the air that we breathe –
an intricate part of survival –
reluctantly exhaled
lost in the cauldron of communal breath
we yearn for a world
hidden from troubling delusions
where dreams are cut short
aeroplanes circle in the muggy morning air
while others
for no apparent reason
fall out of the sky
souls ascending
taking their final breaths with them
lost in mid thought
as silence swallows the answer …
...to their dreams of a world
lost in the bowels of the earth
its unique, virginal ecosystem
leaving one breathless
where thoughts are entwined with the mist -
oil on troubled waters
a balm for the soul
diverse as their yearning
for a lost innocence and
as transient as the air that we breathe—
mere illusions …
We all started life a sheath of blank pages
Able to be shaped into anything.
Paper aeroplanes, an artist’s canvas, a library book.
Our parents determine what kind of paper we are
-Cardstock, coloured tissue or plain white sheets.
As we grow, our friends, our families, our teachers
Etch the ink into us,
Page by page, letter by letter
Building up our childhoods.
We felt everyone knew better than us,
(and perhaps they did)
So, we obeyed, listened and absorbed everything
-morals, actions, behaviours-
Until attentiveness turned into reticence,
Til compliance became blind trust.
We trusted everyone by our sides, trusted what they said,
What they told us to do.
Until we realised we shouldn’t.
Nobody had ever showed us
The callous hands that tore instead of turned,
Ripping out our pages for their own.
Nobody showed us what it felt like
To have your story stolen,
To feel oneself drown beneath another’s ink.
Now I have just one question
How do I rewrite what was burned?
If only you knew the feel of a zephyr,
With its current swooping around hillsides
Ruffling the spruce trees everywhere,
Or descend downwards towards verdant vales
Where flowers bloom all through the year.
If only you knew what the oceans utter
As wonderful waves smash into each other,
Or roll nonchalantly towards the bays,
Destroying sand castles or wiping up
The poor love letters which were written there.
If only you knew the various sounds of Earth,
The laughter of little children playing in our parks,
The parade of grown-ups commemorating feasts,
The sounds of aeroplanes fighting for supremacy,
Whilst on the ground tanks rumble on firing at will.
If only you knew the evil concocted by selfish persons,
Where kindness seems to be at a premium.
Yet I discern others who are compassionate
And help others less fortunate than themselves.
How grateful receivers of good works will be.
If only you knew how many angels fly above
Around the silver stars that orbit in perfect harmony.
Angels that care for this poor land which
We have ruined successfully through our unwanted trash.
While food is thrown away when others die in famine and pain.
Placed 1
I used to jump from aeroplanes
Naked
With nothing
But a parachute
A prayer
And a pair of Doc Marten boots
I've landed in some strange places
Once in a chair
Once or twice in the mud
A Woman once
I said will you?
She said no!
But she meant yes
I guess?
One time I fell through a roof
And landed in someone's bed!
The husband wasn't very pleased
I can't repeat what he said
But I learned a few new words
Once I fell into a hole
Then I realised someone had died
I couldn't wait to get out
As shouted'',Help!!!!''.
I fell in a well
Well that's another story
To tell
I even landed in a stolen car
But I didn't get far
I once dropped into a giant cooking pot ouch!!
Boy, it was hot!
One time in a church
The Vicar said ''Do you''?
I said I do
Two sugars no milk, please
I was awarded a medal, with a pin
But it gave me an infection
And ended up in a hospital bed
Got really ill and had to stay in
I had to stop parachuting
But I still have my Doc Marten boots
Don't dare tell you where I hanged them from
Ahh, life's full of surprises
I think, I'll buy a Army tank
See where that gets me.
placing a pen upon the desk
aligned with paper
grooves of wood and knots in stain
as if absorbed in thought and mind
they seep from below
as if the stars there influence a blueprint
of aeroplanes
of vision
or easel's frames direct the brush
that strokes
pushing colour
pushing shade
and crystal imperfections
guiding a cutters tool
of life and all it throws
I remain the asked man
A restaurant full of families
And I sit there with mine
A broken one, where none of our souls are combined
Three of us seated and three phones on the table
Waiting for one of us to pick it up and pretend they're stable
Hotel bill in my hands have turned into pretty aeroplanes
But little do they know
My planes don't fly anymore
They are designed to look like they enjoy the skies
Yet my plane still dreams of its first flight
My plane wants to capture the strong gushing winds
And use them all to fuel its wings
A leap of faith is all it wants to take
But after all it's just a paper plane, so it sits in a restaurant as they both empty their plates.
high rise
get high rays
and wetter
on wet days
closer
to aeroplanes
in lanes like cars
soldiers of concrete
steel feet in wars
in pillars
like Lot’s wife
or muggers
with sharp knife
hanging in blocks
or flocks
stabbing the sky
Happy Africa day ,
You are always welcome to Africa
Africa of millions of happiest people
Who understand better their lives conditions
And stop buy things
In credits.
Happy Africa day ,
Comparison is not reason
It is always good share with brothers and
Sisters of the World.
Allow me to tell you about Africa again
And again.
When some people
Sing daily ," Africa is Poor "
Investigating their lives,
You find out that they live with credits
Of so many things.
Imagine getting credit of
A car,
A house,
Some food parcels,
Eyelashes,
Shoes
Cloths
Shoes polishes ,
Even Underwears
And so on
But they still calling,
"Africa poor "
If it happens to lose jobs,
And finding themselves on the roads
Due to more loans.
Do they have a good lesson
To teach majority Africans?
Happy Africa day,
In many African countries majority people
Buy things in cash :
- Luxury cars
- Houses,
- Farms,
- Aeroplanes,
- Ships,
- Boats
- Cloths
- Foods
- So on
When they losing their jobs
They will still remain
In good comfort places.
May 26/2023
Splashed Craft
The war started decades ago
When alien craft flew here and there
Interacting with various aeroplanes
Some were good encounters
Others bad including crashes
And kidnapped planes in the sky
Now the warplanes fire back
Shooting down unknown craft
The CCP turtles started it
With their crap spy balloon
That wasn’t so crap
It went here and there
Listening recording filming
Before being splashed
Followed by many others
Splashed by supersonic jets
Over North America in war
The new war of flying craft
Being brought down by planes
Who made these craft?
Are they made here or elsewhere?
What powers them and are they dangerous
So many questions no answers
Will the aliens invade?
One thing is certain
The crap spy balloon was Chinese
I’ll blame the CCP turtles
For all the others
Even alien made craft!
A body built on nerves and signals.
So many little paper airplanes,
they fly from head to toe.
Expect when they get stuck in my hands and rattle.
Uncontrollable.
Flex and refocus,
they are gentle;
fragile.
They understand me
they want to be stronger, longer
a creative ache, I think.
My knees are weak,
they beg for sleep
but they are the screws and glue holding me still.
I’m sorry for what I put you through.
My feet are frustrated,
determined,
drained.
They train and train and train and train.
Surpassed their expectations,
healed without proper medication.
Yes they crave validation,
is that at the expense of ankle breaking discipline and dedication?
My hair
what a love hate engagement.
Every rope like curl, rips at my skull
it's gentle warmth drowns everyone out
and I can hide inside its walls.
It's safe.
As of now,
I've learned to listen to the aeroplanes;
I've learned to trust their sounds .
Let’s have a staycation, Ted said (he won’t fly
because if he did he would certainly die)
Don’t know how those aeroplanes stay in the sky
You won’t change my thinking so please don’t try
His wife said we just took a family vote
We’re flying abroad while you go by boat
We’ll get there first but we’ll try not to gloat
You still can relax in the time you’re afloat
And so off he goes with his luggage on board
And calm is the sea so he feels quite assured
The plane overhead not as high as you’d think
That’s not his concern so he goes for a drink
Was that his wife’s plane, she’s welcome to that
You're safer afloat even if you’re a prat
He said thank you God for the family vote
It was about then that the plane hit the boat
Clocks ticking
Fingers clicking
Bands playing
Christians praying
Trees blowing
Rivers flowing
Birds singing
Bells ringing
Midnight chimes
Two or three times
Flowers appearing
Crowds cheering
Clouds in the sky
Aeroplanes ready to fly
Engines running
Bees humming
My factory will make aeroplanes from snow and sleet, melting inside the sound of speed;
constructing houses from photographs, tissue paper and thread; Papier-mâché homes of memories.
My factory will knit schools from silk and cotton, fabrics building children from the ground up,
whilst assembling furniture from the flotsam and jetsam of parties, replacing oak with dancefloors.
My factory will fashion bridges from handprints and road signs from the feathers of birds, free to fly;
it will form spectacles within the ivory of piano keys, create walking sticks from the strings of a harp.
My factory will grow men from sunlight and women from rosebuds, nurture children in an hourglass;
forging governments from salt and sand, moulding leaders from mud and earth which will not crack.
The repair man went to fix the television at the old woman's house. It took him thirty minutes of messing and cursing to do it. With a grin and press of the remote, he said, 'Sorted.'
The old woman grinned and offered the repair man a cup of tea. He gladly accepted. They chatted and made small talk. Nothing out of the ordinary. When she took the cups to the kitchen, she returned with an axe.
With a wicked grin she chopped his head off! Then kissed his lips and spiked it on her fence post, ISIS/Daesh style. The old was a muzza terrorist sympathiser. And a cannibal to boot!
She warmed up her oven to cook the repair man. Eating the evidence. If anyone asked questions, they'd be next! Chop, slice, eat!
Being Normal Is Boring - Broken Aeroplanes, Screwed People, Alternative Writing,:)
Jimmy Boom Semtex
There's a fly in the house of goth. On the wall listening in. What's being said? The fly is keeping quiet. If you wanna know, go there yourself. The house of goth is a dark old place. Full of people like me. Are you one of them? Or an outcast? Not even suitable for the house of goth. For we are the goths. Even flies are welcome in the house of goth.
Being Normal Is Boring - Broken Aeroplanes, Screwed People, Alternative Writing,:)
Jimmy Boom Semtex
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