poem #1

You sit on the stool and peek out

as the crowd grumbles to life.

Performers are positioned,

right foot forward, back straight,

flaunt that proud breast.

As applause grows

there is ascent into glory.

Sit upon that stool,

dangle your feet,

the chair has grown its legs.

Watch as heroes return;

battle-hardened, bleeding, swearing legends.

Wonder why they never call your name.

Children enter, adults return.

Still your soul clings to the seat.

The legs stretch and grow,

beyond the theatre,

above them all.

When your head is filled with the clouds,

and the taste of sweet rain on your lips;

look down  —

the season has tumbled by,

the crowd silent,

and the performance over.


A short poem on hesitation that was my contribution of 1for30, for National Poetry Month. I know I cannot do it daily, but I hope it will be one of many.


the missing participant

There is something about non participation that triggers something within me. I know what sort of person I am; the unforgiving perfectionist type. I have failed at many things, but most of all, I have failed to even try. I believe this to be a most terrible crime about myself.

It is only the end of week one in a new university year, and there is an air of anticipation and optimism around the campus. I always notice that people dress their best for the first day. Apart from those who dress well all year round, there seems to be an influx of chic people strutting around, eager and aware. Occasional dresser as I am, I attended class with a keenness that was probably misplaced for the introductory week of a semester.

Having finished these unnecessary tutorials I have learnt nothing of the unit content, but something different altogether.

I will be honest and admit that I am an ignorant individual. The reason I say this is because I lack the curiosity and urge to be involved. I am no prolific reader or writer, nor film viewer, musician or art appreciator. I am neither aware nor involved in the events that surround me. I feel complacent, comfortable and closed off from the world outside of my personal bubble. And as I sit here and examine myself I am startled by the great degree of my non participation. That is, non participation in life.

This realisation has been growing within me for some months (might I say, years). It is an issue that I continually return to, and, as odd as it seems, wish to explore and dissect. So while I cannot begin to explain my varying thoughts on this issue, I know that I cannot (and will not) shy away from it.

This year is still young, and while the roots of my problems have burrowed their way into the ground, I am somewhat optimistic. I believe that this is a problem that I share with others. For them and myself I know that there is always a starting point for change.

towards demise

There’s a pause in every heart – where indecision grows like a weed. No discrimination, everything falls. A rush of blood and fluids, and there is now a ticking clock in your chest. Where is reasoning, where is logic? No room for anything but emotions. The body slows to a halt.

You crack, and it all comes out.

the graceless fall @ 8tracks.

be still (soft heart)

Piano soothes the soul in ways unknown. There is a delight in a plucked string, the vibrations rippling out from the source to the world. Simplicity, often overlooked. Never forgotten. A solo player is about to embark on a journey for themselves, and themselves alone.

This is a solemn writing companion, just for you.

Be still, be strong. You will get through. 

be still @ 8tracks.

J’s tale #2

He’d seen those teenager flicks before. It wasn’t hard to pick up the hints. Did it matter that it was usually the girl who did the attention-seeking things? He sure hoped it didn’t, because all other options had been exhausted. There had been last week’s incident where he’d hid behind the screen, waiting for her to turn the corner. The pots in her arms jumped from her grasp, spraying black and red paint everywhere. He immediately regretted his plan. As he stood there speechless Jess took out a cloth and began mopping up the mess on his face. Bad, bad move. Unhindered by his lack of words, she then transferred the cloth to her wet cheeks. It was only then that he got the courage to tell her she was only spreading the paint over her face, like a messy palette.

No, there would be no eye contact, and certainly no touching. A difficult situation as they were assigned partners in a collaborative, mixed media project. A new approach was required. He wasn’t one for the oblivious-dropped-pencil trick, not after the last time. Perhaps conversation? But Jude, called Judy affectionately by his friends, was not a smooth talker. He felt a nudge, followed by a series of half-muffled giggles from behind. A stolen glance at the other side of the desk showed no movement, no change.

He returned to his rudimentary sketch without enthusiasm. He couldn’t let her do all the work. It wouldn’t help his cause if she thought he was lazy and uncooperative.

Jude was about to restart when there was a touch. He froze. She was reaching over from across the table, eyes fixed on his. His heart leapt. Was this it?

A moment, then she spoke.

“Um, I think you’re doing the wrong template.”


365 writing prompts: teaching the teacher

November 7 – Cheering section

Do you have a mentor? Tell us about him or her. Are you a mentor to someone else? Tell us what that relationship has added to your life.

I am not mentor material. I volunteered to be an English tutor for new migrants about almost 2 years ago. An 18 year old, teaching a middle aged mother of two how to say her vowels. Suffice to say, I felt like a fake. According to the month long teaching course I was qualified, but I never felt so.

What began as correcting grammar and spelling became a lesson in life experience. I felt as much the student as my student was. Perhaps she felt the same. I felt a loss as to how to lead this person, who in my esteem, was far more aware and knowledgeable than I.

There was something about this experience that drove home to me how much I had yet to learn. The pursuit of knowledge and understanding is so important to me. I can only hope that I have the opportunity to learn, always, always learn.

from the dailypost.

J’s tale

What an imagination, they all said. What wonderful hopes and dreams.

Little Jess was gifted. She picked up her pencil and created a masterpiece. Her ventures in clay ended up in the cluttered cabinet in her grandmother’s lounge. Her class paintings had her teachers clamouring to be recognised as the first to nurture her talent. Jess with ie, for emphasis, breezed through her art school. Graduated and grounded in her abilities, she looked for the future and all the wonderful things that would come.

Life held something else. It started with rent, and too much online shopping. Bills, jobs, car tickets, bad dates. Suddenly, diapers and a permanent migraine. Dreaming, always dreaming for that chance to return to her art. Weekend getaways, kids at mum’s, husband glued to an animated screen. Finally, it was time. Jess took out her sketch book. She smoothed out the yellowed edges, and took out a sharpened pencil.

Just like old times.

She picked up her pencil but no masterpiece came. Her fingers shook.

Silence reverberated through the room. Then the lead snapped, and the pencil fell to the floor. Little Jess was gone.