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

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Jack Frost – The Phoenix of Ice

It was mid-December when the snow began
To the beat of Jack Frost’s clapping hands
Making all that saw it dance like his puppets
For he is the master of the winter white ball
Manically he laughed creating many shivers
The annual uninvited guest had returned

That malevolent jester that is seldom seen
Same bad old jokes but new tunes to learn
So again he clapped his hands again to snow
Changing the tempo from waltz to foxtrot
Filling his cold and empty heart with delight
Not even the sunshine could melt this one

Stomping his feet that made rippling cracks
As all slipped and slid trying not to fall down
Leaving a strange sweet taste sweet in the air
Hypnotising some to actually enjoy his games
Where is freedom from his prison with no key
Even the trees had turned into his white guards

The answer lay in shaking salt on the streets
Burning his dancing feet and made him scream
The tremors could be felt throughout the world
All he tried transformed into puddles of water
He had lost but vowed to return stronger and wiser
And like a phoenix of ice he shattered into pieces

© Fi S. J. Brown

Springtime

Listening to the sound of snowdrops ringing brightly,
Waking all across the land from their winter’s sleep.
With the croci’s stamen vibrating like a bass’ strings,
Vibrating throughout Britain’s gardens and fields.
A melody sung in harmony by newborn baby lambs,
Backed by the reliable evergreen ash, pine and holly.

This sets off daffodils dancing in the springtime breeze,
Blowing their trumpets as only ones so narcissistic can.
Trying to drown out the sounds of their rival bluebells,
Who have long dominated the woodlands and forests.
The tulips try to act as independent and impartial judges,
And let their red be a reminder of love not hate to all.

Then there are cherry blossoms dressed in pink and white,
Singing a duet that begins the next act to the spring opera.
Each white petal glides like a majestic swan as it falls,
And the pink as though thrown as confetti at a wedding.
A bittersweet relationship that is doomed to always fail,
As into the gutters they land to be swept away forever.

Let us not forget the biggest diva on Planet Earth is left,
For humanity is the fat lady that must sing the final aria.
Thinking their modern songs with autotune are far greater,
And their cover versions far better than all nature can do.
Finally before the curtain finally falls the days get lighter,
As colour fills Earth as a symphony of sound and visual.

© 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

Spring Song

Spring’s song begins today in the northern hemisphere with snowdrops ringing to wake all sleeping from their winter’s sleep. The croci playing bass, giving a rhythmic and harmonic foundation to the world. With the melody sung by the newborn wildlife throughout the land, reverberating through hills and valleys, and the trees and bushes their backing singers resplendent in their new season green clothes.
 
Every year this song can be heard but how few of us stop to see, hear and feel it? Mother Nature displaced as the leading lady, as we humans do our cover version. We insult her further by autotuning our voices as cannot sing in her unique style, colour or pitch. With footprints stamping across the world like a booming hip hop beat. Forming chorus lines full of grey, filled with drills and bombs tainted with fear, jealousy and hate.
 
© 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

Room 101

You asked me once, what was in Room 101. I told you that you knew the answer already. Everyone knows it. The thing that is in Room 101 is the worst thing in the world” – with these words come from author George Orwell in his famous dystopic novel 1984, which I highly recommend any reader who has never read it to do so, or re-read it as always find something new when I do.

Earlier today I watched Northern Ballet’s production of it on BBC 4, which was excellent. I remembered listening to Nick Hancock on BBC Radio 5 show, which has subsequently become a highly successful TV series, called Room 101. The radio show had the guest to nominate their “least favourite people, places and pop songs” in order to have them consigned to Room 101, and it was up to Nick to decide if they should or should not go in. I decided to follow this model but extend to my least favourite people, place, objects and music.

For my least favourite people it was very clear to me who I would put in – those that hurt others (particularly with no remorse or guilt) be they human, scales, fur or feather. I cannot understand or tolerate abuse be it sexual, physical, mental or emotional of another, there is enough darkness in the world, why add to it? I maybe highly empathetic, but cannot understand how someone finds joy in it.

For my least favourite place initially I was uncertain but then it came to me – Los Angeles. Now I do not mean any offence to anyone from or lives there, but to me it seems so fake and artificial based on false promises and dreams, full of lost souls, where few ever get the gold ticket without insider genetics or contacts, and contracts that would make even old Lucifer raise a smile for a decade or more.

For my least favourite object it becomes tricky as between several. My initial one was escalators, as I fell top to bottom on one as a small child when the lady in front stopped in the middle top to talk to her friend with nowhere for me to go but down! However, I also considered unnecessary chemicals used on our bodies in creams to deodorants or in our foods, particularly as additives or preservatives.

Finally, for my least favourite music. As someone who openly admits to being something of a musicnut and open minded to hearing old or new songs across all the genres I find this hard but easy. I would not single out a particular genre as there are exceptions to rules in all things in life, including music. Instead I would pick unnecessary booming beats or autotuning a piece so much it loses colour and life.

What about you dear reader, do you agree with me? What person or people, place(s), object and music should be in Room 101? As we all to often think about what we like but do not always consider the power of what we dislike and what it says about us as people. Hate is a strong emotion that we throw about without considering its powers, as along with love every other emotion seems to stem from it.

© 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