Trick or Treat

Trick or treat
(Halloween is calling your name)
Trick or treat
(Autumn leaves have fall fast)
Let us see the night stars
Ringing out across the universe

Get on your broomstick – we’re gonna fly tonight
Your eyes like ashes from the bonfires
I wanna paint the sky – with moonlight brushes
Gonna leave the tears behind
Getting out of this rat-race

Trick or treat
(Halloween is calling your name)
Trick or treat
(Autumn leaves have fall fast)
Let us see the night stars
Ringing out across the universe

Grab your pumpkin lantern
We’re gonna fly tonight
We got liars to the right – we got apologists to the left
Sometimes I get so low – all I have are dreams
I wanna paint the sky
With moonlight brushes

Trick or treat
(Halloween is calling your name)
Trick or treat
(Autumn leaves have fall fast)
Let us see the night stars
Ringing out across the universe

© Fi S. J. Brown

Advertisements

The Girl That Said No

Standing on the edge of the forest
Like my ancestors once did
And the leaves are changing colour
No more flowers and animals will sleep
Whispers in the air tell the tales
Of the year almost gone
Fearful hate, apathy awakened
What a mess we make, will we ever learn

Watching from the black mirror in hand
For the latest craze to begin
Celebrities instagraming their hashtags
With their lies for mass consumption

I will not follow the unwritten rules
I will not be placed in their boxes
I will not Photoshop or filter my life
Or worship the gods of stage and screen
Independence and individuality
Thinking aloud with no thought police
Burning the spin and lies with every step
I am the girl that said no

Standing in the middle of the town
Ignoring the autotuned grey noise
Hoping for some colourful miracle
To breakout out with the sword of truth
Whispers in the air tell the tales
Of the year almost gone
Fearful hate, apathy awakened
What a mess we make, will we ever learn

An emperor wearing his new clothes
Praised by the sheep baaing masses
Fakeness has become the new norm
Blurred lines until we all become one

I will not follow the unwritten rules
I will not be placed in their boxes
I will not Photoshop or filter my life
Or worship the gods of stage and screen
Independence and individuality
Thinking aloud with no thought police
Burning the spin and lies with every step
I am the girl that said no

I will not follow the unwritten rules
I will not be placed in their boxes
I will not Photoshop or filter my life
Or worship the gods of stage and screen
Independence and individuality
Thinking aloud with no thought police
Burning the spin and lies with every step
I am the girl that said no

© Fi S. J. Brown

Tori’s lyrics

10 years ago the lyrics of this song and many others by Tori Amos haunted my ears and tears would fall from my eyes when I heard her sing as each one felt like I could have written them myself. Lines such as “I got the anti-Christ in the kitchen yellin’ at me again” made me think of my mother who I then called ‘she who must be obeyed’, as I was frightened of her, nothing I did was right if did do not do things her way but now know she is a narcissist and need to carry on being me regardless; “I hear my voice and it’s been here, silent all these years” as I  started having counselling to try make some semblance of why I felt my life was painted in monochrome and saw myself more like Princess Fiona the ogre from Shrek than the princess, through a journey that was just as rocky as any shore with no lighthouse in sight, not realising I am the lighthouse; and “So you found a girl who thinks really deep thoughts, what’s so amazing about really deep thoughts” not realising how powerful they are and what a gift they can be to inspire others. Now life I see as multicoloured and multi-sensory, grateful for the special people that make me laugh and smile for being in it and the importance of living mindfully. Today is Tori’s birthday, so a timely reminder to myself of all I have overcome and remind others not to give up, making that first stepping stone today is possible as things do change for the better.

© Fi S. J. Brown

 

 

Some days

Some days I wish I could fly up high like a bluebird
Everything flowing freely without any tainted word.
No mouldy air or stagnant water to hold me back,
And let me finally follow that old yellow brick track.
 
Some days I am drowning in a sea of forest green,
Attacked by the branches of the woodland queen.
Cannot see the wood from the hundreds of trees,
Needing an axe clear my view and unlock the keys.
 
Some days I feel like an actor that forgot their lines,
Missing subtle prompts and ignoring warning signs.
Trashing and trivialising any of my achievements,
But count my failures like individual bereavements.
 
Some days I wake up to find a smile upon my face,
As realise that it is okay to be a tortoise in the race.
Bursting the balloons of self doubt and losing fears,
Listening to the wise birds with their comforting ears.
 
Some days I sing with the dawn chorus for being alive,
And feel refreshed in the morning dew as I take a dive
Ready a new to take on the world whatever it will bring,
Tying up any problems or puzzles with some old string.
 
© Fi S. J. Brown

B.I.A.

I’m like the pieces of a broken glass vase,
So many shards that there is no glue to fix.
I’m dizzy from all the circles walked,
And the games from the amphitheatre,
Not able to escape.

I feel like all the paths ahead are blocked,
Filled with more false starts and wrong turns.
In the forest of my mind,
I’ve been looking for an axe,
To find where I belong.

Tired of jumping hoops and skipping beats,
As I try to play life by the rules,
Bitten by bugs growing in number at my feet,
And strangled by words in tears.
But believe it again echoes on.

I’m just the outsider watching the world,
And it seems like I’m forever to be sat in the wings.
I never wanted to be a leading lady,
But at least wanted to be on the script.

How many would walk a mile for a day in my shoes,
With a ball and chain that interrupts the rhythm.
Feeling like a bird who wants to fly,
But there is nobody to set her free.

Tired of jumping hoops and skipping beats,
Looking for a break but not in sanity.
Drained so that my battery is always red,
Why can it not be green like in nature,
With birds echoing believe it again.

Tired of jumping hoops and skipping beats,
Time to skip with hoops and jump to beats.
Rising like the phoenix one more time,
Burn down the trees and find that path,
Whilst singing believe it again.

© Fi S. J. Brown

The autumnal opera

The autumnal opera opens with the air biting like a bitter lemon on dry lips and the air smelling of decaying leaves and wood smoke. A prima donna sings an aria that touches almost every leaf, painting them every shade of red, yellow and orange; each colour matching the notes of her song. This is then echoed by a chorus throughout the land, turning forests to fire with colour. At the same the daily rhythm goes from legato to staccato, as the day length gets shorter, which in turn makes the leaves fall like ghost notes as few hear the sound of them falling. The crunch underfoot as walk through them is like listening a plucked cello playing, which is at times drowned out by the violins mimicking the sounds of human traffic. Then as the final note is sung, trees stand bare, and the theatre empties till all is silent. Well at least until Jack Frost sings his melancholy blues next season.

© Fi S. J. Brown

The (Un)natural World

Has the world changed or have we evolved into a new type of human being? Filled with jealous fear and hate as act as judge and jury not other’s wellbeing. No longer content to be an actor playing a part in the show that is Planet Earth. Killing others till they’re gone as turned director such is our sense of self-worth. Covering and autotuning the songs of Earth to sing in the key of human nature, and painting the world in fifty shades of grey as the brave new world’s maker.

Heavily manipulated images tell us this is what a 21st century human must be, and difference to flaws magnified as though we were some super race pedigree. Communication reduced down to words and pictures upon screens in our hands, as create fantasies of our lives, crying wolf for help and worshipping celebrity brands. Trying desperately to fit in the boxes so not alone in the wilderness to be mocked, trapping individuality forever in a room where few visited or on the door knocked.

Our foods tainted with chemicals, modified to grow in a uniform way or made in a lab, medicines causing side effects worse than the disease or perhaps prevented with a jab. With almost every new television show and movie is a re-make, take off, or sequel, where has our originality and creativity gone, may be it still sat on the artist’s easel? To be human has got quite lost in this brave new world we have now created for us, is it now time we stopped and learnt to think for ourselves before the final big hush.

© Fi S. J. Brown

Song with no name

Standing on the edge of the hill,
Like an entertainer to an empty crowd,
And nobody hears their warning words.
No more practising in front of the mirror.
There’s a silent pause in the evening air,
As though even the wind has been muted.
And the sun sets, another day has ended.

Watching from the edge of the forest,
For the next chapter to unfold.
Words and music for now lie unwritten,
And new adventures to begin.

I am the phoenix,
I am free in heart,
I crave nothing and no one.
Like a warming mug of tea,
A calming energy to others.
Inside my cracks may show,
But I repeat ‘believe it again’.

Standing on the edge of the lake,
Looking at the world reflected there in,
Hoping to find some truth not more lies
And an end to the loop of endless repeats.
There’s a silent pause in the evening air,
As though even the wind has been muted.
And the sun sets, another day has ended.

I am the phoenix,
I am free in heart,
I crave nothing and no one.
Like a warming mug of tea,
A calming energy to others.
Inside my cracks may show,
But I repeat ‘believe it again’.

I am the phoenix,
I am free in heart,
I crave nothing and no one.
Like a warming mug of tea,
A calming energy to others.
Inside my cracks may show,
But I repeat ‘believe it again’.

© Fi S. J. Brown

The song of war

On this the 11th day of the 11th month I think of those that have given their lives physically and mentally in the name of war. Generations old and young lost in rivers of blood that flowed through Flanders Field and continue to this day. It is not only the fallen to think of but those that returned and replay the events in their minds unable to comprehend how and why.

The picture shows many crosses: I wrote one for Mr Glasgow, a childhood neighbour and prisoner in Japan that could not tell me of the horror he saw and heard; I also wrote one for my great uncle George that documented Africa through the lens of his camera with images of sadness and happiness; and finally I wrote one for the innocent bystanders that are nameless but not forgotten that war’s name has taken from their families.

A dreamer and ponderer I may be but I do not want to hear war’s red song, singing it as though it was glorious feels quite wrong. However, I thank those men, women, children and animals the song has called their name, those that returned only to be haunted by it, and those right now live in fear of his song. I hope one day you and I may sing the white song of peace.

© Fi S. J. Brown

IMG_4908.JPG

The Phoenix’s Story

In my hands lies the shattered remains of a vase,
Each piece pierced my skin to reveal a red blaze.
My tears fall to try put the fire but it is now a river,
Which sends my legs and arms into a deep shiver.
The fragments I cradle like a sick child needing aid,
As I fall to my knees all around me begins to fade.
Like a tree in the forest nobody hears the sound,
Of having a breakdown when lost but not found.

I wake with no sign of the vase pieces to be seen,
No scars or cuts showed where they’d once been.
Starting to rock in the position of a newborn baby,
I cry out for help from the walls in a muted plea.
I feel like a rock that has fallen down from a cliff,
Pushed over the edge after yet another miff.
As I move I realise I am the vase that shattered,
I wish I’d not been born a of glass but like a bird.

How do you mend a broken glass I ask of myself,
I have nothing left to read on the old bookshelf.
Stumbling to my feet I decide maybe once more,
The phoenix within me then rises so I can soar.
I laugh as I feel the wings that I never knew I had,
I will cope now with whatever in life makes me sad.
Three words I write on my left wrist to remember,
“Believe it again” they say and be my life’s anchor.

© Fi S. J. Brown

Phoenix vase