Driving past the roundabout.
Beatles on, roof down.
Been working like a dog,
And when we go around
I am reminded of Yeats
And his widening gyre –
A concept quite curious,
His genius I admire.
High on happiness,
The battle today is done.
His words consume my heart away
As my shades reflect the sun.

The music: loud,
Really loud, too loud,
Louder,
Deafening.

Each second stripped away,
Pushed coolly across my face
And through my hair like the
Blustery breeze.
I feel so at ease,
But not for long, for today,
Time turns against me in that race.

Race, race faster.
Go fast,
Faster,
Deadening.

The fateful call comes.
I must accept it
And ignorantly fall foul
Of the unexpected,
As the fumes of summer fruit –
The movement of strawberry sales,
Crosses the beaten asphalt.
My face rapidly pales.

Turning and turning,
Spinning half a dozen.
Anarchy loosened, burning –
My rough beast has risen.

I fail to feel alright,
Drenched in a poppy field!
The music is slowly dying,
Softening.

A revolution has been fought,
Restrained as the summer breeze
Is stopped, then turned on its head.
I marvel at the distant trees
Spinning, so dizzy I can barely move.
Crushed car, blood dripping, crushing me.
The world is as red as those pitiless poppies
And I discover the truth:
They will be the last thing I see,

The last glimpses of life:
Choke, choke,
Eyes spiralling,
Choking, blood,
Drowning.

The sun that day was too bright.
The sign outside my high school,
Lettering black on white,
Protected by a wooden frame.
“No school” had always been cool,
But not since Ivan came.

It says “School Closed Tomorrow,
Listen to Radio for Update”
For most this sign brings sorrow,
For some it’s just a little too late.

A mass of rubble outside the doors,
Wreckage rife.
Churning water destroyed these floors,
And wrecked life.
A loss of pens and many a book,
Utter devastation,
Students work old Ivan took,
Along with education.
Tears shed as I have to leave-
A tiny demonstration
Of the destruction Ivan’s flooding caused.
I did leave, but not before I paused,
And cried for God’s creation.

How can a war be ‘Great’ or ‘Civil’,
When people are sure to die?
Seen by God and the Devil,
Or simply through a child’s eye?

For how can a battle be won,
When the dead will eternally lose?
When cowering behind a gun,
Nobody has the right to choose.

Big men boast of intelligence,
They think they’re number one,
But even apes know the significance
Of Cowering behind a gun.

Is it simply because they’re beastly?
Their technology has backfired!
Their fighting simply disgusts me.
Like other children I am tired.

Why do rich men speak of victory?
Do they think the battle is won?
While these animals line their pockets,
There are children out there, like me,
Cowering behind a gun.

I sit, motionless, a gormless look across my face.
Mouth open, eyes empty, staring at nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
Bored beyond the point of no return,
Just letting eternity slowly, very slowly pass by.
It never does.
The teacher tells us to work, but gives us no indication of how.
You can’t do something with nothing.
The clock hands finally move.
Everyone adjusts their eyes.
I am sure every minute takes at least five.
Awkward silence is disturbed by the occasional passing of a page.
Nobody bothers to show an interest in anything except the time.
I begin to wonder if both my watch and the clock are broken.
Highly unlikely.
Whispers are engulfed by orders of silence.
The hypocritical teacher has an everlasting throat tickle.
The minute hand doesn’t move this time,
For time has finally stopped.
I motionlessly sit, wishing, praying that the silence would be broken.

A jet-ski, jetty bound, disturbs the waves,
While not too far away, on the seabed
Lies the hungry blacktip and hammerhead,
As a nurse explores the undersea caves.

Harvey wouldn’t capture Marlin here,
Just a glance of turtle, seaweed green,
Gasping at the stuffy air, marine,
Gazing at a sunset he should fear.

The sharks hunt for prey in mere hours.
A flock of ching-chings squawk away,
As mosquitoes come out to play,
Darting between darkening flowers.

Through mosquito nets I take a peek,
In oasis that I realise,
Snuggled in a palm tree lies
A curled green parrot, sound asleep.

A dull, white cupboard,
It brings bland to an already boring room.
Just opened to grab a shirt,
Unusually unaware of its artistic values.
An unnatural breeze brings the brightness
And an arm, fluttering in the wind, escapes,
Its feeble body left behind.
Who would have thought lifeless limbs could bring life
To a dying bedroom?
A blue shirt on a clean canvas,
That first drop of paint sprayed yellow on its sleeve.
A sunlight stream breaking the blue sky
And piercing the eyes,
Or perhaps it’s the mosquito plane
Heading towards his outstretched palm,
Surrounded only by a blue abyss
And the whitewashed walls of heaven.
Only a higher power could create such beauty by
Breathing a blue sky into the clouds of heaven.
This is but a true masterpiece of God’s creation
-A blue shirt, trapped helplessly, in my crafty cupboard door.

Waiting,
For the right time,
To tell you that I am,
Sick, sick and tired of always,
Waiting.