Then and Now

Were the every day thoughts, hopes, and daydreams of our ancestors really that different to our own now in 2018?

Painted caves, sharing myths to jokes imprinted in clay, hieroglyphs with 2-3 meanings, and illuminated scrolls,
Philosophers pondering the meaning of the world around us with none finding a true meaning to life itself.
But now words are written not in verse or prose but with hashtags and abbreviated words accompanied by emojis.
Taking pictures that hang not in galleries or shelves in the home but in virtual clouds that in a tap are deleted.

Great discoveries from the wheel to medicines and the internet itself are achievements that make humanity proud,
Knowledge is finding the right app to do it for us or knowing a tomato is a fruit but wisdom is not putting it in a salad.
All the knowledge and information we have from the past to the present of life is available at the tap of a button,
But we use it to share videos of cats, get into arguments with people we don’t know, or legally stalk a celebrity or two.

The food we no long hunt on horses with bows and arrows but drive metallic beasts that lead us to it already prepared
Seldom considering the journey it has made to the plate other than the instructions half glance at the cooking instructions.
Beauty is created with chemicals that mask our real faces and surgeon’s knives to create the perfect body craved,
But is also manufactured in heavily edited images to sell a fake life that makes the normal become the abnormal.

No worshipping of gods and/or goddesses with gifts left in blessing and hopeful acceptance to a heavenly afterlife,
Replaced with puppets saying or singing the words of their masters to be taken as their own thoughts and views on life.
As we crave the simpler life without the hard work our ancestors did in one day to than we ever could in our lifetime,
And have not mastered not judging another or thinking war is the answer without understanding the question.

With the keys to a time machine would we travel back in time or be content to live in the present day in modern life,
Or would we take a peak to a future that for now lies as an unwritten whisper but not a guaranteed promise to us all.
Changes occur great and small throughout our lifetimes just as they have since those now long forgotten in time’s dust,
The only way to survive it is focusing on the present without letting negative thoughts take root and live the daydreams.

© Fi S. J. Brown

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Santa’s Blues

‘Tis almost that time of year,
That I fly through the air.
Avoiding speeding tickets,
And those low flying UFOs

Last year Donner had the trots,
Blixen got herself pregnant,
Prancer and Dancer retired,
And Rudolph won Strictly.

Kids today want too much,
Who do they think Santa is?
Do I look like Amazon.com?
What happen to wooden toys?

The elves all want to quit,
Some have repetitive strain,
Others demand flexitime,
And not one works overtime.

All Mrs Claus does is moan,
Once I tried the Atkins diet,
But nobody told me no beans,
Oh that poor old Ozone Layer.

So I have decided to quit,
Moving somewhere hotter,
With the blonde from Tinder,
Merry Christmas Everyone.

© Fi S. J. Brown

The Hands

People walk on by hands lifted in melancholy lost hope,
Sinking their faces deeper in their phone’s black mirror.
Car horns make a syncopated rhythm to echo the pain,
But the conversed words drop to whispered exchanges.

Signs written in ink or maybe blood with last thoughts,
Washed away with the falling rain and endless tears.
Lifting a hat now as threadbare as the shaking hands,
But its scattered bronzed coins are kicked in laughter.

A forgotten hero that not even he now knows his name,
Gave all he had to protect but gave himself nightmares.
Every day he sits in the daytime with his hands stretched,
Hoping one day someone will take them to dance again.

By night he walks the streets trying to find his way back,
Or a key to a time machine to stop the groundhog day.
The invisible brother, cousin, father or uncle to anyone,
Who’s hands only want to feel warmth and love again.

© Fi S. J. Brown

A survivor’s song

Crying tears that were never seen or heard
Heart was broken but unable to heal anew
Isolated as uncertain how or who to trust
Lonely for the prisoner and jailer in one be
Dispirited so picked at scars until they bled

Angry that trust turned into a lifelong pain
Behaviour that made the abnormal a truth
Unbearable seeing their faces in the present
Secretly wishing they could feel this pain too
Every day getting stronger to fight on through

Survivors learn to dance to their colourful beat
Undoing the chains that bound them in fear
Ready to take on the world with both hands
Victim no longer be what they call themselves
Inspiring others not to give up hope in the dark
Visualising a light to keep them safe and warm
Observing karma do her thing without revenge
Revealing a new path filled with peace and love

© Fi S. J. Brown

It’s okay

It’s okay to be 22 or 42 and not know what you want be when you grow up. You can also change your mind, try new things, or take wrong turns, as discover what your true path or paths really are.

It’s okay to be single. Maybe you prefer being on your own, tired of other’s crap. Perhaps you have been hurt in the past so healing, or learning self love before you try again with someone new.

It’s okay if you cannot find your Prince Charming or Fair Maiden, love comes when you least expect it. Do not chase after it, but kissing a few frogs and toads along the way is to be expected.

It’s okay to be gay. Whether you like men, women, both, or do not care as long as they have a pulse, no book or other can define your version of what love is. We do not choose who we fall for.

It’s okay not to want kids. Being a parent is not for everyone, and is a valid choice. If you cannot have children it can be very hard; however, adoption or fostering are still your choices not others.

It’s okay to have that bit of chocolate, one piece won’t change you or the world. You do not have to excuse or explain yourself to anyone, people judge all the time, even themselves.

It’s okay to feel depressed. Remember you are not alone and depression loves to lie. Not everyone will listen, some may laugh or whisper behind your back, but do not ever give up. Someone will listen.

It’s okay to be different. There is no such thing as an average human being, we are human coloured/sized/shaped. You look as your genetic lottery decided, knives and syringes do not add, look inside.

It’s okay to be you. There is no one on this planet that’s the same, identical twins are not the same person. You can dance to another’s rhythm, but you have your own so embrace it and the colours it makes.

© Fi S. J. Brown

Love poem 1

My attempt at a love poem (as rarely write them or have any one to write one for/about).

I am sprinkling like a fairy,
Different kinds of flowers,
Every colour of the rainbow.

Here I come to give you songs,
Words to make your head spin,
And flowers to make you smile.

Music that will make you dance,
Oh, and another kind of flower,
To place forever upon your heart

From the city of an extinct volcano,
Sleepily watching over the citizens.
With a castle but no princess be.

I came to bring these just for you,
Carrying them over the seven hills,
And crossing the spiralling river.

Together they may have no worth,
But they are all I have to give,
From citizen FSJB of Planet Earth.

© Fi S. J. Brown

The Baldness Ballad

At dusk I cried on hearing the sound of falling hair from head,
By dawn I sobbed as counted the hairs sprinkled on my pillow.
Knowing like leaves in a forest at fall soon there would be none,
Without any send off, funeral, mass, or toast with an old glass.

The inevitable sequel was made but bombed on day of release,
And my immune system blocked any future remakes of its story.
Leaving the me exposed and naked to a judging planet of apes,
With the moon now on my head painted as an ogre in my mind.

For nearly twenty five years the self portrait remained unchanged,
Until I learnt to dance to a new beat and so painted myself afresh.
So the patchwork doll came to life on the canvas and into my mind,
Sitting like Buddhist priest in repose as only fitting for one so bald.

© Fi S. J. Brown

Summer Storms

The thunder with its rumbling tummy has finally been fed,
It is tired after playing catch with lightning across the sky.
Clattering over rooftops of houses and up lanes of towns,
Like a herd of invisible horses hooves trampling the clouds.
Bursting them open with a blinding light of purple haze,
That caused the rain to fall in muted teardrops like a clown.
Touching the hearts of windowpanes and soaking humans,
As curse the games up in the sky for leaving them so wet.
But a sick man from his hospital bed joins in the silent tears,
As his fevered brain calms again and counts his blessings.
In the woodlands trees stretch out their branches so wide,
Hoping to score points by catching the drops to its leaves.
Where as the deserts beg and plead for just one drop to fall,
Like a miracle prayer to someone who lives beyond the sky.
Cows out in fields turn their noses upward silently inhaling,
A perfume that comes after a storm that reassures all is well.
The farmer’s daughter shuts her curtains for the final call,
As the thunder goes to sleep and will play again another day.

© Fi S. J. Brown

The Sunshine

When the blood flows of innocents it has no colour, race, or religion,
Far away few hear their cries but at home it echoes throughout the land.
The sun is a spotlight to these hideous crimes with a ruby tainted glare,
Scarring those it touches with marks that will never be washed away.

Some sing songs of revenge with a bitterness as sharp as any sword,
As the hate boils inside them as it did those that struck the initial blow.
Never learning that violence is not an answer to this twisted circle,
For those that teach do not know the real question from spin and lies.

Dealers will always have the aces but never the joker in the pack,
Laughing and dancing to their old Machiavellian rhythm and beat.
Empathetic love would deafen them but few now know that path,
As follow distractions with false gods into darkness far from light.

On and on this tainted sun will shine on across this broken world,
Stranded in a desert wishing for but one drop of tearful rain to fall.
On and on this tainted sun will burn those that try for the moon,
In a dystopic reality that is far from a fantasy written by the stars.

© Fi S. J. Brown

The Oolong Poem

With every passing day
The spring sunshine
Is singing longer

On each blade of grass
A dozen bells ring
Awakening the sleeping

The voices of the birds
Are getting louder
Rejoicing winter is over

New lambs are born
Coming with hope
Everything will be okay

Along the twisted path
Passing mountains tall
Pink blossom confetti guides

Down in the village
Travellers are coming
But go as the wind changes

From my window sill
Flowers have returned
Friends old and new

With a pencil I write
Trusty tea at my side
Pondering life is beautiful

© Fi S. J. Brown
*Every time I drink oolong tea I feel relaxed and inspired to write poetry inspired by Southeast Asia.