The Garden

It’s the beginning of yet another week, I know

I know the dark calls to you sometimes

I know you walk down roads you know you shouldn’t

I know you observe your reflection through a jumble of shards

I know you’re worn out, tired of reliving patterns of painful choices

I sense you feel hollow at times

like life is teasing you, dancing in front of you,

but escaping you somehow

i know you live in the disconnect between where you are

and what’s happening outside of you

i know how much it hurts to live there, in the divide

between what you feel you are, and what you wish you could be

The sun has kissed your skin and you have inhaled it with complete trust

and you sometimes move without knowing what’s next

at times it feels paralysing to live with yourself.

I know you’ve worked so hard to control the outcome of your life

that you forget to meet yourself in the quiet and breath yourself full again

that you live in the shallow end and you forget to go deep,

breath deep ujjayi

you forget there is wealth of abundance and trust in you

i know there are places in yourself that you do not love

the parts you wrestle away

you visit them them from time to time, hoping they’re not there

i know you long to live in bliss

and when you arrive there you are so alive as if everything around you

is telling you yes, you’re home.

but i know shadows come while you’re asleep

and drag you down the familiar landscape of fear

I know you wonder if the light will ever return

because you’re tired of this upbeat dance between the two worlds.

you’re learning to taste heaven, grown wings

you’re accepting the difference

between sun soaked mornings and dark forests

you are human my dear and are allowed to be in both places

you are not damaged

you are not failing

you are allowed to be lost in dark rivers

be gentle when doubt comes, when fear chokes

when darkness debilitates you

spend special care to cultivate the garden of love when you come across these dark corridors.

know that you are offered the chance to tend your garden

the dark offers you a chance to love all the places you’d never dare

all the places you curse

where we deprive ourselves of love is where we need it most

when the dark comes , tell it what it what it wants so badly to hear,

You are loved.

Colour Play

Angelic bodies drape the skies

In varying stripes of turquoise shades.

bronze burns into a scourging orange.

A magpie in flight like a sardonic ghost

Turquoise and teal stretch their edges on life

across horizons to assimilate heaven’s secrets

or secure God’s ritzy paradise

from our predictable human minds.

Day and night, the shadow play

Umbra charade on lemon walls

a painstaking five minutes rushes by

and scarlet unites with fuchsia tinge.

the sky tells a mysterious tale in deeper hues

like all the darkness of the world has seeped out

from our mind’s crevices

and trapped above sea level.

I do not fear the horrors that the story unfolds,

it is beyond the border

far from my inquisitive reaching mind.

No, I simply close my eyes and feel the colours paint my soul,

dissecting it red and blue

The colours fade and loneliness looms like a crown above my eery head

The fall of Homo Sapiens

I keep dreaming of Astral beings

circling the earth’s core

suspended in their orbital hollow UFOs

steering their spaceship into Central America

abolishing all life form around its perimeter

I still suspect Aliens

emitting high-frequency light energies

into galaxies far from our limited views

bottling up the milky way in titanum jars

threatening humanity with each turn of time

I have never heard the wind like that before

or the mangroves speak stillness

From it’s deep bowels,

the earth has sprouted cancerous roots

Left me speechless like never before

The time is coming

the time has come

Time lapses outside my bedroom window

wrapping our psyche in a precise forcefield

like the decadent sycamore tree rooted outside

This is a message to the Earth

the seasons, the canyons and natural elements

how aimless our planet orbits the sun

as Humans poison it’s fertile soil

waiting for when it’s devoid of life form

So listen as the former powerful giant

whimpers in a clam shell

will the earth still be earth?

if the celestial bodies turned away

if the rain refused to seep from the heavens

If she took back everything she gave us

and handed it to the next generation of evolved species

They will excavate our bones

retracing the history of the fall of homo sapiens

Black enough

You ought to have to have seen her

Black body paint dripped from mane down to ankles

styled with a latex jacket and thigh high boots

A cigarette pressed lightly between her lips

You ought to have seen her

Her skin coalesces with the golden shy sun

She metamorphosed into a shade of deadly night

Belladonna like the devil’s berries

Honey coloured eye reflecting jewels

shea butter dripping from endless tamed lush kinks

Authentic she is, a goddess to behold

Belladonna like death cherries

Her footprints spirals in desert sand

Causing confusion wherever she trod

Posing for the cover of blacknvogue

Nubian temptress to the very end

And to think she had to scream her lungs

to break through a forcefield of deafening silence

they said she ought to behave whiter

Seemingly she was black enough

she was stunting on cloud bursting lilac skies

One could build a dam from her tear droplets

she lined a path from where she’d been

was forbidden to tango with ethereal solace

She was a drifting butterfly

perching on a fallen crimson leave

bejewelled by virgo’s decadent virtue

paradise cradled between her bosom.

You’ll remember her by her acerbic glances

the confidence that’s apparent through her melanin glow

they said she was black enough

to which she replied, “I didn’t chose it, I got lucky”

Toxic People with Toxic hands

You lost your childhood somewhere at the corner of Cleveland avenue to toxic people with waddling hands. They sunk you deeper into the clouds.

You reappeared here. Waiting.

Waiting for poetry to be read. Waiting for the trees to bear fruits and the seams of summer to sprout at the stems of a sycamore tree. For some reason, that was where you were looking for yourself. For your ego.

That was where your spider senses were leading you. They said it was bad luck to yell your dreams out of the window at daytime. It was toxic even, but you already knew that.

You are not surprised by the storm. You have seen it brewing from a distance. It’s been getting stronger. More acidic like grapefruits being fermented to alcohol. This is how we are, you and me you see.

All your senses know the toxic hands grappling your shinbones. An endogenic heat spurring within you is begging to release your alcoholic nature, but when the night disguises the sun and the days turn bronze, all you are left with are;

Toxic people with toxic hands.

Nevertheless, you are still waiting. All summer-long, you stood still. You feel your torso sink further into the clouds of toxic hands. The trees bleed violet. Your senses melt. You forget the reason you were waiting in the first place because a woman with an oversized ears pointed at you as she poisoned your mind with a toxic snake.

You breath yourself back to stillness. It will be okay now. The sun will shine again at the end of autumn because they can’t take away twice what you’ve already lost once.

One Hell of a Survivor

For the longest time. I was that kid at the back of the class. Forming rhymes, doodling caricatures. Melting away time with the matches of my mind. That kid whose name was a whisper behind a shadow, that existed in a shell. She was everyone’s bestie when exams was around the corner, besides that she was that face that never lifted her hand, yet always knew the answer.

I have not forgotten her passive demeanour. I have not forgotten She sat with the teacher when others were out like conquaestor in the playground. At times the teacher would leave, the teacher had friends too, and would ask her to watch herself. I have not forgotten the girls , that said she had to own a pair of Nike to be initiated into the cool kids club.

She doodled the earth with wide arms so that it could hug her back and remembered a thousand faces she painted with brazen fingers. She let her heart bleed each time she pressed kohl to a page. Then she’d fill in the spaces with pressure from a crayon and gave it to her teacher instead of a rose. She couldn’t stop rhyming every song in her heart that she could only utter when absolutely certain her voice would echo through the concrete without interference.

She had learnt that the quieter she became, the more she could hear.

Alone in her mind was when she stole the spotlight. No one could deflect it. There she was the comedian, the musician and the ballerina. Then she was the only one sitting at the front of the class.

She is a peculiar one she is; the more she hid it, the more her roots grew . A peculiar lonesome girl at the back of the class. Halfway into adulthood still crossing paths with her kind;

the one who sits alone at lunch and reads an adult novel to herself . She’ll show up without delay at violin recital but sluggishly plays dress up.

She is everywhere, and I know her well because she is still inside me smiling like she dreams in lucid colours and that’s how she couldn’t have sacrifice even a nail to adjust for she is one hell of a survivor.

Illustration by Yaoyao Ma Van 

The Cinder Path

There are some who traipse down a cinder path

they survived the lightening bolts exploding from the sky

They climb the same mountains that caused their stumble

they do not yield to unforgiving salty tears

they kiss the rose that pricks their lips

their love is chronic and in-toxic

They are creatures that know not precaution

they let sadness drown in a sea of golden promises

and warn their younger self against naive facts

giving new life to the meaning of survivor

imitating freedom as an active sport

practicing outside of a melancholic life

letting their guards down and

accepting agony like falling icicles

for wisdom has been embedded in trusted hands

too many battle scars, much more lived experiences

they chose to nourish the earth and Gaia

for siblings and their successors

Invoking an oath of resurrection

they are labelled winged free spirits

for others they are belle âme

because their words are as eloquent as their soul

and their tongues are coated with lotus leaves

they are forever hung to the web of empathy.

Today more than ever

more people need to lose the tree

and grow a forest of millefleur and fauna

to forfeit fitting all into a one-sized coat

but embrace the uniqueness of every soul

by following the cinder path

Antionette Dreams

All my wishes are far from real

nothing in my reach, or here to stay

I may have been hibernating all my life

now awake as the arms of my creator paints my smile

A beautiful smile it is and yet no heart reflects

Porcelain beauty, Antoinette dreams

my soul is enchanted

I am a delightful breeze

to boy, girls and squirrel friends everywhere

wherefore can my mind wander outside my bubble world

Porcelain beauty , antoinette dreams

kids fall in love for all I am made of;

smoothened wood, lace strings in equal parts

molten plastic all over their itty bitty beating hearts

precious wonder I could never have

Every form I take , a marionette of sorts

transforms into magnificent architecture

The theatre is flooded with ceramic faces

freckled cheeks, gaping mouth. enchanted dolls

pointy noses like nobles of days old

My eyes as wide as the hollow in my thorax

Close your eyes and you may hear

a tally of ventriloquist tales

attached to their chest like the strings on my limbs

and silence so provoking it has it’s own rhythm

After all the glam and glitter

An exhilaration that make my smile ache

the stage lights dim, curtain drawn

Left alone in a broad misty chest

a tinge of cold in the piece of me

where my Antoinette dreams may well be buried

Image Source: The-maksimov.livejournal.com

The Involuntary experiment

It is not unusual for the internet to give out every once in a while, however I do throw a little bit of tantrum for the first few mins and then grab a book. Normally in just about the time it takes to feel really weird tension about the situation, the internet is back. If the internet outage lasts longer, I would have to practice mindfulness and honestly, who wants to do that?

Last week we had terrible internet service. I’m talking every other day lasting for at least one hour . I felt so dishevelled and uneasy and basically resolved to the most weakest action imaginable, complaining.

And then the situation escalated.

Sundays my routine starts with our fellowship. Lunch thereafter and when we get home I stretch across the bed and read blogposts till I doze off. However, sometime in the early evening of last Sunday, the Internet gave out. Luckily there was a festival in town which I didn’t want to visit but given the lack of internet, I figured by the time we’re back, it’ll be all dandy—- except it wasn’t.

It extended to nearly 3 days. In this period, I went through at least 4 stages of emotions

Impatience

Have you ever seen something you really wanted but it was at the other side of a densely thick glass? My best analogy would be when our dog occasionally meets our bunny . they are separated by a large bunny cage, so the dog begins to whimper and quiver.

He then lashes out and barks. This was me between Sunday evening and Monday. I couldn’t help being bratty which resulted from my impatience.

Fake hopefulness

This is when I got silent partly because my husband spoke to the company and they assured us they were working on the problem. Albeit it was more soothing to hear that other houses with the same internet provider in and around our vicinity was affected too. I know that sounds wrong but I believe it’s also wrong to suffer alone.

This emotion is similar with impatience in that it is ego-driven, that’s why it’s fake. An overgrown ego (and the telecom) telling me that it will be over soon. Except when it’s not, I’m back to square one, complaining. A little unhealthy psychological projection here and there.

Acceptance

By the end of Monday till Tuesday, I had made peace with it. I used my mobile data more knowing that it could finish any moment and I would be in complete amish mode. I came home in the evening and there was still a network interference so I shrugged, watched a series on my phone and slept.

Anxiety

Right in this moment that I’m writing, I feel anxious although I woke up to stable internet service. I’m anxious that It could go off at any time. But more-so that if it does, I will start from stage one all over. I preferred stage 3.

Subject B’s reaction

My man on the hand, kept his composure the entire time and wasn’t once tempted into using his mobile data to watch anything that wasn’t on social media. I want to say that it’s because of the European Championship game. Our tv wasn’t affected. Maybe he would have felt the impact if he couldn’t watch his game, or maybe he’d have gone to a friend’s. Either ways, I never want to find out.

One thing about me is that I feel the emotions projected by people. Yes, tears drizzle down my cheeks while watching movies even though it’s not real. That’s why if he had been upset as I was, I would have been a wreck altogether. His energy kept me calm and brought me to acceptance quicker.

Final notes

On reflection, there were other sub par, hardly distinguishable emotions. Yet these four, I couldn’t ignore even when I tried. I also did learn about patience in these dreadful days. That’s a word that keeps coming to me recently. I feel God trying to force patience into my life.

Thanks for stopping by. Been a minute since I checked up on y’all. I hope you’re having a chill mid-week. Let me know if you’ve ever had to go a day or a week, voluntarily or involuntarily, without internet and how you handled that in the comments below. Chao.