When I was a child
I loved
the sound of rain & wind
on glass
as I curled up warm
under bedclothes.
In front of this fire,
I haven’t grown up
Category: poetry
2 Poems by Charles Bukowski read by Paul O’Mahony
My Father
https://audioboom.com/boos/3945701-my-father-poem-by-charles-bukowski-read-by-paul-o-mahony
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My Friend the Parking Lot Attendant
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I stand against the crowd
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[You can also hear an audio version of this poem here]
I stand
against the crowd
I stand out from the crowd
I am an individual
odd
different
singular
misfit
awkward in my comfort
edgy in my skin
alive in my own little way
I live my say
I give the best shot I can
every day.
I stand against the crowd
of wasters who fritter
their life away their way.
I waste my life my way
I fritter my days into
the oblivion I fashion
every step I say.
because I am who am
me
condemned to be myself
I stand out from the crowd
comfortable in my discomforting way
that comes from every pore
every sore
every score of my expressions.
It’s my art
the heart of my song
the liver that cleans my spleen
seen in all my glory every time
I stand against the crowd
Each and every difference
friction
grating
unconforming
uncomplying
understandable me.
See that fella
hovering on the edge
the one who isn’t fitting in
the one with the shifty eyes
the glint of his own
You can smell
he’s an outsider
a weirdo
an awkward one
an individual
heart
a body of imagining
power
wealth
stealth
scheming to survive
the crowd
the collective view
the “what we all think”
thinkers.
I stand against the crowd
I stand out from the crowd
away from the crowd
proud of my own way
fiddling the melody
composed of notes
I’ve assembled from the crowd
playing the game I’ve invented
the rules I’ve annunciated
predicated on the shoulders
of giants who have fallen
in battle
against the crowd
castigated on shoulders
of heroes that have died
for the cause of being
themselves.
I reject the way of the crowd
every time my heart pumps
blood from the flat of my soul
to the peak of my imagination.
Consternation
I will cause
conflagration to
instigation of the self
opinionated
author of my fate
creator of my faith
born to be wild
not filed away in a box
I defy
I stand against the crowd
that would
categorise me
classify me
entomb me in place
where they could ignore me
where they could make me safe
from causing a splash
from making a difference
from changing
the course of history
the dreams of others
the Universe.
For such a cause
I stand against the crowd
I stand out from the crowd
to welcome you
fellow traveller
fellow awkward person
follower battler
for your way.
For your way is my way too
your way is yours
my way is mine
our way stands out from the crowd
We stand against the crowd.
We stand up for ourselves
We stand who stand.
Against the crowd
Unto death.
_________________________
Notes:
The Rebel Creatives Manifesto
“We are #RebelCreatives
#RebelCreatives are those who rises in opposition or resistance against an established force or opinions. People who voice their opinions, want to make a change and promote social good.
Everyone is a creative. You share your creativty everyday through the way you walk, talk, interact, share and care.
The #RebelCreatives project will officially launch with epic 30 back-to-back broadcasts on Periscope. Each broadcaster will get 15 or 30mins to share their creativity about a certain topic.
The broadcasters will share their passion, knowledge and understanding of a particular issue through your creativity. “
______________
- The first draft of this poem was first composed in Cork City in 2013 or 2014 – it was inspired by AJ Leon, Melissa Leon & their Misfit cause.
- Related poem is here
Strangle Bukowski – poem by Paul O’Mahony
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Will someone please strangle Bukowski
A disgraceful man
not worthy of the name Charles
He farts his syllables
belches his words
vomits his phrases
– his sentences smell
like festering fish
As for his verse
it’s worse.
When did Mewkowski last rhyme?
When did he not spew out his truth
as if it was personal?
If caustic Charlie didn’t drink sour milk
sucked from his Mother Nature
the inhuman race
would have no warlike bastards
inciting us all to spill blood
from eructive orifices.
Pastiching
the barely sane Bukowski
keeps my bad breath moving mindfully
in and out
in and out
through gaps between teeth
filled originally by a dumb dentist
married to his drill
addicted to screwing
holes he amalgamed.
Father, father
who will rid me of this
treacherous gurgitator
sent from that inner being
Steve Jobs
tried to connect with
on his ashram
in smelly feet.
See,
pastiche is the sincerest form of flattery
Will someone please strangle Bukowski?
Poetry is good for something?
disclaimer
I’m a poet.
I buy poetry books.
read poems (out loud).
run a daily poetry show
live streamed on Periscope
(The Walt Whitman Show).
And
“Does poetry still matter?“
(CNN)Quick: Name a famous living poet.
Somebody. Anybody. No, not Maya Angelou. She died last year.
Unless you’re a literary scholar or a subscriber to The New Yorker, it’s not easy. That’s because poetry, once a preeminent form of entertainment, has long since receded to the far, dusty corners of popular culture…
And
In 2003, Newsweek cried
Poetry Is Dead. Does Anybody Really Care?
“… Ultimately, though, there’s no one to blame. Poetry is designed for an era when people valued the written word and had the time and inclination to possess it in its highest form…”
I care
so
in December 2015, I did ethnomethodological research among an international, cross-cultural, mixed-gender, inter-generational group
https://katch.me/embed/v/f91e97bd-6af2-3d5d-8138-96fbec40d5cc?sync=1
Voices of the dead
human connection, honesty
I like to write poetry that speaks encouragement over others.
introspection
it’s like sunshine and rain.
for the poet or for the reader?
I like poetry… straightforward easy storytelling
expression of internal world
same effect as music, when it’s done well
I write poetry for my own peace of mind and self expression
reveals human connection
our connections through our secrets, fears
indescribable, sometimes, but you know it’s good…
‘Step of the body toward the sea falls the land to break’
poetry is an acquired taste?
it’s nice when you can relate to it in your own life
connection to another person’s internal world
for me it’s just for enjoyment.
I don’t analyse too much
I just let it happen
and
take what’s there in the moment
‘Poetry distills life like fermentation distills spirits’
‘Poetry wakes things within that are hidden under the surface’
Music and poetry are the same
unless the poem is a song
then it hits me inside
‘Poetry is an excuse to use forgotten words’
like a forever blossoming of the soul
ever opening and revealing
wrapping words around
emotions, perceptions, and the heart song
‘If a picture paints a thousand words, a poem can contain the world.’
transport you to another place
open your mind to new thoughts
sometimes
poetry is my weapon
a way to express feelings
a map for left brain engineering
in the language of logic,
poetry is a super structure
Forgotten words
for the dam
generates the power within
‘If pictures can paint a thousand words,
my poetry attempts are stick men’
(To be continued)
Walt Whitman “Pioneers! O Pioneers!
First, a recording of a fine actor, Will Geer, reading “Pioneers! O Pioneers!
Second, a recording of this poem being live streamed.
The Walt Whitman Show on Periscope
(saved via Katch)
https://katch.me/embed/v/d7bce79c-57b7-328d-a2cd-40526034fc9d?sync=1
_____________________
Pioneers! O Pioneers!
COME, my tan-faced children,
Follow well in order, get your weapons ready;
Have you your pistols? have you your sharp edged axes?
Pioneers! O pioneers!
For we cannot tarry here,
We must march my darlings, we must bear the brunt of danger,
We, the youthful sinewy races, all the rest on us depend,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
O you youths, western youths,
So impatient, full of action, full of manly pride and friendship, 10
Plain I see you, western youths, see you tramping with the foremost,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
Have the elder races halted?
Do they droop and end their lesson, wearied, over there beyond the
seas?
We take up the task eternal, and the burden, and the lesson,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
All the past we leave behind;
We debouch upon a newer, mightier world, varied world,
Fresh and strong the world we seize, world of labor and the march,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
We detachments steady throwing,
Down the edges, through the passes, up the mountains steep,
Conquering, holding, daring, venturing, as we go, the unknown ways,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
We primeval forests felling,
We the rivers stemming, vexing we, and piercing deep the mines
within;
We the surface broad surveying, we the virgin soil upheaving,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
Colorado men are we,
From the peaks gigantic, from the great sierras and the high
plateaus,
From the mine and from the gully, from the hunting trail we come,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
From Nebraska, from Arkansas,
Central inland race are we, from Missouri, with the continental blood
intervein’d;
All the hands of comrades clasping, all the Southern, all the
Northern,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
O resistless, restless race!
O beloved race in all! O my breast aches with tender love for all!
O I mourn and yet exult–I am rapt with love for all,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
Raise the mighty mother mistress,
Waving high the delicate mistress, over all the starry mistress,
(bend your heads all,)
Raise the fang’d and warlike mistress, stern, impassive, weapon’d
mistress,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
See, my children, resolute children,
By those swarms upon our rear, we must never yield or falter,
Ages back in ghostly millions, frowning there behind us urging,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
On and on, the compact ranks,
With accessions ever waiting, with the places of the dead quickly
fill’d,
Through the battle, through defeat, moving yet and never stopping,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
O to die advancing on!
Are there some of us to droop and die? has the hour come?
Then upon the march we fittest die, soon and sure the gap is fill’d,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
All the pulses of the world,
Falling in, they beat for us, with the western movement beat;
Holding single or together, steady moving, to the front, all for us,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
Life’s involv’d and varied pageants,
All the forms and shows, all the workmen at their work,
All the seamen and the landsmen, all the masters with their slaves,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
All the hapless silent lovers,
All the prisoners in the prisons, all the righteous and the wicked,
All the joyous, all the sorrowing, all the living, all the dying,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
I too with my soul and body,
We, a curious trio, picking, wandering on our way,
Through these shores, amid the shadows, with the apparitions
pressing,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
Lo! the darting bowling orb!
Lo! the brother orbs around! all the clustering suns and planets,
All the dazzling days, all the mystic nights with dreams,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
These are of us, they are with us,
All for primal needed work, while the followers there in embryo wait
behind,
We to-day’s procession heading, we the route for travel clearing,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
O you daughters of the west!
O you young and elder daughters! O you mothers and you wives!
Never must you be divided, in our ranks you move united,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
Minstrels latent on the prairies!
(Shrouded bards of other lands! you may sleep–you have done your
work;)
Soon I hear you coming warbling, soon you rise and tramp amid us,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
Not for delectations sweet;
Not the cushion and the slipper, not the peaceful and the
studious;
Not the riches safe and palling, not for us the tame enjoyment,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
Do the feasters gluttonous feast?
Do the corpulent sleepers sleep? have they lock’d and bolted doors?
Still be ours the diet hard, and the blanket on the ground,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
Has the night descended?
Was the road of late so toilsome? did we stop discouraged, nodding on
our way?
Yet a passing hour I yield you, in your tracks to pause oblivious,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
Till with sound of trumpet,
Far, far off the day-break call–hark! how loud and clear I hear it
wind;
Swift! to the head of the army!–swift! spring to your places, Pioneers! O pioneers.
__________________
Notes:
- I found the video on You Tube with the following information attached:
“Uploaded to You Tube on 11 Nov 2009
Vocals By Will Geer
“This is the full version of the poem that was used in the Levi “Go Forth” commercial. I added the backing music to spice it up a bit (thanks Garage Band) You can find the vocal portion of this (and other Whitman poems) on iTunes. I do not own the vocals – however to take it down for copyright violation would be to down a little piece of America… Whitman….America…think about it”
2. The Walt Whitman Show is live streamed on Periscope. I use the January 1892 “Death Bed Edition” of Leaves of Grass. Walt died on 26 March 1892
“What a writer” – poem by Charles Bukowski
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what i liked about e.e. cummings
was that he cut away from
the holiness of the
word
and with charm
and gamble
gave us lines
that sliced through the
dung.
how it was needed!
how we were withering
away
in the old
tired
manner.
of course, then came all
the e.e. cummings
copyists.
they copied him then
as the others had
copied Keats, Shelly,
Swinburne, Byron, et
al.
but there was only
one
e.e. cummings.
of course.
one sun.
one moon.
ThoughtForToday – 1 November
There isn’t enough short- term thinking
like :
why should I improve my world – today?
like:
how can I make a better world in the next hour?
like:
what do I do now to make a difference?
Think short-term.
“Thanks-Giving Day” – poem by Paul O’Mahony
sometimes our thank you is said so casually
or quickly that it is nearly meaningless.
(Martin Seligman)
______________
I was never thankful
to my father
or my mother
I wasn’t even thankful
to the Universe
for what I had.
the house, clothes, water, food, shoes, shirts, bath,
garden, roses, grass, apples, hens, cabbage, loganberries,
hedgehog, lizard, bushes, even the bees
tortoise, trees, dogs, cats, fire, pocket-money, prayers,
holy water, statues, carpets, paintings, music, jelly, eggcups,
fireplaces,books, radiogram, even the plums
school, transport, brothers, sisters, God, cod-liver oil, mass,
chickens, eggs, lamb, salmon, ox-tongue, bread and butter pudding,
golf clubs, cut glass, even the gooseberries
ice cream, pancakes, rice pudding, red currants, peaches, pears,
record player, transistor radio, Luxembourg, milk, football, rashers,
cards, chess, rugby, even the blackberries
dobbers, conkers, tiddlywinks, compendium of games, holidays,
stories, photographs, confession, friends, short trousers, novenas,
nuns, thermometers, even the wagtails
pillows, pencils, bicycles, blazers, socks, sweets, pepper, porridge,
underpants, sandals, gospels, rules, knives, teaspoons, commandments,
gongs, conversations, birthdays, even the earthworms
If you asked me then whether I was grateful
I’d have said ‘yes’
If you ask me now whether I was thankful
I shall stay silent.
If you’re curious to know whether I am thankful today
I am more full of thanks than ever
– for all that and more.
The Walt Whitman Show (25 November)
“I used to love hating poetry” – poem by Lars Blichfeldt
I made the poem ‘one day’ after a period of not being able to write anything I thought was good enough.
No matter what, it ended up with me being frustrated or disappointed.
It left me with two choices.
I could give up trying to write because I wasn’t the new Whitman – just an average guy that actually needed to practice and make mistakes to learn and improve.
To actually believe that two months of writing would place me anywhere near what others have taken years to master is ridiculous…. I know.
Nevertheless, it was exactly what I hoped for. Being good at something without doing any kind of effort to achieve it.
But maybe it’s a good thing. Maybe that’s what stops us from giving up before we even begin.
My second choice was to face the facts and just carry on practicing. To keep writing no matter how lousy the outcome would be.
I choose the last.
Now give me 10 years and I will write you a masterpiece. In the meantime, here’s a hell of a try😉
Thank you for taking your time to read this.
_______________
I used to love hating poetry.
Written by those who failed
living the expected life themselves.
Now wrapping-up words
in riddles and fancy glitter.
To attain the unattainable.
Narcissistic socialists
breathing the universe
while reminding the masses
to be satisfied just looking at the sun.
I did.
I looked at the sun.
Astonishing…
Perhaps I was wrong.
Perhaps I was the failure.
I started writing.
It felt refreshing.
Pats on the back,
Polite comments and praises.
I was seduced,
intoxicated by appreciation.
Soon I would be the lump of coal
transforming into a diamond
The winning ticket
The one in a million.
Flawless.
Unique.
Without practice.
Without effort.
A unicum.
This “new” me..
A thinker..
A writer..
A word wrapper..
A poet..
What I loved to hate,
I now hated to love.
Thinking like a child,
naive like a child,
I believed the sun turned around me.
One day I might grow up.
One day I might loose this spirit.
Hopefully it won’t be soon.
________________________
Note:
A big thank you to Lars Blichfeldt
ThoughtForToday. – 21 November
The most attractive story
you can tell
about yourself
is
how
you went from
corrupting to trustworthy
rags to riches
carnal to holy
alpha to omega
– thanks to a force outside your control
The Walt Whitman Show
The Walt Whitman Show is live streamed on Periscope.
The show is a gathering of people who
- want to hear Whitman’s poetry read to them
- love the good company of other people who like poetry & chat
- are curious to find out what’s going on
- like the sound of my accent
- are motivated by some other reason
“Sick” – poem by Paul O’Mahony
“I am sick”
the old man said
fingers interlocked
behind a hairy neck
as he rocked in a kitchen stool.
Arrogant son of a bitch
nowadays referred to more kindly
as “self reverential omnipotent”.
Paul loved his style
even more than the secondhand suit
he had from Armani.
His journeys to charity shops
were retail adventures
in the stories he expounded to strangers
on anthropological field trips
to pubs
in search of the community
where he’d be appreciated.
Because he was sick to himself
he made a difference
to the universe.
Personal pride in his sickness
his tombstone he designed.
It would say
“Here lies one sick man
– look up to him“.
ThoughtForToday – 18 November
As Oscar Wilde wrote
“for all men kill the thing they love”
But
what about the women?
“For all women love the thing they kill”?
Venus & Mars eh
Chalk and Cheese
_______________________
Note:
The Oscar Wilde quote comes from “The Ballad of Reading Gaol”
[of course you knew that already – but not everyone is as well versed as you]
ThoughtForToday – 17 November
Imagine
you’re an explorer
– bold organised adventurer
–
you go where no one’s been before
– sharing your findings generously
– where are you going today?
Would you go
with the mentality of a traveller
seeking your trail ?
Trail- blazer
ThoughtForToday – 17 November
Blue
– dichotomy.
One minute it’s sucking us up
into the sky of imagination.
Another minute it’s pushing us down
into the septic trough.
Blue is the human colour
– torn in contrasting directions
“They are dead” – Poem by Paul O’Mahony
[If you can’t see the player below, click here]
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They are dead
my verse is blank
my spirit violated
my heart hurt
my mind
struggling
confused
torn.
What can my verse do?
What can my fingers do?
What can my flesh do?
What can the atoms and molecules of my shape do?
_________
A lot …
a huge amount:
I can stand
in solidarity
I can hold out my hand
in love
I can be compassion.
There is a lot I can do
I am not helpless
in the face of massacre
I am not helpless.
___________
Alongside the dead,
the dying
the injured
the frightened
I am not powerless
I can love
I can be kindly to others
I can be generous
I can be compassionate
___________
Though my verse is blank
and
has no rhyme
though the rhythm be uneven
though the metre be hard to find
I am strong enough
I have the courage to be human
to be mixed-up
to have mixed feelings
to be at sixes and sevens
to be lost.
I have the power to find myself
I’ve done it before.
There have been other massacres
There have been other assassinations
My heart has been injured
my feelings hurt
I have been attacked
I have been close to death.
I have strength enough to be human with the people of Paris, the people of France the people of Europe, the people of the whole world
I have that strength
I have the strength to remember I am a human.
I may not have died in Paris
but my humanity has been disturbed
into life
Enough
Enough
Enough
Rest in peace.
____________________________
Note:
This poem was first composed on the audio you can listen to above.
The photograph is of “Peace for Paris”, an illustration by the French graphic designer Jean Jullien
ThoughtForToday – 14 November
Je suis Paris
today there is nothing to do
but
stand in solidarity
with the people of Paris France
and
wish for peace
remembering
#wearehumans
#jesuischarlie
#JeSuisParis
“Islander” – poem by Paul O’Mahony
Chapter 1
He could have been on Sherkin, Inishbofin, Skelligs or even Rathlin…
He was an outlaw, cast away from the land,
away from his people.
His face didn’t fit,
his family were not from the right side of town.
There was no time for him, he could rot there.
Eventually his spirit would break,
he would comply, he would conform,
he would be broken
– or so they thought…
________________
It would teach them,
it would show them not to meddle with our family,
not to get above themselves.
Yea, 27 winters on Sherkin
27 springs on the Skelligs
27 summers on Rathlin
27 years of nightmares on any island you fancy.
It was good to keep him there, disappeared.
Our family had need of safety,
his family were dangerous,
thugs, revolutionaries, communists, rapists.
oh yea, uncouth, uncivilised, Untermenschen.
______________
Chapter 2
Our family is special,
we have survived our own wars.
We’re used to feeling superior
our family before all families
our tribe before all tribes
our village – the white man’s burden
Everyman is an island
We have not balked at blood sacrifice
We have buried our enemies in unmarked graves
– even displayed corpses to teach families how to behave themselves
We survived war against an Empire of superior force – that gave us backbone.
That gave us good enough reason to turn the tables on families of inferior beings.
Oh yes, our family is special – forever.
______________
Chapter 3
You will not leave that island
You will languish in your dreams
You will scratch your balls
You will scrape the fleas in your hair
You will freeze your bollocks off.
We will control you.
When we let you out – it will be to die.
Our family is ordained to carry the burden of ruling this land.
Yes, your family is bigger than our family
Your family’s so big it’s disgusting.
Your people are everywhere – but your people are worthless
– we’ve made sure of that.
________________
The sea the sea the sea
the waves the wind, the ocean, the cold
the fish the seaweed the waves the wind the cold the ocean
the seaweed the waves the wind the cold the ocean the seaweed
____________________
Eat your heart out Islandman – we have you.
Oh yes, we’ve had you now for 27 years.
How did you pull through?
_____________
Chapter 4
Are you coming off that island?
Are you coming to take our land from us?
Are coming to obliterate us, are you coming to wipe us out?
are you coming to leave a bloodbath?
are you going to come off the island
like an avenging angel – the Assyrian descending on the fold?
are you going to be the Inquisition?
are you going to be ethnically cleansing us?
are you going to force our children to leave?
are you gonna split up all that we’ve created among so many people and leave everybody with hardly anything?
Who are you?
who are you after?
who are you after festering anger resentment?
you must be a walking bomb
you must be a walking terrorist
you must be a killer of all of our dreams.
I see you now, we see you now, step ashore
______________
Chapter 5
I must say you look rather good after 27 years.
If I’d been there for 27 years I probably wouldn’t have stood up as well as you look
maybe your family has got some kind of metal in your DNA?
maybe you’re just bloody tough?
who are you Islander?
who are you warrior?
what’s in your mind?
what’s in that heart?
Why should we trust you?
the only thing we can trust is our own fear.
yes, we’re outnumbered
yes, your family is bitter.
What are those words forming in your mouth?
what’s that look in your eye?
what’s that breath from your nostril?
You’re walking towards us,
are you coming to wipe us out?
now your time has come
now every other bastard has abandoned our family
left us alone
left us isolated
left us rejected
Yea, we were at the forefront of fighting for what we believed in,
for what we thought others believed in.
yes we were the top dogs once,
Now,
yea we’re lepers
my family is spat on
my family is rejected
no one from my family can get married into any other family.
And you will inherit the earth.
I expect you’ll get revenge now
you’re coming
you’re coming across
you’re coming ashore, you’re coming inland.
What’s that you hold in your hand?
what are you doing with your hands?
towards whom are you
outstretching?
You don’t mean to offer me a hand
you cannot mean to stretch out a hand.
It’s a trick.
You want to persuade me you are a friend
come from 27 years of incarceration
on that …
on Sherkin, on Boffin, on Skelligs
You want me to believe that that’s a genuine hand?
as soon as you grip my hand you’ll pull me under
you’ll squash me to death.
I know,
that’s what I’d do if I was in your position.
You want my hand.
your hand is warm
your eye is warm
you are forming words
you are looking over my shoulder
beyond where I stand
you are looking beyond my family
You have brought a flag with you
a towel, a canopy, a rug,
something that will go over everybody.
You expect me to join you
you expect me to work with you
you expect me not to run and hide
you expect me to accept you
you expect me to be your partner
And you will not take everything from me?
you will leave me with my money intact?
you will leave me with my capital acquired?
you will leave me with some shred of self-respect?
God it feels like you’re offering me a route to Salvation
Where the hell have you come from?
where the hell did you become like this?
You stretch out a hand of friendship
a hand of warmth, a hand of the future
to my family.
You restrain your family from eating me alive
you restrain others from decimation
you prefer us to be together than all go down.
You are serious?
Islandman,
what kind of a resurrection is this?
what stones have you rolled back?
what cave have you come from?
what sort of Heaven on earth are you trying to create?
When you were on that island, and I was on the mainland,
you were a small guy.
you were locked up in a place where I didn’t have to see your eyes
where I didn’t have to feel your hand.
but now I cannot avoid you
I cannot ignore you
I cannot step away from you.
That island: Sherkin, Inishbofin, the Skelligs, Aran Islands, the Saltees, Lambay, Rathlin…
– they’re all our islands.
we’ve always used islands to lock inferior beings away out of sight.
now those islands have turned everything inside out,
have turned everything on its head.
I don’t know what to say
I don’t know where to look
I’ve embarrassed by your strength, by your courage
by your power
and you know what the worst thing is?
you’re so bloody humble
you are so bloody humble
you offer warmth, friendship
you offer togetherness
you offer hope
you offer a future
My children – they don’t have to die
my children – they don’t have to run
our children can play together.
Where have you come from?
What happened to you
on that island?
Is there any chance I can do 27 years on that same island?
_________________________
Chapter 6
The Unknown Unknown…
We are all the creators
all families creators
all individuals creators
Any chance we can all do 27 years on the island?
The end of the beginning.
_______________________
Note:
Written in honour of my hero Nelson Mandela (18 July 1918 – 5 December 2013)
