the acts of the birds

they perch on our ears

stay with us for some time

they leave without a chirp

it breaks my heart

give me a signal

something to hold onto

i loved you once too

turn my hedges

stash my clothes

drink my weariness

your duty is not done

wave to me when you go away

i will wave to you

touch my pinky finger

never cross it

written listening to “dress up in you” and “i suppose that was a prayer”

rosa

What, she asked, is mad? I know you can crumble under it, but you can also float on it, I think. Am I mad? My heart hurts.

you are mad. said the crocodile. you are mad. his lips whispered. you are mad. he hissed at the bell on her throat. you are mad,

and he crumbled, like breadcrumbs, and she looked away. everyone she knew did that. they crumbled like her breakfast. it was weird, and unsettling, somehow. she always saw the colour slowly leave their cheeks...actually, most of them didn’t have colour in their cheeks anyways. she wasn’t really sure where the crocodile’s cheeks were. 

she placed his head on her lap, and stroked his face. he appeared to be dozing. his head was heavy. she moved it gently onto the sticky ocean floor, and rattled her chains. they didn’t loosen, and her wrists felt sore. she asked him to wake up. there was no sound, only bubbles. she frowned, frustrated. there was a drooping feeling in her chest, and she felt strangely out of breath. wait, what was breath? 

she closed her eyes then, not because she felt happy, or tired, or even because she wanted to, but because she had to. there was a sort of darkness closing in around her, and it sounded like Elijah, stroking her cheeks and kissing her forehead. he swam gaily round her, his eyes brighter than she remembered, hiw face sharper and more beautiful than her own. not that she had ever seen her own face. how did anyone look at themselves? where could they do it? she wondered if you could see yourself in the sun, if the reflection would cast back into your eyes so that you could gaze at your own appearance. hmm. she would try that one day. 

familiar faces appeared all round her: there was Charlotte perched on the crocodile’s tail, her hair flying everywhere in the water; Jex with his golden mane, his red eyebrows and tired eyebags; Naryn and an ice cream cone, and her ruined flowers, and blueberry eyes; Arias, hunched, with his young eyes, and denim shirt, tucked in, unbuttoned at the top, his gray lattice scarf hanging loose around his neck and his hair swaying to the beat of a music she could not hear. it all occurred to her, in one final second, that they were all people she had never spoken to, only seen and thought beautiful. not that she had, of course, even spoken to anyone. she had, of course, written notes, signed, and read lips, but in all honesty, she wished she had a voice. it was probably hidden somewhere in her. perhaps that was why they were all here, to help her get it out, so that she could use it.

THE WIDE BLUE YONDER

a driven blade into the hearts of the softening,

tongues stretching to taste the pall

disrupts a seclusion from accord.

bow and sing and smirk and wave,

there is no happier time than the blue hour;

taste the pie upon lips of hippo blessed wealth;

the possibility of something remarkable lies still,

lest you spark it! light it!

flames will tenderly caress your minds,

and thoughts with flattering will coax you:

live, live and die – but live first, and survive.

flourish, frisk, flutter, beside this frolic sky,

the wide blue yonder will take you, love you –

perhaps you will see Him.

RANGE

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xoZhgxKY3I8

With closed eyes, an unemployed writer drops and catches seventy dollars. Is this in her mind, or really happening? She sees a housepainter, who looks at her. The housepainter opens, and closes her mouth. The writer drops the seventy dollars, and this time, does not catch it. It falls to the floor. She walks away, whilst the housepainter looks towards the sky. The housepainter, barefoot, steps on and crushes the seventy dollars.

Further along the route the writer walks upon, there is a bodyguard. The housepainter has disappeared, as has the writer. 

As the writer walks by her, the bodyguard opens, then closes her mouth. The writer senses this, and looks to her right. With her hands curled up into the shape of a gun, she shoots the bodyguard. The bodyguard is shot, and begins to laugh manically. The writer again looks to the right. Is she awake, or is this ALL in her mind? The bodyguard has disappeared.

Now the bodyguard appears, falls to the floor, and from her pocket takes out the seventy dollars the housepainter previously stepped on. The bodyguard has disappeared again, and the writer continues along, away from both the housepainter and bodyguard.

The housepainter appears, and she throws the seventy dollars to her right, and shakes her head. With both the housepainter and bodyguard behind her, the writer stops, looks in front and beyond her, then looks behind. She looks forward one last time.

The housepainter looks away from the writer, and walks back to where the writer’s path began, where the housepainter stepped on the seventy dollars. The housepainter does not wait for the writer, and seems to expect her to follow, to take this cue.

The writer looks back, towards the housepainter, and follows her. She does not continue on her path, instead, she returns to where she had already been. Is she repeating her actions, or simply returning to what she walked away from?

The housepainter stops when they reach the area this film began at. There is a younger girl, a child,  unmoving, her right arm outstretched. The housepainter turns to face the writer, who has now arrived. Hesitantly, the writer takes the child’s hand into hers.

The child falls to the floor, and behind her, the bodyguard rises from the floor. The writer is surprised, and cautious.

The bodyguard drops the seventy dollars onto the child. The writer looks at her, drops her outstretched arm, and the housepainter points her hand-gun at the bodyguard. The writer puts a hand up to stop her. The housepainter laughs manically, as the bodyguard did.

The bodyguard opens her mouth, and the housepainter closes her eyes, drops her outstretched arm and the gun, and falls to the floor. She has disappeared; only the coat can be seen on the floor. The bodyguard, looking at the writer, opens her mouth. The writer, looking towards the floor, and the child, opens her mouth. The bodyguard closes her mouth. The writer closes her mouth tightly.

NOTES

• the right side of anything, to me, has symbolised for a long time: God, goodness and Heaven, with the left symbolising the Devil and Hell
• the characters' occupations are not significantly relevant to the main story!
• 7 is a lucky number in my core family, hence the 70 dollars

Carvers and Hulahoops

she says hey no laughing

but she feels them quickly carving

little words onto the backs

of chairs that tread on seas black

gold and silver white trees

are dancing in their eyes and then she sees

the deepness of their feelings

and the softness of their concealing

their coats are fur and ragged teens

are seething in their collars

who are these beings

who are they? who are they?

she asks and asks again

but no one answers

no one can

she tries to speak but then her throat

it’s caught it’s hoarse her voice is but an empty threat

the stars upon the brows of those

she once only lived in terror of

were shining now with hulahoops

of brand-new hope and daydream

there was hope still yet in her own head

but no one had ears to listen

so she told herself and told her mind

and though she didn't understand

she praised herself and believed she did

a good job and that when her voice returned

she would feel the same again

Lovesong for Spring

For season that gives bless’ed days in light,

Your comely looks will ever leave the shore;

For you a snowdrop land out for delight,

I wait and yearn for honeyed sound: amour.

Oh budding youth and binding honest smells,

No bird nor figure did evoke my mind;

Your sweet, your caprice tale in spring we tell,

Your dream of slumber wrote for me designed.

For you bloom lily, iris, rose with charm,

That dance, that laugh and soothe red eyes so sore;

So arrows cushion frays within your arms!

Complete devotion of my heart to yours.

By you my lonely heart shall be adored,

Go onwards, so our journey upwards soars.

Sweetness

I glanced at birds that set away

The dreary night that ended day.

Whence came sweetness?

By February bless?

The roses and lilies are clad in fair dress.

whims

here is a short poem i wrote inspired by the ever-brilliant mr. j.r.r. tolkien

the night is now upon us,

and the stars are shining dim;

the dark is full of shadows,

oh, but dark is but a whim!

it will pass, it will go.

so be light here in place:

always, never going,

never rivalled –

never.

Division

the saddest thing is division – for we are all the same, as we always have been, and will always be. where has the need for superiority come about? it has come from pride. and from there has come a desire for false glory, through war and death and murder and violence – it is all false. there is no glory but in goodness, kindness, humbleness, happiness – there is none of that to be found in those times. of course a being may believe in good intentions, and may have them...but it all is done wrongly and unkindly. that is enough to support this. unkindness is never welcome. there is no need for war. what do you gain from it? land? oil? money? what is all that compared to the loss of human life, whether physically, in mind or in heart?

Karen Ng

Breathing

From the day you are born, you breathe.

You are breathing.

It slowly became a habit.

You didn’t realise.

Breathing seems so easy when you don’t think about it.

Think about it. You are breathing.

Are you breathing more heavily? Perhaps you are. Perhaps you aren’t. Perhaps you only feel as though you are.

You may think that after a while, you will lose interest in it and stop.

You may think you will stop breathing.

And you will. But not for a long while, and not of vain or of your own hands.

You must always want to keep breathing.

Unless you are immortal. Perhaps you are elven, and you have lived in Valinor for more centuries than the numbers can count to.

You must think of all who would miss you if you stopped.

Do you realise?

You are breathing.

If ever there comes a time when you tire, remember of all that good you can still do for the world, for all the beings who live upon it, for yourself.

And know that you are never alone.

At least two beings love you.

You may not have met them, or even know who they are.

But they love you.

And there is me.

I love you.

I will always.

And so.

You must keep going.

You are breathing.

You are still breathing.

Well done. You have done well. Perhaps you think you have not and that I am not speaking to you. Perhaps you believe I speak to one behind you.

I am speaking to you.

You, reading this, hearing this, knowing this, realising –

You mustn’t stop.

Not yet.

Not until you are done.

When are you done, you ask?

You will know.

But perhaps, perhaps it is not now.

Ask yourself if there is still time left for you to better the world, its beings and yourself.

If you are unsure...

Ask me.

You are breathing.

Know that first.

There are those who love you.

Know that too.