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.

The Senses - Part I

The human mouth, it is made to speak, But the words spoken, are truly too weak. For equality is preached from gender to race, But judgment is passed on the colour of face. The revulsion in the eyes, of those that see colour, Take away our luster and we become much duller. But see it’s the human ear, that hears and listens, And that’s why our tears will always glisten.
And it’s the human heart that was made to feel, And that’s why we will always be made to kneel.