Being Brave

Being Brave

Bravery manifests in many guises. John was tired of fighting–he was assigned to the front line–and was terrified. But, like all his comrades, he put up a brave front. Besides, he would never let his side down, by playing the coward. He wanted respect and men in the front usually got it. It’s basic, the respect, that is. So was the fear. He had enough; he was drafted, he had no choice so here he was, some people in his platoon still left, and all he could think of was he going to be next? It was dark, he had no idea where he was and didn’t dare to light a match. The smell of decomposing flesh was nauseating. He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a piece of Wrigley’s spearmint gum. He unwrapped the wrapper and carefully folded it into the smallest possible design he could and put it back in his pocket. Sort of like  a keepsake. Something to remember this moment by.  He was chewing the gum when he heard  rounds of fire coming from the north: enemy direction. He hit the ground the same time that his buddy was hit. The firing stopped. He felt icy cold and the deafening silence was unreal. It was then he noticed that everyone around him had been shot and he was completely an utterly alone. The illumination in the sky was sufficient to show the carnage.

He put his hand in his pocket and felt for the wrigleys spearmint wrapper that he had folded umpteen times. He felt secure by the touch of it, a moment of normalcy in what was an insane situation*. War sucks. His dreams of coming back a hero, medalled, to show off to his family, friends, girlfriend was insignificant. What was he supposed to do now? He rubbed the wrapper between his thumb and forefinger; thinking, thinking. In shock and, not a soul in site. The quiet was relentless.

So he did what any brave men would have done. He took his rifle, stuck it into his mouth and blew his brains out. The last thing he remembered before pulling the trigger was swallowing the piece of paper.

—————————————————–

Endless Preoccupation

fascination comes apart
when lovers meet
where do they start
missed phone calls
unread texts
forget the bullshit
snooker the rest

games played
only one
what is left
is the noonday sun.
drunken glasses
evening’s come
forget the masses
where is the fun?

sleepless nights
naked in bed
tossing and turning
politics unfed
desire vanishes
struggles to remain
what once was
is no one’s gain

Isabella at 21

IMG_9744

Isabella at 21
Is very beautiful
kind and all woman
she nurtures, she cares,
for everyone.
Her nature from birth

Has a sunny disposition.
She is also very smart
(she doesn’t think so)
But, we know so.

Her self-depreciating characteristic
Is typical of a Ceylonese
Especially from an Anglican
School
Such as Ladies College.

Isabella is a bella
The belle of the ball
In my book for sure
I would cast her
As the central character
She is unique

Extremely likeable
And resourceful.
21 years old.  I’ve had the
pleasure of spending
quality time
with her in Melbourne
for a week.

I note that she is interested in most things
Especially the arts
After we shopped we sat down and listened
To a musician busking
She then pointed out the MOMA exhibit
And there is one in Brunswick.

She has left me now in Melbourne.
She has gone back to Brisbane
I’ll be leaving on a plane
This Friday. Back to where I came from
Where Isabella was born
CEYLON

Heart heart

Heart heart

Deep in my heart a wedge does lie
I’m willing to throw a dart to hit it clean and fair
Instead I breathe, breathe deeply and sigh
The cause of the wedge is mine—let’s try.

Was it the afternoon I drove back from Galle?
Hail! Thunder and Lightning quite a scare
Voice on the radio warning us to go with care.
the highway is dangerous to drive anywhere.

Wait! is the wedge my children? My poor mother, too.
My husband, Dom, my in laws? ‘How do you do?’
A lost love, another life, what could have been?
it’s  bittersweet now, all that I have seen…

The wedge comes and goes.
Tears pour down my face, I am thankful for god’s grace.
To analyze the pain, sitting in the car in the rain
One goes back in time, breathes, the mind arace.

To gratitude: of course, I’m grateful! So what if I’m Fey?
The wedge is lodged, embedded deep. I long for the comfort of sleep
Not yet, not there, the exit is quite far. Stay awake!
Don’t fall asleep. Keep breathing the wedge out, however deep.

At last the exit, I take the turn, drive to the booth to stop.
Pay my toll and on my way, keep breathing the hardness away
And suddenly, I am aware, that this feeling of a wedge
has disappeared, is not there?  was it the stress of the drive?

Maybe. Could be, should be, yes! Driving is difficult
When one can barely see, the car in front, the road, a tree.
The rain is ceasing, the breathing is easy
At last: Home. the dog runs to greet me.

Unpack my bag get on the mat
Do a few yoga poses, here comes the cat!
5 kittens to feed all are shivering.
My body feels better, no more dithering

I draw a bath then into bed, take meds, then cover.
Dream of mayhem and accidents oh what a shower!
I suddenly wake up to another day. Stretch and yawn.
The wedge has gone, the sun shines bright. Oh how I love, love, love the light.

N.S.  APRIL 15, 2018

 

Werewolf in Nuwara Eliya

Werewolf in Nuwara Eliya

That night in Nuwara Eliya
when Dom and I stumbled
into the Grand, we had just re-met
and every moment was precious.
It took us ten minutes to find the bar.
It was cold for Nuwara Eliya and we
needed a drink, desperately.
A single malt for Dom and a Port
for me. This was in 1993.

I turned towards the barman to place our order
and stopped, shocked. Next to us was the most
extraordinary man I had ever seen, he was about
7ft tall. He had pointed ears nearly as large as his head
a beard that tapered to 30 degrees
his sideburns, thick, wide, reached
his mouth.
A sweet smile. It was disconcerting.
Basically, your friendly neighborhood werewolf.

He bought us a round of drinks and
seemed very glad to meet us.
We drank with him.
and must have chatted
he was from Northern England.
We said our goodbyes

Staggered outside into a sea
of mist. It was midnight
the moon was full.
Shining bright with light
to show us the way
to the car-
we drunkenly
drove the windy
road back to the club.

Quietly distressed by the
meeting of the man
who looked like a wolf.

29.5.2017

 

Machine I loved

Machine I loved

A low slung Volks
turbo charged, fast
(naturally)
did 130 miles on
the Arugumbay
Moneragala road
“A poor man’s porsche’
my friend said.
Leonard Cohen crooning
as we looked
at the mountains
whizzing by
light poured in
the driver seat
comfortable enough to
race in.
I down shifted to third
then, back to fourth, fifth
as we turned the corner
on two wheels
the car did a one eighty
and smashed against
the hillside
we poured out
stunned, bruised, bleeding
we were ok
the car ok, too
German engineering
I thought
I loved this car
I was biased
Thank god we weren’t
driving the Prius.

NS FEB 13, 2017

 

microcosom

microcosom

Buttala, South Sri Lanka
American pancakes, blue jeans.
Appuhami, rotis. sarongs.
British, Sri-Lankan children
wait

To eat breakfast.
Daub and Wattle, Illuk Roof
wood fire
I whisk the batter

I-pod on Leonard Cohen
Croons: “Love gone wrong’
Appropriate.
For the moment.

I am lost
earphones in music
carries me away
to another place
congruence and context
(at home anywhere)

It’s all in the making of it.