Song of my senses

I see a road
that runs rings round an extinct volcano
and metallic beasts travelling fast
taking part in a race built for rats
trapped in a maze without borders
Others walk with their heads down
holding a spectre of a black mirror
and blowing kisses to the reflection
like Narcissus did long before them
sleep walking through their lives

I hear a voice
manipulated on a machine to sing
and not one that flies in the sky
all colour is reduced to white noise
and marketed like the Emperor’s clothes
Tweeting not for joy but on Boris and Hunt
their road leads to number ten in London
and tell lies but their noses never grow
choices yet seem unknown to the sheep
but the ripples will be felt for decades

I touch the stars
trying to catch the falling ones in my hands
like lost souls they need empathy not hate
troubled from traumas from a painful past
now only whispers that fear to speak aloud
As the moon sends others into a madness
too much worshipping the sun not her beauty
as false gods entrance into hypnotic obedience
with the truth lies within below the painted flesh
and wear masks to fit in boxes they do not belong

I taste the freedom
swallowing not the red that continues the lie
taking the blue awakens the brave new world
like the onion with many layers the lies go on
creating false tears as slice through to truths
Travelling a journey that never goes straight
looking back is best at with a passing glance
distractions to the left and right only entrap me
forwards one step at a time dancing to my beat
and singing songs in multicolour not white noise

© Fi S. J. Brown

The Ogre

There was an ogre that lived
As bald as a newborn baby
But had lived at two and ten years
When she first walked this Earth
Writing formed only death wishes
Laughter tasted of bottle green
Dancing to another’s beat
Crying muted lonely tears
Growing the seeds of doubt
Record needle stuck again and again
Set on fire with self inflicted wounds
Collecting certificates for study
Stuck in laboratories like a monkey
Or was it jail with no key
As the train grew closer and closer
Time froze
Truth from camera lens not glasses
Picasso’s painted woman glanced
As a rag doll developed digitally
Sewn with threads of friendly love
But this was still not the whole truth
And the ogre wanted the final word
Humiliation across a brave new word
From an image cast on a black mirror
A selfie
No laughter came
After over two and a half decades
The ogre had lost the final battle and war
Blinded by the dawn light
Deafened by the dawn chorus
Leaving behind a human being
That is me
Now almost 40
And she is still just me

© 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

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

A Surprise

Hey you, please stop for just five minutes of your time is all I need,
Gently sit yourself down on that chair of brown and olive green tweed.
Slowly closing your eyes on ten for your little journey is about to begin,
See that red door open it wide and step inside to explore therein.
What can you see, hear, feel, smell and touch but where are you?
Let every sense guide on this journey to a place you many once knew.

The green of the chair has dissolved into a forest where its life began,
A place to escape a world of grey to plastic women and lying madman.
To the left is an old oak tree with branches stretched in every direction,
He is the grandfather of this world and in charge of its protection.
In a hole around the centre sits an owl of white purer than any snow,
Singing songs and telling tales far older than any human would know.

Below your feet do not kick or pick the crowd of toadstools gathered,
They are gossips and liars so always leave their questions unanswered.
Wait what is that sound like fingers down the blackboard at school?
Oh it is a grey squirrel running down the oak’s bark acting the fool!
Follow in and out the trees until you can no longer see or hear him,
As a gentle breeze catches up with you and starts tickling every limb.

Walking on into the forest a clearing stands where a two rivers meet.
Take off your socks and shoes to let their waters calm your tired feet.
The sun starts to set with a sound like a church bell tolling for mass,
Day is now almost over and before nightfall you must whistle with grass.
It brings up the red door once more to return home away from here,
Close the door as you enter and open your eyes but never forget there.

© Fi S. J. Brown

 

Written for World Poetry Day and International Day of Forests.

Prisoner F

Sticks and stones they threw in words and laughter bruising my skin,
Painting all in shades of purple, blue and red that nobody could see.
Hurting feet with a blade to answer why as rivers fell from my eyes,
Feeling trapped like prisoner all in green on life sentence at row M.

Outcast as nobody dare make friendship with the one with my name,
Only a fool would try but soon learnt to toe the unwritten party line.
Writing SOS notes in Latin hoping someone would hear my cries,
But would never take a final bow as wouldn’t give that final pleasure.

As stage was set for the final act I was pushed out and shown my place,
Forever on the sidelines not upfront with those I journeyed long with.
About to be released into the world with freedom as served my time,
For a bespoke crime that had been created for me by my fellow inmates.

They say that time can heal the pain but can never heal my scars,
Forgiving and forgetting actions now memories only takes me so far.
But I have no place for hateful thoughts or plotting my revenge,
They are but footnotes in a journey that they’ll know or understand.

© Fi S. J. Brown

Music of the stars

Insomnia called my name so loudly no part of me would sleep,
Opened my window in hope the pre-dawn air would defeat him.
My eyes looked out at the view I painted afresh every morning,
But something was different this time as no birds were singing.
I scanned up, left to right as though looking in a word search,
In that moment the stage curtain went up to begin the show.
Then the first few began to appear like in Cats the musical,
Crawling out in song throughout the different parts of the sky.
 
Ursa Major led the way front of stage with her distinct patterns,
Like the lead actress that everyone would know the name of.
She was joined by a chorus of other constellations in singing,
As I watched and listened to the musical of the morning sky.
Gemini and Leo sang a duet of friendships and partnerships,
Which reminded me of close friends that bare those signs.
No cameras recorded it but all the atoms of my body danced,
I felt privileged l was watching a secret screening of this show.
 
Slowly one by one their songs were done and sky went dim,
And a cold breeze touched me all over like the fat lady’s finale.
I took my old blanket from my bed to wrap myself up for sleep,
Shutting my window to a view now forever covered in glitter.
Lying down I felt like the mire from the week now drift away,
Freeing from the pains and worries that had made me cry.
I shut my eyes afresh knowing I had survived another week,
A fresh chapter had begun but must sleep for the next page.
 
© Fi S. J. Brown

Being Bald

It all started with these patches,
And brown strands on my pillow.
Tears fell like a blues harmonica,
And my words became lost at sea.
At that moment a freak was born,
Not yet thirteen and I was bald.

At school I wore a wig with a band,
And felt their eyes burning in green.
Depression suffocated me inside,
And yet outside no blood would fall.
Scarred forever when the wind blew,
And they laughed at me being bald.

By university it had gone all over,
And no funeral pyre or wake held.
So I grew to loathe how I looked,
And felt I had no human worth.
For who would love such a freak,
And just like an ogre I was bald.

Years passed until therapy begun,
And joined the dots with words.
Taking photographs was some fun,
And then I took that first selfie.
Forced to see my reflection a new,
And saw a woman, scared and bald.

That began the journey to find me,
And remove the ogre forevermore.
Realising the lab was far from me,
And wondering just where did I fit.
As I heard that bird sing in a tree,
And wished to be as free not bald.

Switching test tubes for Biro pens,
And microscope for camera lenses.
I discovered the woman I am within,
And found a rag doll not an ogre be.
Now I accept with kindness and love,
And being bald is just part of being me.

© Fi S. J. Brown

6 am

Waking up with the sound of sunshine tapping on my window,
Nearly blinded by his beam of amber rays hitting dozing eyes.
Heart matching the beat in 4/4 time and setting toes tapping,
But this is no Morse code message but the daily dawn chorus.

Through the light comes the sound of birds singing songs,
Hiding among the green of lime to apple and oak to beeches.
The wind plays each branch of a tree like cello’s string,
Turning the sky above to blue as paints with its sounds.

Now blocking out the buses and cars making their own musical,
Human kings and queens rushing around their concrete jungle.
As the colourful sights and sounds fade away to their grey,
And try to cling on to that final note of nature’s dawn song.

But another day has begun with twenty four hours now ticking,
A page lies unwritten except for fate and destiny’s whispers.
Learning today’s lesson and laying foundations for tomorrow,
And leave all that hurt from yesterday in the past now gone.

© Fi S. J. Brown

What you don’t see

This week is Depression Awarenesses Week, which this year is focusing on #whatyoudontsee. As open as I am with acknowledging I have depression on social media it is not as look at me but more a listen to me not judge or mute me.
By writing about my experiences it helps give them a voice of their own that can be heard by others and thereby lose the power they try have over me. Another reason is the stigma many of us with depression (and other mental health illnesses) still suffer from and it is about time that this taboo was shattered for good. A final reason is not everyone has a voice or able to talk about depression, so I am trying to open doors in order that people feel welcomed not judge or mocked.
To anyone reading this that thinks that depression is abnormal, consider this; if I asked everyone of my friends to make a cake I would have a variety of cakes with no two being exactly the same, each one is representative of the individual that made the cake but none of them would be abnormal. In the same respect we are all shaped by our experiences, traditions and beliefs. Imagine wearing our neighbour’s underwear every day as we both live in the same neighbourhood or feeling the odd one out at family gatherings despite sharing genes. Equally, we may share the same experiences but how they impact upon us varies, and sometimes we cannot “just get over it” as the trauma is still deep even decades after the event(s) may have occurred.
When the black dog calls, it is like a dog barking constantly at me from the garden until I give in and let him in. Then he licks my face all over till it is wet, but in reality these are my tears. In the past I would sit in silence for days as not even my favourite music that got me through my teenage years would bring me comfort. However, now I get out my pen to write or put on my walking boots armed with my camera to go for a walk, sometimes take a piece of clay to make my feelings 3D, other times I go to one of the many musical instruments I play to let them become a song and also cooking or baking as help me focus on the present moment, especially making bread by hand. So for me finding coping mechanisms like these as well as loyal, loving and trusting friends is what helps so I do not give up and remembering there are stars shining and ringing even when it looks pitch black outside.
© Fi S. J. Brown