Teh-tarik mornings chalked in fine print
Condensed worldwide wisdom (or lack thereof)
Soft-boiled sentences and runny lines
Bread-and-butter, matters that matter,
Hail,
The life of a dying newspaper.
Wednesday, 22 June 2016
Wednesday, 15 June 2016
Louis Armstrong thinks to himself...
The Earth is weeping.
The Earth is weeping because she shivers on a summer's day in June, a warm afternoon, yet cold as the touch of frost; Frost, who once lamented, "and miles to go before I sleep."
The Earth weeps.
The Earth weeps because her residents are too busy to be humans; too busy firing and wiring weapons, too busy fighting for peace. Fighting. For peace. That's why we drop bombs on people who dropped bombs on us.
The Earth weeps because her inhabitants are too deep in debate to be deep in thought; too obsessed about who you should be allowed to love to actually love; too busy flattering the ones that "matter" to praise the Earth's quaint hills and luscious gardens, to look up at the sky and exclaim, "How nice."
The Earth weeps because these days, "niceness" is defined by one's acts of compassion and courtesy, as if one must "go the extra mile" to be a human being; as if it's not in us to do the right thing; as if we don't expect that of ourselves.
The Earth weeps because she realises she can't expect that, not when her world has descended into a wintry picture of its former self. Hatred has grabbed her by the collar; Heartlessness has poached her heart; Grief, well, Grief couldn't even look her in the eye.
The Earth gently weeps, for her beings are no longer being and the living are no longer live.
The Earth is weeping, but it's all just a teardrop
in someone else's ocean.
--
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6xsP-J_-rv8
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A3yCcXgbKrE
The Earth is weeping because she shivers on a summer's day in June, a warm afternoon, yet cold as the touch of frost; Frost, who once lamented, "and miles to go before I sleep."
The Earth weeps.
The Earth weeps because her residents are too busy to be humans; too busy firing and wiring weapons, too busy fighting for peace. Fighting. For peace. That's why we drop bombs on people who dropped bombs on us.
The Earth weeps because her inhabitants are too deep in debate to be deep in thought; too obsessed about who you should be allowed to love to actually love; too busy flattering the ones that "matter" to praise the Earth's quaint hills and luscious gardens, to look up at the sky and exclaim, "How nice."
The Earth weeps because these days, "niceness" is defined by one's acts of compassion and courtesy, as if one must "go the extra mile" to be a human being; as if it's not in us to do the right thing; as if we don't expect that of ourselves.
The Earth weeps because she realises she can't expect that, not when her world has descended into a wintry picture of its former self. Hatred has grabbed her by the collar; Heartlessness has poached her heart; Grief, well, Grief couldn't even look her in the eye.
The Earth gently weeps, for her beings are no longer being and the living are no longer live.
The Earth is weeping, but it's all just a teardrop
in someone else's ocean.
--
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6xsP-J_-rv8
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A3yCcXgbKrE
Monday, 6 June 2016
A full void
The voices, they boom, and
I daren't call it noise
for they speak in tones of grandeur,
as if to portend their own
importance.
I can never quite understand,
how words can shoot like rockets,
how
they can seem to swallow each other up
- an hourglass choking itself.
My words, they glide on paper.
My thoughts, they float in mind.
That is not to say
I have nothing
to say
for this is just my kind.
Guffawing may be a thing,
but to me it's not worthwhile,
and when all break into hearty cheer
the most I can manage
is a smile.
The quiet, we are 'cold' souls
accused of nonchalance.
If only they knew
just how much
we knew
while not part of common parlance.
Sometimes I think they'll never know
(like a moon that can never know the sun)
the longing to speak with -
not to
- someone.
It's me, not to be loud,
And I'm pretty sure
that's
allowed.
I daren't call it noise
for they speak in tones of grandeur,
as if to portend their own
importance.
I can never quite understand,
how words can shoot like rockets,
how
they can seem to swallow each other up
- an hourglass choking itself.
My words, they glide on paper.
My thoughts, they float in mind.
That is not to say
I have nothing
to say
for this is just my kind.
Guffawing may be a thing,
but to me it's not worthwhile,
and when all break into hearty cheer
the most I can manage
is a smile.
The quiet, we are 'cold' souls
accused of nonchalance.
If only they knew
just how much
we knew
while not part of common parlance.
Sometimes I think they'll never know
(like a moon that can never know the sun)
the longing to speak with -
not to
- someone.
It's me, not to be loud,
And I'm pretty sure
that's
allowed.
--
Author's note: I think for many, silence is seen as a void - a gaping hole in a world of buzz and chatter - but for the quiet, I think it makes the world whole.
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