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.

 

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

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

View from my window

Listening to the sound of my neighbour cutting his grass, it is like a metallic bee hovering over flowers, which duck in fright that it may sting them not share their pollen with the others. The air is filled with the grass’ scent, an air freshener that joins the clouds floating on by, together they sing a strange duet that few seldom stop to hear. The blue skies overhead watch over the land like gods and goddesses from mythology, joined together hand in hand and led by the Jupiter of the ocean in the sky. Finally a beacon comes out to give the touch of hope to all that not only see her but let her gentle touch in reassurance to those that need it.

© Fi S. J. Brown

Let’s go for a walk

Let’s go for a walk this sunny Sunday afternoon down my street,
Look at the world through my eyes just for these next few hours.
Listening to the conversations that go on behind the closed doors,
Or reading the newspapers with a pot of tea and rich tea biscuits.

Cars arriving back and forth to visit family creating lifetime memories,
But remembering those that are alone and love even a phone call.
Birds flying south as know the festival season is all but over again,
And not because soon the trees will be reds, oranges and yellow.

There are the those that suffer from ill health (physical and mental),
Wishing that people saw them the person and not their diagnosis.
Looking out of their windows not to spy upon their neighbourhood,
But wishing they could be outside enjoying it not stuck inside.

Others head to worship their god not in a cathedral but in a mall,
Buying yet another pair of jeans identical to their other twelve.
Do they stop to think just who made the clothes that they buy,
Or the welfare and life of the animal now their Sunday dinner?

A few take time to reflect over their week now over forever more,
Learning from the days past and planning for a future to come.
Where as some prefer the company of the black box in the corner,
Watching anything from the Grand Prix to Celebrity Big Brother.

Each one on my street spends their Sundays in their own way,
An unique artwork of many colours, sights, sounds, and smells.
Perhaps one day you will walk down the street to enjoy it too,
For now look out your window to your street view with fresh eyes.

© Fi S. J. Brown