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People -
so many bodies…

Some seem to engage
for but a moment, of course,
before bustling past on hot sidewalks,
with varied smidgens of mind and heart;
collections of vibrating chemistry,
moving to specific oscillations.

How to make sense of it all?
We can be drawn to warm embers,
avoid icy slaps on our cheeks reddening.
Grey shapes pass us by, hardly registering a blip -
are they nothing more than the flotsam of flailing limbs
echoing our own caustic needs and wants pending?

Yet we all want much the same things in life:
to be noticed with kindness by the benign,
safe from the razor-blade elements,
find our slot in life that counts,
and leave something good
for posterity, if it comes…

For dots of humanity
of which we are a part,
in some fashion or another,
keep floating giddily past us…
Are they up for what will come
with stoic resistance, or neglect?

Do they expect some dystopia
and the terrors of a dark night?
Ask the fretting little children,
who can’t sleep for their fright!
They too need a river of peace ~
the Promise to be fulfilled

made by One wiser
than all else…

ponderings in moments of existential fatigue...
Isaiah 48:18 is the promised peace referred to, echoed by John 16:33. We need never feel too alone for arguably the greatest man who ever lived, knew how to ascend above all and 'conquer' and freely wishes to give us this peace.
His crown sat bent -
    and it looked quite odd
          on the shady side
          of his sparse baldhead

His ego reigned
     while his daughter sweet
          could not make the move
          to get past her dread

His aproned slave
     dared not make a sound
          to defy the rules
          'til he made her dead

His cranium
     suffered sudden blows
          when an illness struck
          with the news ahead

He spat in barks
     telling all who came
          they should breathe their last
          and he died instead
a bitter-sweet ditty like a child's play poem
eleanor prince Dec 2022
I'm sorting pictures in the archive box.
Shelved for that day that I kept putting off.
The job's to cull and have less stuff to store,
but spiders lurk and snakes are sliding out.

The photo shouts in raw dismemberment.
A howling wind, the prowl of packs of wolves.

I stare at trembling splinters held so close.
Her daytime Self looks like a sweet old dame.

I hear again the creak as floorboards pause;
my breath is held lest I miss steps that halt,
outside my door in seconds held at bay.

I see the handle

Her strides are swift and next, her perfume's here.
With broken breath, she yields to clawing drives
and throws my bedclothes off like spider webs.

My youth she steals as night groans on and on.
For merchants took her bloom on stormy sea.

I clutch my knife and picture stabbing her;
But I've no strength to do the deed - I'm five.

Her mouth is pushed on lips zipped up and cold.
The bed is torn in tangled bits of knots.
My legs are jammed together- ripped apart.
My pillow's wet as aunty takes her cut.
eleanor prince May 2022
Have you stood
enveloped by
circles of
heavy fog

wondering if
a special skill
could clear this
suffocating smog  

and no attempt
to decipher
the map

You find
a crossroad
replete with
multiple signs

if you dare step
towards the light
a dead-end presents
obscuring the road

treetops sway
join the ruse
each route
adds a load

Then fresh winds
sing dawn's song
like a lover's kiss
unlocking tracks

the cloak of the
hazy horizon
lifts and you
can relax

you see
you're there
and you're like
an anti-******
eleanor prince Apr 2022
When I was born - mother collapsed
then she got well - never came back

Daddy was gone - most of the time
when he returned - we were attacked

Sister was told: "Feed her or else!
Mix it up right.  Keep your trap shut!"

Daddy got poor - sold me for food
babies were best - earned the best cut

As I grew more - daddy was rich
hooked on the sale - power it brought

I wanted out - pleaded my cause,
he forced me down - never was caught
  Apr 2021 eleanor prince
Dr Peter Lim
Art is the music of colours which dazzle so vividly before our eyes that we take it as even more real than life itself--
being intoxicated by its beauty, we want to gladly die unto it as this dying is a gift unto us and we ,being part of it, are made immortal.
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