the tunnel
I see you and you and you
Walking down the black track
Trapped in it’s dingy darkness
You plod on forward
because
you know no other way
you see no other direction
only the light at the end.
I see you and you and you,
are content with that little light
happy with this narrow lane
not the least claustrophobic
because
you are bound by familiarity
you are restrained by complacency
knowing not the greener pastures beyond.
I see you and you and you
and I sympathise
for you dwell unknowingly the depths of beelzebub
I’d show you the heavens in which I reside if I could
but that would be futile
because
the light would blind your maladapted eyes
the fresh air would asphyxiate your unprepared lungs
you’d be like a fish out of water.
I see you and you and you
oblivious to the circumference
that holds you captive
I look in from the outside once again
and am resigned to my helplessness
because
you choose imprisonment and I, freedom
you choose ignorance and I, enlightenment
We cannot be in communion.
You can stay there forever hidden in your tunnel while I bask in paradise.
“POPPYCOCK!”
“Poppycock!” she exclaimed, throwing her bony, frail hands in air.
At a 105 years, she was so old and fused-in that her hands could only form, at maximum a 110° angle at the elbows. Nevertheless, though handicapped, she never fail to fling her arms heavenward in exclamation. She believed the action would not only garner well-deserved attention from all those around (so they could share in her exclamation), but the outward expression of an inward tumultous disturbance would greatly reduce the strain on her 105 year old, failing heart . Rest assured, these exclamatory incidences were much of a rare occurance.
Mrs. Weedlesprout had always claimed to be the oldest person alive on Bony Hill. She was assumed to be correct in this instance- and rightly so, as Mrs. Weedlesprout was the sole inhabitant of The Hill. Ancient and somewhat a relic, she loved living on Bony Hill and prides herself for all the posts that she holds in the town council and all the awards that she has won- from the oldest person alive to the youngest citizen of Bony Hill, yes, she’s won them ALL.
rain
the sound of the early morning rain
brings with it
a calm that quells rising tension
a peace that transcends insecurities
a quietness that pacifies doubt
O Rain,
It
sedates the mind
cleanses the body
refreshes the soul
as the crow flies
For the very first time in my life I was introduced to the phrase “as the crow flies” which simply means the “most direct route”. If I were to say “The house is a mile away, as the crow flies”, I would simply mean, the house would be a mile away following the most direct route.
What puzzles me is the fact that people would give this sort of credit to a corvus corone. A digusting, vile, scavenging creature. Even if it were the crows’ nature, I cannot help but question why they should be given this honour and not some other animal. The phrase is used with such positive implications that it’s almost as good as insulting the poor innocent tortoises, who always seem to get the negative side of things; “as slow as a tortoise”.
The question is…Is a crow really superior to a tortoise?
I say…No, if anything a crow is inferior. They steal food and peck people…a tortoise merely trots about and makes the world a better place.
The next question is…So what are we teaching our children? That they should be ‘intelligent’ like crows and used their brains for evil things?
I say…Yes, and that’s why there needs to be CHANGE
I propose a new phrase that should wipe out the old. It is “as the tiger roars” which simply means the “hungriest of circumstances”. This introduction is accompanied by an example of how it should be used: “I would eat this shit, as the tiger roars“
Ah, finally some justice is done and now I can rest well. Some credit where it is due. Some honour in the right place. Some superiority awarded to the deserving animal.
Have a good day…as the tiger ROARS
cave
I open the door to my cave once again and retreat into it’s darkness. I love it here, the quiet- the serenity. I love the black that blinds me completely from all things ugly. I love the musty, cold, damp air that makes my blood warm in comparison- a reminder that I am still very much alive. I love the ‘plip-plop’ sound that the drops of water overhead make as they crash to their death below. I love it here. This is where I belong.
My friends here sit in silence waiting from me. They only speak when spoken to but it doesn’t concern me. I have always believed, that silence is a true friend that never betrays. I love my friends here. They respect me. They understand the need for silence and leave me alone when I’m uncommunicative. I tell them my secrets…and they merely whisper them back to me.
“hello” i call out…
I hear close to a million “hellos” resounding all around. I know they are still here waiting. Just as they have been all these years. I smile and feel warm inside.
Assured, safe and secure in my haven.
My peaceful retreat.
This is MY cave. MINE ALONE.
