Three baby Jesus's
Up on a tree
Who put them there
Nobody knows
the Betrayed, the Savior
Bleeding out
with cries
of "why have you forsaken me?"
How can You be forsaken
When You got mad at a mall
Ruined all the stores
All because Your dad was mad.

I was sat at the front of the cast iron horse
and with Tom and his sister and Nicky behind
we had rocked till the plaything went hight as we could
when it smacked on my jaw with its hard metal head.

An incisors had cut through my lip, and so blood
freely flowed from my mouth to my chin, where it paused,
and then dropped on the crown of the dangerous nag,
dripping sticky and red on the skull of our steed.

Soon my daddy had  lifted me up from that mount
and we drove to the doctor’s to suture my lip
where a needle was painfully pulled through my skin
and it felt as though cables were stitching my gob.

                                  –––

Did our play in my youth, though unsafe, have more thrill
than does zipping on wires over bark covered ground
or the climbing of ropes that are hung from a pole
and of swaying with swings that don’t go all around?

Every age has its dangers, unique to itself,
and so children will always find dangerous fun,
though as parents we worry as much as ours did,
now the  playgrounds are safer whatever we fear.

Today would've been Mom and Dad's anniversary if they were still alive.
They got married sixty years ago today on September the 25th of 1965.
Today is also the anniversary of my sister-in-law and brother.
Back in 2013, I had to say goodbye to my father and mother.
After living for six and a half decades, Mom and Dad passed away.
If they hadn't died, they would've been married sixty years today.

so my parents blabbered about how the enormous love they shared resulted me to existence.
Their faces were covered with brilliant smiles and i saw love radiant in them.
Though i couldn't pinpoint their pastel lies made in paradise.
Those shades of blue hovered through the sky
and drops of hatred made me cry.
Its thunder made my ears bleed,
its lightning made my eyes sore.
I am no child of love.
I am the child of hatred my mother bore.

Mr Parsons made it sound exciting.

But mum told Joan that it was wicked. She wasn’t allowed her dolls for a week, a week she spent bemused and resentful and she refused to poo for three days until mum relented and gave her Barbie back – but the rest would have to wait.

It had begun with Mr Parsons at Sunday School with the story of the blind man and the mud and the spit.

We’d sat on the adult chairs. Me, Joan, Gemma, Charlie, and the Brown sisters, knee to knee in a circle in the corner of the hall,  the one with the draft and the stacked chairs reminding us that we were the remnant of a once thriving community.

He told us how Jesus made a paste of mud and spit [Charlie thought this hilarious and spat at Gemma, so he had to stand with his nose on the wall for the rest of the lesson] and how Jesus slathered it on the man’s eyes and then told him  (unnecessarily we thought) to go wash it off.

It hadn’t worked first time – was that a first for Jesus? we speculated and the second time the man saw people again, but he was told to keep it secret, which made no sense.

So that afternoon, after dinner, Joan got mud from the garden, and pasted it onto barbie’s legs which were abnormally long and made her topple over. She then pasted it on my action man’s face on account of his ****** scar which I thought looked cool, but I was curious to see what happened. She pasted it on Ken and Sindy too, but not for any specific ailment.

She followed the prescribed method: slather, wash and then repeat (which I think she enjoyed a little too much to be honest) but after the second wash there was no sign of any healing, perhaps because, like mum said, she was so wicked, unlike Jesus of course.

I’d never seen mum go that colour – she was livid, she told Joan to go wash the mud stains off her hands and to put her dress in the wash. Joan couldn’t be Jesus and it was wrong to think she could. That sort of thing wasn’t for little girls ...

The next Sunday Mr Parsons seemed a little miffed. He and dad and mum sat in the hall, knee to knee for ages. I thought we were for the high jump, but then I saw that mum looked like a schoolgirl, like she had been caught stepping out of line.

Mum was very quiet at dinner and dad said that she had something to say - to our horror, she apologised in front of all of us and she told Joan it was okay to try and do what Jesus did. It was what he would have wanted.

We were so ashamed for my mum - neither of us tried to be Jesus ever again.

everyday, i chase this one shooting star,
i pretend that im not, but i admire from afar.
it’ll grant my wish, make my dreams come true.
against an abyss of flying rocks, this light is my truth.
i reach up to the top, my arms awkwardly outstretched,
like a baby bird straining its neck, out of the nest, i want to
fly. but alas! alas, the stars are too high.

i trip and i fall, while the stars soar away,
there, on the ground, the glow fades away.
so i wait again, for the next flock of rocks,
and until then, i am obedience – boxed.
i don’t make a move, i don’t even talk,
my muscles are sore, but i remain firmly docked.
the stars don’t say anything – because stars cant speak!
but i know theyre watching, even when i sleep.

but just when i think ive been perfectly complacent,
the stars, they avoid me, distant and vacant,
they glide through the wind, granting prayers and calls,
but when they see me, they stop – and start to fall.
crashing, rocketing, burning alive, the stars i so wanted,
begin to die.

I think that I feel lost
although I don’t have the right.

dad, it’s scary how you think of me.
I might just be a monster for part time,
but I found that all the walls I built
would simply leave me trapped.

I never learned
how to make someone feel loved.
I stumble all over myself
and I still won’t talk.

I love you, but hate
how I can’t get it out.
you don’t know what it’s like
when your words seem to drown
in the waves I never survived,
and the splashes that woke me at night—
like a ship that sailed
but never arrived.

but I’d mean it,
if I could show you my mind.

it would break even anchors to watch it:
your eyes slowly turning to stone.

and I admit I could have delayed this—
but maybe I was simply too young.

now I’m so cold,
but the air is no different,
and somehow there’s so much that’s missing.

as a monster in part time
I hope that some things pass me by.
but look at me, I waited,
I stayed, but it didn’t make anything right.

I may seem stoic in this new situation
and for a while I was fine
then it hit me like a truck
my heart was the only casualty
tears threatened to spill
but I kept them at bay
I'm an adult
but I'll always miss my parents
I just want to hug them goodnight
but 2 and a half hours of driving separate us
I may seem stoic in this new situation
but on the inside my heart aches for them
stoicism is just a mask for the internal havoc of emotions

Parents are your first teachers;
But if they were permissive,
Teachers have rules they follow through on.
If parents were too strict,
Teachers cut you slack.
If you fall, they may or may not pick you up.
If you were abused, they will report it,
Despite all your objections.
If you've been excluded, you're now in a class.
If you're really smart, they'll show you how much there is to learn.
If you're struggling, they'll show you how to learn.
If you're afraid, stand beside a teacher.
If you're a bully, you will confront your victims.
If you're in doubt, they'll search you out.
If you're cocky, they'll trim your spurs.
If you're lonely, they have room.
If you need solitude, they have a room.
If you're in love, they know the season;
If you know hate, they know the feeling.
When you compete, they're in the seats.
When you're sad, or conflicted,
Teachers listen.
They taught Moses, Jesus and Mohamed,
Yes. Teachers beget teachers.
They instructed Socrates, Aristotle and Plato.
They put us in North America and on the moon.
They worked with Salk and Banting, Gates and Jobs.
Anyone can learn something.
They even taught our parents,
But not everyone learns.
Hey, Teachers, don't leave those kids alone!