Chasing Sunshine

I stood here long ago,

At this same crossroads,

That served as a courthouse;

Where I was served a sentence,

Where they refused to believe

The truth in my story,

And in my apology;

Where they stripped me

Off my dignity,

Where they crushed my dreams –

The grandest to the most tiny,

Where they left me wishing,

For a descent into oblivion.

And now years later,

After much time under water,

As I resurface

For a breath of fresh air,

I find myself

At the same crossroads,

And the menacing ghosts

Emerge from the darkness

Of the distant past,

One by one,

Ready once again,

To pronounce a sentence

That is as cruel as it is humiliating.

But this time I seek

Not the pursuit of dreams,

For they are long gone,

Buried six feet deep;

All I need

Is to nurture a seed,

Of enduring promise;

And hopefully someday

It will become a tree,

That’s all I seek really,

The promise of a solitary tree,

To show the world

That I did exist.

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I used to think,

That the meaning

Of life,

Is revealed

In the grandest act,

Whether in fact,

It means gaining success,

Fame, or wealth,

Or reaching the epitome

Of being kind;

This meaning,

The quintessence

Of my existence,

Must be something

Of deep significance.

Until one day

Not long ago,

I realised

That the meaning of life,

Is different

For me, than it is for you,

That we must each write

Our own story;

And so I choose,

To let go

Of the grandeur,

Of my borrowed dreams

From when I was wee;

And instead to embrace

A return to the roots,

To where it all began –

To plant a tiny seed

Or two,

Or more –

To water them,

To watch them sprout,

And then bloom,

Adding to the green

Of my surrounding,

Making it a haven of peace

In time,

Maybe that is the meaning

Of my life.

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I walked down a road one day,

For I had nothing to do or say,

There was just too much on my mind;

And in walking, I hoped I would find,

Peace and its ally, quiet.

The verdant green

Was soothing,

Not just to the eye,

But also a dull ache deep within,

And I walked on,

Eventually lightening enough to sing a song,

Until I came upon,

The prettiest, most brilliant orange,

Of a dead butterfly.

Here lay beauty

In all its glory,

Not much different,

From the surrounding lustrous green –

In that, they were both stationery;

If I wanted to,

I still could,

Breathe in the beauty

Of both,

And move on,

Pretending,

That it was asleep

On the wet ground;

But I could not,

So my newfound peace,

It returned

To the distant realm,

From whence it had come.

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It is the start of a new day,

The break of dawn so to say,

I wake up to find

That I’m longer who I was yesterday.

So much has changed

In the darkness of the night,

A battle was waged,

And as the fires raged

The sinister demon

Had again won.

The sweat on my brow,

And the scream in my throat,

Both mellow,

Not pronounced

And yet evident.

No, I am certainly not

Who I was

When I went to bed,

With high hopes for a dream,

Sent down on a moonbeam,

And most of all,

A peaceful rest.

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Silence
Is a language in itself –
Speaking loudly
To convey the essence
Of strong dissent,
Or the defiant thunder
Of protest,
And on occasion
The gentle whisper
Of submission.

The absence of words
Spoken, or otherwise,
Is seldom
A dead end;
It is often
A portal to open,
And cross over,
To fathom
The power of the unspoken.

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I welcome new days

That hold the promise of sunrays,

For I love the warmth of them

Kissing my skin;

And when the sun has set,

I hope for a reset

To still my mind,

And give in to the quiet

Of the silent night,

That settles in gently;

The sunrays now, a distant memory,

Their warmth, no longer alluring.

The saga of my trysts

With sun and moon,

Shall play on repeat

For as long as I live.

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I stand back

To view the canvas,

A veritable plethora

Of resplendent colours;

Every imaginable hue,

Shades of red, yellow, green and blue,

Splattered across.

Yet despite the obvious chaos,

I see order –

I see the beauty

That the artist’s brushstrokes

Convey to me.

But try as I might,

I cannot determine,

The colour of the backdrop,

Whether black, or white –

It could have been

Either of these,

Or something in between;

It is totally lost

Behind the delightful host

Of brilliant hues.

I realize,

That this canvas

Is much like life,

Whether it began with a spark,

Or entrenched in blues,

What it turns out to be,

A dull grey or a verdant green,

Is up to you and me.

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I remember the time

When my younger self,

All of four or five,

Would watch in fascination,

The eternal dance

Of a battalion

Of miniscule warriors –

Dust particles,

As they traipsed along

The glorious sunbeam,

To the rhythm of a song

I couldn’t hear.

It has been

A long time since then,

And I do not often

Think back to those days,

When I watched the mites,

Dancing along the sunrays

Shining in,

But when I do,

I almost always,

Allow myself

The pleasure of a smile,

As I bask in the warmth,

Of a memory stolen

From the annals of time.

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Look for the stories

That breathe fire

Into your listless soul,

Look for the stories

That inspire,

The stories that send a thrill

Down that dark hole

Void of hope,

Which you haven’t

Been able to fill,

No matter how hard you try.

Give yourself a second chance,

Lay down the melancholy,

And choose to dance,

To retreat

And find your peace.

Shirk the shroud

Of ignominy,

Wipe the unbidden tears,

Quell the deepest fears;

Shed it all –

And instead,

Breathe life into a story

That’s different,

And full of glory,

One that’ll make you proud;

Write a story

Like only you can,

Know it is your right,

For this is your life.

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A bell goes off in the distance,

Sending a swarm of students,

Milling out of classrooms

Onto the playground;

Some gather around

To talk in a small group,

While others troop

To play some game,

All around, there’s fun and laughter

Or so you’d think;

But not if your eyes strayed

To the fringe,

Where the outliers stay

Close enough to each other

So as to not stand out,

And yet far apart

From everyone else,

Just as they’ve been from the onset.

They watch, and they smile

From time to time,

But mostly, they sigh –

A deep sigh of longing;

For these moments

That are meant to be enjoyed,

Seem ever so much like a burden

That weighs down

On their lonesome selves.

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