Painting Clouds on a Sunny Day

I know what I should feel,

I know it, I have seen it.

But I don't feel it. 

It is not like I do not ache,

I do, but it is an ephemeral pain.

I can hear the end of my ache.

It should be a silent end.

I should feel this until I cannot take it anymore,

It should linger in me, always with me.

Clouding my everything and slowly,

 after a sudden thunderstorm on a hot day, 

the clouds should melt and fade

and make way for blue skies 

tinged with white flecks.

Flecks never to fade but to remain,

 constant.

But there seem to be no clouds or flecks.

But regrets. Perhaps guilt about an early acceptance.

Why?

Surely, I could not have prevented it.

I should have painted a feeling, a mutual connection, 

a blue sky filled with puffy clouds which never fade 

- not even to flecks.

Stop!

Now I shiver.

I want to hide my portraits.

I do not want it.

I do not want to lose my skies.

Am I selfishly content? Afraid to lose what is not lost?

I really cannot think this way.

Please, stop!

Affirm life - Paint the pictures you can now.

There will be beauty in giving.

Enjoy the cloud-filled skies.

Do not wait for a sunny day.

The Village

Once upon a time, there was a small fishing village that was greatly blessed by the gods. The gods granted them a bountiful harvest and instructed the Chief Priest to share it evenly within the village.

The Chief Priest divided the harvest into two halves and kept one half as his own. The Big Man offered gifts of virgins to the Priest and for this, was given a quarter of the other half. The Fat Woman presented the freshest fish and sweetest spices to the Priest and she received a generous piece of the harvest. The Rich Man donated gems, diamonds, jewels and pearls and the Chief Priest supplied him with a share of the plentiful produce. The Black Man and White Woman submitted offerings of white knives and black magic which were to be used to control the village. The Chief Priest accepted their presents and repaid them with the remaining quarter of the plentiful harvest. The Wicked Woman, who instilled order within the village, was rewarded by the Priest with half of his pilfered share.

There was no more food left for the simple villagers so the small men shrunk smaller, the hungry women became hungrier, the poor men got poorer and the strong youth turned weak.

The Good Man heard of this injustice and warned the Chief Priest that he would inform the gods of his wrongdoing. He threatened to go to the Land of Black and White to expose the cheating Chief and announce how he continued to starve the neighbouring fishing village. The Chief Priest heard this and notified the Big Man, who apprised the Fat Woman, who told the Rich man, and who, finally, alerted the Wicked Woman.

The Wicked Woman, upon hearing this, called for a village meeting. She deceived all those present and told them that the Good Man threatened to kill the Chief Priest with wisdom from the Land of Black and White, which would bring the wrath of the gods upon their community. The dwellers began to worry and the strong youth grew angry. The angry youth dragged the Good Man – the Doomed Man – to the village square where the Chief Priest offered him to the gods for supposed forgiveness. The citizens agreed with the Priest, and sang, and danced, and prayed to the gods to strike the Good Man and spare their village.

The poor men knew that the accusations against the Good Man were untrue but fear held them silent. They understood that if they proclaimed the integrity of the Good Man, their wives would be snatched by the Rich Man. So they lifted their voices and sang louder. The hungry women saw the wickedness and lies against the Good Man but they closed their eyes. They realised that if they proved the innocence of the now Doomed Man, their children would be seized and eaten by the Fat Woman. So they raised their feet and danced longer. The small men were aware of the evil rife in the village but refused to shout out. They recognized that if they revealed the Chief Priest’s corruption, their houses would be coveted by the Big Man. So they bowed their heads and prayed even more earnestly.

And so the citizens watched – singing and dancing and praying – as the Wicked Woman killed the Good Man and presented his head to the gods. The Land of Black and White soon discovered this murder and called its people, the White Woman and Black Man, home. They took some of their knives, magic and their ill-gotten portion of the villages’ harvest with them. The strong youth continued to grow frail and so used the knives and magic left behind to steal from the hungry, poor and small villagers.

Without the interference of the Good Man; the Big Man, Fat Woman, Rich Man, Wicked Woman and Chief Priest continued to share the villages’ wealth between themselves. The rich got richer and the poor got poorer. The big grew bigger and the small shrunk smaller. The fat stretched fatter and the hungry became hungrier.

Who can save the village now?

The Problem

 A wise person once said that the improper interpretation of a problem results in what he termed “the 3 Ps”.  A mistake can become pervasive and like a cancer can invade other parts of our life. What starts out as a minor issue escalates into a pandemic – it consumes us. Blunders are also misread as being entirely personal. We personalize the problem. We allow it define us. We become our mistakes. Finally, this fault becomes persistent and permanent. We refuse to view our lives as ever-changing and view our accident as non-erasable. It becomes gyves which bind us to the past.  

Some food for thought :)

The Candle

Now time for some good old depressing poetry. This was written by a friend of mine. We had to present pieces of writing for inspired by a candle. I wrote Incheon and she wrote the Candle. I guess people get inspired differently!

THE CANDLE

Osarehmen Samsom

Incheon

Im so sorry for my absence that I have 2 posts for y'all. Have fun.

Incheon

                We haven’t eaten in two days, not since we left P’yonggang. Our food, the little scraps of rice and meat we had left, is wrapped neatly in my white cotton scarf at the bottom of Umma’s bag. I smelled it last night, its rich nourishing aroma infused with a lingering tinge of garlic just the way Umma makes it – or at least I dreamt I did. We had just gotten there, to the silver skies and golden streets of Incheon and we feasted on freedom. We ate so much rice and beef and drank so much corn milk that now, when I think of Incheon, all that comes to my mind is the silky flow of corn milk on my perched tongue.

                We haven’t seen any light since we climbed into this rice truck for Incheon; at least that is what Appa called it. He said that it is taking us away from the torture of the North into the promise of the South. There were no bags of rice in the truck though, just children and Ummas and Appas.  Just faces – eyes shimmering even in this impenetrable darkness, clinging to the little hope that was left.

                We haven’t heard anything other than the smooth tormenting sound of tires on a road that never seems to end. No one has spoken, not since we were instructed to remain silent, that at any time, the Northern soldiers may stop the truck. I’ve waited for them every second now, so that at least I can hear their strong hash voices filled with power and hate, so that I know I haven’t forgotten what voices sound like.

                I know we would eat again and dine in with the finest wood and in the finest kitchen in all of Incheon. I think we would finally see again – finally see the light, joy and happiness which have been missing since the war ended. I hope, we would hear again – the tune of children playing, the rhythm of swaying trees dancing in the wind and the harmony of families together, families like mine in our new life of freedom. Our new life in Incheon.

daddys & mummys

 First blog post this year! My bad but I've been over-whelmed with so much work and what not. Anyways, I decided to explore the genre of depressing poetry. I hope y'all like it :)

daddys and mommys

i wonder if all daddys hit all mommys.

maybe daddys and mommys play hit-and-sleep where daddy hits mommy until she falls asleep

to rest her bruised face and bruised spirit.

mommy says when you sleep your spirit rests,

she says what happens to your body happens to your spirit too.

when you smile, your spirit smiles too

when you laugh, you spirit laughs too

and when daddy slaps you until your eyes cannot close

until blood runs down your nose your spirit is hurt too.

when daddy beats me and his hard boot cuts my flesh

when daddy whips me with the iron buckle of his belt

it leaves welts on my skin and on my spirit.

my skin heals but my spirit can’t, the welts continue to grow.

i feel them sting when i think of daddy,

when i see mommy sleep after their game of hit-and-sleep.

maybe mommy’s spirit doesn’t scar or else all mommys and all daddys wouldn’t play this game.

NAKED

My first poetic post. Hope you like it.


Naked

Eyes closed she leaps, naked -
free from the garments of pain and distress -
for the clouds.


Her feet kiss green grass goodbye.
Her arms reach for heaven above.
Her hair flows through the air,
effortlessly like an unfettered kite.


She looks down at her body,
it remains below.
Each blade of grass surrounding it holds it
like gyves around the ankles of a slave.
It is anchored in red clay earth,
Returning to where it came.