An Acrostic

An acrostic about The Maldives. Acrostics are not my forte. I say that before you read it. But, it is what it is.

 

Maldives lead-xlarge

 

Religion important among the islanders

Everyone who lives here must be Muslim

Paradise to all who browse holiday sites

Underwater environment watched through SCUBA

Butterfly fish float

Lionfish chase clown Nemo

Inhabitants friendly, living on 200 islands

Change coming through deeds of others

 

Ocean levels rising

Fear of losing more homes

 

Mohamed Nasheed, one-time President,

Assembled cabinet meeting underwater

Leading calls to implement change to save

Dolphin and whale playground

Influx of tourists endangering tropical paradise

Villingili Island; the highest point

Estimated to one day drop below the tide

Signalling an end to coconut huts on white-sand beaches

Painted Eggshells


Painted Eggshells

Painted Eggshells

 

filled with lies; my life unfolds

a shattering glance, my blood runs cold,

painted eggshells; breakable

crack and fall, with fractured skull

hospital beds, disinfect

the part of my life you don’t detect

one time a punch, one time a kick

lying on the floor, feeling sick

my body cries with muted pain

you took all of me, made me feel insane

although you’re gone, locked away,

I lie awake, waiting for the day

you seek me out, and make me sorry

it gets hard to breathe, I’m so full of worry

I heard you’re changed, you regret your deeds,

but that just doesn’t cut with me

the scars you left are deeply etched

and I don’t need to hear your regrets

Waggle Dance

This is a silly, little poem I wrote after watching a documentary on honey bees.

 

Honey Bee

 

Oh, come with me,

Said the honey bee,

Let me show you where to go

If you take your stance,

Do the waggle dance,

The nectar, it will flow

Now, get in line,

To see where to dine,

Just follow my dancing rear,

We all join in

Then we take to our wings

In a quest to please Queenie Dear

It may seem funny

We produce so much honey,

But the profits we never see,

They end up in a jar

And are shipped afar;

The saga of a dancing bee

Magic 200

200 Followers

 

Look what I’ve got! I know, I know 200 followers is nothing compared to a lot of you, but it’s massive for me. It’s taken a while to get here, and I’ve put a lot of work—and a lot of me—into it. So, thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. I hope I continue to write blog posts worthy of reading and following.

Here’s to the next 200, eh?

Colour & Hope

earth

 

Colour & Hope

 

Navy night  s t r e t c h i  n   g

as far as I can see,

my head resting on tuffets

of feathery grass,

warmth spirals from

head to toe,

and musty earth 

rocks

me to sleep.

Psychedelic butterflies

flit and

f    l   o    a    t

leaving trails of 

purple and blue,

flashes of beauty

sparking the sky with 

colour and hope.

Pearls of rain

d 

    r

       o

     p

onto my skin,

waking my senses to the world,

and with fresh eyes

I marvel as nature lives

all around me.

A smile tries to sit

comfortably

on my lips;

If only we didn’t take it for granted.

Moving On

Moving On

 

Moving On

 

She sweeps an eye

over her room, and

butterflies 

dance inside.

 

Leaving is never

easy, but somehow

it always ends this way,

she has to move on.

 

Feeling suffocated, 

strangled by 

love,

its confines restricting her

flighty soul;

she knows life is flowing, and

while she plays at

happy marriage,

her heart thuds

to the rhythm of the

dull melody.

They say a restless body

can hide a peaceful soul,

but her spirit is at war,

and it will not rest

until she is 

far away

from this life, in which she’s

dying.

 

She steps outside, and

life is dawning,

morning sun warms her skin,

and doubts disappear

as she walks toward … 

who knows what …  

 

Finally, she is part of it,

life is hers;

not for the first time in her 

life,

she is 

moving on.

Letting Go

broken-heart-syndrome-300x200

 

April 7th, 2018. Six years ago today, I lost my precious mum to pneumonia. She was the bravest, most selfless person I ever knew. Most of her life, she was ill and in pain, and yet she never complained. Like, not ever. She was my hero. She is my hero. If I could be a quarter of the person she was, I would be happy. She write poetry. Although our styles are very different, I inherited her love of all things literature. I thank her for that every day.

This is a poem I wrote about losing her …

Letting Go

I sit next to the 

sterile hospital bed and

wonder how she got this ill—

how I never noticed,

when I was supposed to look after her.

I watch as the angry mask

furiously forces air into her lungs,

her body slamming into the bed

with every blast.

Holding her lifeless hand,

I trace the misshapen 

fingers and thumbs.

Memories cascade before my eyes;

I am a grown-up child again,

five years old, taking care of my mum,

(my precious responsibility),

but I was selfish, 

all I wanted was a mum

who could play and run with me, lift me, 

hold me.

None of that matters now,

my sole desire is for a mum who can 

hear me, 

speak to me,

but I know she is lost forever,

so I turn to the doctor and

nod,

and the mask is removed;

the machines switched off.

I’m terrified as I watch her breaths—

almost imperceptible—

gradually fade to nothing.

She is still,

pain free, 

and I am broken.

I look to her face,

and in her very last breath 

she has smiled, 

and I know she has seen my dad,

the love of her life.

They are reunited in death,

and this comforts my shattered

heart.

 

 

Meringue Dress

 

I Wish I Could Take It Back

I wish I could take it back: first time

I gushed and said, “I do.” 

But he was oh-so cute, you see,

we danced to the Cutting Crew, 

the decade was the eighties, so 

my dress was a meringue,

with puffy sleeves and hula hoop,

we drove off in a Mustang.

It wasn’t long before I knew

it wasn’t going to work, 

we were both too young to settle down,

and, besides, he was a jerk.

My second husband came at me

with oodles of sex appeal,

his olive skin and sea-green eyes, 

made me want to squeal,

the day he got onto one knee

and took my hand in his,

without a second thought, I swooned

and said, “Let’s order fizz!”

The wedding—paid for by his folks!—

was a dazzling, winter affair,

now in the nineties, at least there was no

Flock of Seagulls hair.

Instead, the gel he wore was thick,

his aftershave divine,

I could hardly wait for the honeymoon,

when he would be all mine.

This marriage soon fulfilled its course,

on account of how he strayed,

since quarter past committing to me,

he had played with my bridesmaid. 

Number three, I guess I should have known was wrong,

his eyes were close together,

he looked like he’d been caught in the wind,

his face frozen by the weather.

But he called me sugar, stroked my cheek,

his touch, it was electric

within six months, I walked the aisle, 

who cared about aesthetics? 

Our love affair was hot and fun,

it makes me blush to think,

but all too soon we fizzled out,

and our marriage started to sink. 

It’s been said I fall in love too quick,

I need to wait and see

if I really want to go the distance,

if our love is meant to be.

And so I waited for my current beau;

numbers four is the one, I know!

 

  • This is something I wrote a couple of years ago. I came across it yesterday, and thought I’d share it with you. I have to stress, this is not written from personal experience!

Sterile

Sterilisation

Sterile

Soft, dark hair
falls across her face
as she sleeps.
I watch her chest rise
and fall,
committing every moment of
my daughter’s babyhood to
memory …
this second-born is the last child I shall
bear—
my Sitara;
beautiful, innocent,
but in whose birth
I lost that which makes me a
woman.
Stolen,
without choice,
they took my femininity,
and with it, the love of my
husband …
plans of a large family
abandoned,
half-a-woman
no longer attractive,
dreams shattered in
the work of a doctor
whose job should be to protect—
not mutilate—
at the bidding of a
government
who care not for the rights of
women.