pill. Yet this day was different; the pill had a glazed look as if I was swallowing a snowflake. I was to stupid to care what I put into my body, and so the simpleton took the pill that would earn him ham sandwiches with other condiments that were sure to tease my apparent tasteless tastebuds.

     The changes in myself were instantaneous. I was able to articulate, calculate and validate anything I chose. The world was mine. It took me seconds to realize that my intelligence had increased a thousandfold or more accurately, my brain was at full use (ironically, it was my newfound intelligence that led me to such a conclusion).

     I did not waste any time in utilizing my potential. It would take me years of work to summarize the great things I have done since the summer I turned 21. I will mention two of my greatest accomplishments but I will wait a moment. My intelligence is waning but my flair for the dramatic is not.

...

     I did extensive research on the seemingly innocuous pill that I swallowed and I soon realized it had side-effects, which I am experiencing right now. Silence, that is my world. I cannot speak, I cannot hear, I cannot see, I cannot smell, I cannot touch, I cannot feel but I do have my story.

     My intelligence is flickering, my brilliance not as bright as it once was when the candle was lit all those years ago. As this thieving pill robs me of my senses, it will take away my intelligence until I become a mere shell of what I once was. Soon all that leaves my mouth will be the innane words of a man who was once 21.

     In these last moments, I shall divulge my other great accomplishment to you. It is a secret I have guarded all these years ... time travel. See I have had a great life but as I sit here, aged 35, I have one regret: I won't be able to finish my memoirs. I shall go back 14 years in time and in 14 years time, I will return to continue this memoir. When I return, I will have summarized the 14 years I have just spent as a brilliant, Jacques Silo.


- Jacques Silo

The Woman Called Lolo, Part 2 - Lost in Rain

For part 1, check the Poetry section.
     There was a time when the rain and sunshine would clash to produce an ethereal sight. Such times were once a joyous memory for Leo but now an unpleasant tick from the past that could not be ignored or forgotten.  The rain and sunshine only served to remind him of what happened 10 years ago. 10 years ago this was an ethereal sight. 10 years ago, Lolo was still here.

     Leo stepped out of his house as he had a thousand times before, but this time it was different. He wasn’t going to work where he would be forced to pretend that he was infected by the smiles and laughter of those who worked around him. He was going to confront his past and let the sadness that felt so satisfying, engulf him.

     Dark storm clouds had moved in; it was pouring rain. There was no sunshine- and that’s how he preferred it. He slowly walked towards the park where he had first met Lolo, all those years ago. He remained nearly thoughtless as he let his feet carry him towards the park that had meant so much to him 10 years ago. He approached the roughly hewn wooden bench, now worn down with age and sat upon it. He looked to his left and saw nothing but the rain streaming down from the sky. Years and years ago, Lolo sat on his left. 10 years later, he still expected to see her but she was gone. His empty mind, suddenly filled to the brim with thoughts of Lolo, threatened to overwhelm him. He could not tell if he was crying or if the heavens were crying for him.

     Oh how he missed the soft touch of her hand on his skin, as she held him close and whispered secrets he would never repeat- even within the confines of his mind. Oh how he missed the scent of pine in her hair that had driven him to the very brink of euphoric insanity. Oh how he missed the first day that he had seen her where the rain met the sun- the sadness and happiness mingling into this one beautiful creature. Oh how he missed Lolo.

     He did not have to close his eyes and yet he could see the day she had died. He was too late as she fell from the bench, her blood dripping rapidly; the rain and sun, a witness. He did not want to confront these memories- he should never have come here. He glanced down at the bench and he could see blood dripping to the ground as it had 10 years ago. It did not frighten him; it made him sad. His imagination was taking a hold of him. 
     He glanced at the ground where the blood flowed downwards like a viscous waterfall. The blood drifted lazily until the words I was here, formed admist the puddles that would disappear in the morning like Lolo once had. He stared at it, not fully comprehending what he was seeing until the rain washed it away, never to be seen again. He could not separate reality and imagination; they felt the same to him. He was about to pinch himself to ensure he was not lost in his mind, when a caressing whisper reached his ears, reminiscent of how Lolo’s voice once graced his life. Then the soft touch of a woman grazed the back of his neck and he knew he wasn’t imagining.

The Werewoman

There is so much focus on person's appearance that there other face which resides within them is often ignored. The beguiling beauty of many people has caused problems for those that are not wary. It may take them seconds or even years, before they realize the true nature of these beauties. The face within may not be human at all and that is the moment reckoning. This is not to say those that are beautiful are not of good heart but a pretty face does not always equate a pretty heart. Of course I also love werewolves. So what is the poem about then? You decide.

The terrible, incessant wailing of a woman,

reminiscent of a Banshee, the call of the demon. 

Shatters the porcelain glass of silence,

the barriers around this unnatural violence.

It's hastily erected, this perfunctory illusion,

infected, defected, this lady's delusion.

The reflected conflict is now an intrusion,

the mirror deflected, this uneasy conclusion.

Arousal red cheeks, lips of roses,

the long hair of darkness, the warning that closes.

Luscious, delicious, the appealing prey,

every man and animal will want her today.

Unknown reasons, is what makes this lady cry,

small in age but understands- "to die".

Shrouded in mist, her evaporating tears,

the shadows cackle at her increasing fears.

The moon is out, the stars are shining,

in the stillness of this forest, she still is whining.

The hyenas step forward, it is time to eat,

or the wolves will come for this precious meat.

The hyena's bay, the call to the prey,

"I'm going to kill you", is the what the voice would say.

They descend at speed, to where the lady will lie,

the need and the greed allow the hyena's to fly.

Still the lady screams, as the hyena's laugh,

the moon is at full, tis the hyena's gaffe.

The hyena's mocking increases in sound,

the lady can sense that these creatures are around.

The pack comes in, panting for the kill,

now the time has come for the blood to spill.

The pack forms a circle, as the lady stands,

quiet and silent, she is ruler of these lands.

For her face is changing, the fur growing strong,

the hyena's can sense, that all has gone wrong.

Her breasts disappear, her eyes turn yellow,

the beauty of this woman, is no longer so mellow.

Fangs appear, sharp and ready,

on her claws, she appears to be steady.

The moon of her eyes start to wane,

turning the colour of blood that will stain.

The hyena's sprint, as her transformation is near finished,

the predator in the hyena, seemingly diminished.

A howl at the moon, she sets off into the night,

and there she will prowl until the start of light.

She is complete, the transformation is done,

... beautiful women know how to stun.

The Senses - Part 2

This is part 2 of 'The Senses'. Part 1 was a similar poem to the one I have written below but the one below portrays 'Senses' in a different light. We can have sight, we can speak, hear, smell & touch,  or we may not have sight, be able to speak, hear, smell and touch. We're still human beings but what sets us apart is our vision, our voice, our ability to listen, our ability to pick up the right scent & to feel what is wrong & what it is right. We all have hearts but many are heartless- that's the truth.

The eyes can have sight but they may not have vision,

differences in blindness, determine this mission.

The mouth can speak, but may not have a voice,

the metaphorical tongue, is stealing this choice.

The ears can hear, but they may not listen,

having their own agenda, they create this prison.

The nose can smell, it may not pick up the scent,

used to the corrupt stink, the resources all spent.

The body can touch, but it may not feel,

as the emotions are stolen, the lives they'll steal.

The heartless person, still has a heart,

but they used their selfishness, for their start.

The sixth sense isn't psychic, it's being able to face;

a person's struggle is etched in their face.

The law says to live by the rules to placate,

those that would have us move and vacate.

The demise of the world, is in the hands of the people,

lacking their senses, they pray at the steeple.

See, Visonless choices, heartless and unhearing,

can't feel anything, is far from endearing.

The Last Beothuks - Part I

When alone in a world, where integration exists,

Shedding culture for culture will always persist.

Assimilating ideas & plagiarizing identities,

Reversal of both and there’s still no serenities. 

Shanawdithit, she was the Beothuk native,

'the last one standing', said the British legislative.

She was in Canada and Nancy April was her new name,

slaughtering her people, the British had no shame.

Renaming her was a tactic so she could become accepted,

the Terra Nova princess, she was sickly and infected.

Tuberculosis is what took her, suffering admist the strife,

but they said her infection, was the Beothuk way of life.

She did not reach thirty, she was the remains of a genocide,

her courageous people all fallen, to disease and homicide.

An extinct race now, only their stories live on.

for all those with memories, have long moved on.

Oblivion

Slave to the world, to the land and to the nation,
born into disease, without provocation.
The sadness infests, it ain't dysentery,
there's no end for the war, in this century.
Surrender to the violence, they call it motion,
this land got water- tears of the ocean.
Poverty, sovereignty, the devotional legacy,
stirring up the past of emotional ecstasy.
The tale of the man, he's standing next to me,
the world looks at him and says, "hey you're dead to me".
The anger and frustration, it's a burden to bear,
that's the toll for life, but see life isn't fair.
The chemical imbalances, can be blamed for war,
but it is our values that truly determine our core.
They say carbon is the basis for all life forms,
what is the basis of societal norms?
Third world countries still face a hunger fight,
we examine third world planets, like that's our plight.
The innocent in cells, it's always the night,
we're upset when we lose an hour of light.
They climb trees for coconuts, that's their height,
we're higher up, because we can afford the flight.
They don't have doctors, so they lose their sight,
we buy contacts, so we look alright.
The rich of the poor, they play with a kite,
we need music and movies, for us to feel right.
Backed in a corner, their situation is tight,
do we care? "if it's here, we might"
People starve and go on hunger strikes,
do we care? "how many facebook likes?"
To explain this scientifically, let me go by the book,
then maybe these people, will take a good look.
See biologically speaking, we are all related,
the land was populated, when our ancestors mated.
See when humans were created, DNA had genes,
so chemically it says we all came from the queens.
Our walk is the same, we move physically,
our motion is the science of physics typically.
We are the same species, we appear the same,
society shouldn't look at colour and name.
The world is a chess board, but this isn't a game,
checkmating the pawns, doesn't make for fair game.
We are oblivious, that is neglect,
we're all wrong and that's what's truly correct.

The Woman Called Lolo, Part 1 - 10 Years into Mist

Even when sleeping the mind is awake;

unbeknownst to him, his thoughts have a meeting. 

The doors close-they deliberate, proliferate and then create dreams that resemble little of where they started from.

The origins are there; the maker of this tapestry has left his signature but has given no map to find it.

The sleeping mind wanders the turbulent sea, yet it flies in the sky on a dragon, for the debate is raging on as imagination takes the reins of the horse that gallops forward.

There in the shadows, a fair maiden awaits,

exchanging pleasantries with her,

as the chemistries take place.

The euphoric emotions, leave him with notions that cause an illustrious yet unbidden smile to slowly disturb the sleeping 'facade' that graces his face, every night.

In this moment he is awake in another world; a secret his mind conceals from him.

As he blinks, the fair maiden is pierced by an arrow and silently she drops to the ground- sorrow etched on her face, like a scar that cannot be healed.

 She dissipates into mist, drifting off to realms unknown.

Fear courses through his veins and he realizes that on Earth, he is truly sleeping.

The mind can no longer hide this secret, for he is now weeping.

Desperately he struggles to awaken before he must face death's dance,

as the twang of a bowstring echoes in the near distance.

In that moment before death, he awakens on Earth, his mind still alert, yet asleep in his dreams.

His eyes are moist, his mouth parched.

"Lolo?" he says trembling.
10 years it has been.

The fair maiden- someone he had once seen.
He has found the signature of the weaver of this tapestry,
it is signed in his writing but not in his name.
...A first, middle & last name ...
Lolo is dead.

Sleeper's Eyes

I find that poetry is an art form that can effectively create the illusion that my feelings are by any means- interesting. While my poetry ranges from freeverse to rhyme, my more recent work portrays a message of some sort. The themes vary from poem to poem but I have chose this poem in particular to briefly discuss. "The Sleeper's Eyes", discusses how people see what they want to see in order to make life bearable. They see grandiose illusions that appeal to the weaker part of their mind that wills these illusions to become true. Even a deer must see past the yellow grass illusions of the deserts to realize that a tiger lurks behind the stalks, waiting to pounce.

Even when a awake, many are still asleep,
reality is their slumber, they're still dreaming deep.
They cannot see, but they stare with their eyes,
at the masks we wear, at the tongue that tells lies.
Yet it passes by them, the ghost that cannot be seen,
high on our pedestal, haunted by our dreams.
The nuances of our life, tangled in a knot,
sleeping in oblivion, in this illusion of a cot.
'We stand above all', is the thought in our head,
but you're lying down, because you're still in bed.
Are we all equal? That remains to be seen,
see we're all average and that's what I mean.

Yet even the average person, has love in their heart,
still sleeping, when they say 'till death do us apart'.
The average person, does not love any more,
and it is this dream, that makes people so poor.
For when truly awake, the lover hears,
the sobs, the cries and the drowning tears.
'When the rain from your eyes, ceases to exist,
my being deceased will cease to persist.'

See the words of a person, who is truly awake,
will always reflect what is truly at stake.
But the eyes are open, they've closed their mind,
covering the windows- yes they're blind.
Vision is chosen, it is free will,
witnessing murder, but 'no blood was spilled'.
Call it a dream or a pleasant nightmare,
the clock ticks the time, warning to be aware.

If we ever do awaken, we will write a fable,
of how we all dined at the very same table.
If we ever do awaken, we shall see a fight,
a sight that can only be seen with sight.