A Little Bit Of Sunshine

A final word: I've nothing cheesy or deep to offer. I have less insight than ever before. Been going on faith alone, and it's scary and stripping.  What I learnt:   There's no final boss mode or ultimate glow up to reach in order to be truly happy. There's just who I am today, the choices I make. Sometimes I'll choose right, sometimes I'll misstep. Sometimes I'm on my way and don't know it yet.  Best bits: - My first forray into the working world  - Falling in love with my natural hair  - Dreaming again, rediscovering my passion  - Knowing God and knowing myself even more firmly  - Being able to support my family where I can What I'd like more of : More scary experiences - I discovered I like to be pushed. Being tested to my limits and coming out triumphant.  Constant creativity - I'm at my best when creating. Even at my worst, I find solace in the words.  Connection  - To connect deeply to another human being is a terrifying thing, but it bears

On a dreary December night, just like this There stood a man Calm and unassuming. He walked too gently for my liking There wasn't a dent where his feet went He made no ripples in the sand But it’s no matter,  This is a legend about his hands Where his feet crept,  his hands leapt Dancing across pages,  painting entire  worlds  Or just one little girl, head full of curls  They sang too, coaxing imperfect melody  too shy to become song But still we hummed along He held no magic ...although in some lights he almost seemed to shine It's not that kind of legend You could’ve passed him on the street Hey! I think you just did No need to go after him, I know his secret  He told me once,  on a dreary December night just like this: He never created beauty  It was always there, hiding  in ordinary things That was his power, leaving the world  A little prettier than he found it.  And so it began, the legend of The Man Who Walked With His Hands. 

As the year draws to a dramatic close, I find it worthy to note: That I am still here, standing Somehow undefeated.  It is something of a wonder,  a little too short for miracle perhaps too quiet for breakthrough much too modest for victory...  It is to look out of the window  and realize you slept through the snow.  It is to voyage after a storm and count yourself among the unshaken.  To remain, to be of that which did not wash away... It parts the sea of my tears It feeds my soul five thousand loaves It resurrects my dreams from their tomb Oh it is too sombre for celebration,  but I bow my head a moment In reverence, in deep gratitude  And whisper Thank You. 

Come with me, there is much to see.   Chapter 1 A troubled letter scribbled to a friend one stormy December night...  Read it here : A Midnight Note Chapter 2 A strange case of mistaken identity...solve it with me...  Read it here : Sorely Mistaken Chapter 3 Some choice words delivered to an unknown target, in a rather unpleasant tone.  Read it here : In Spite

I watch you from the corner of my eye Your silhouette engraved in my mind You are beautiful A swift and ferocious grace, you cover behind that timid face Ah but your hands, your hands give you away Lethal, precise and sure You draw your sword, point your arrow Your aim certain and true, a warrior's armour befits you You stand like one of noble birth Like a diamond in the dirt,  you try so hard to hide your worth And I try to pretend I don't see you in such a light But these feelings I tuck away for another day, another life, in which I might tell you these things.

"I'm not a writer because I write. I write because I'm a writer."   I forgot for a moment, that this is what Iove to do. Not for praise, nor for accolade. Not to save the world one rhyme at a time, not to relate to anyone. These words are first and foremost mine, dripping from my lips, ready at my fingertips. For others it is bow and string, paint and canvas, others glide and twirl or sing like birds.  I am good with words. It is achingly simple, unexceptional in its complexity.  I don't have much, but I get this. To keep. To cherish and to wield. Moments where I say the exact right thing someone needs to hear, at the exact right moment. Moments where that someone is me. And something like a key slides in place, a hidden door opened.  What traces I leave behind you are welcome to keep...but this one, this one's for me. 

What light, could possibly come from me? What do I do with all this pain, where do I take it?  Who can I tell, who can I talk to? Was I too harsh, too quick to judge them?  Oh dad, will I ever stop missing you? How long will you keep running in place and calling it progress? Answers : Gentle correction: the light I possess doesn't come from me to begin with. I do not have light I was made light, I can neither ignite nor put it out. Ah, but look at all the pretty art I've made from it.  I can only speak it in whispers, the hunch of my shoulders. My pillow dampens and withers, from all the secrets I've told her.  No, I did what was best for me then. And I'm happy you've changed, that you left your old ways but I will never be the home where you stay.  Sometimes I like to pretend you are a mere train ride away, that I'm just visiting family over the holidays. That you're alright and all in one piece, that we're gonna be just fine, you'll see.  My battle

My first date: I swirl my drink between my teeth It's a long time before anyone speaks We have the place to ourselves, like we've entered a mystical land There's a tingle in the air The zipping of a pocket closed It is the act of moment solidified into memory,  a souvenir I will always keep with me Our thoughts float around us like Tangible echoes Our love, unspoken But felt, down to my bones Though my feet are too short  to reach the floor they ground me in this place.  Though my hands are too small  to hold the burger right (I stand for every bite)  they cling, oh they cling, to this keepsake And though my drink is actually milkshake The buzz in the air, it intoxicates.  Your first words of the night, I forget But the very last you said: "My daughter, Happy Birthday" 

I am cooking something from the unlikeliest of ingredients: A dash of harsh winter season-ing A pinch of the salt on my wounds Slices of bitter fruit.   In summer I took you with me  as we frolicked among the trees,  picking blueberries. Now I'm left gazing at a darkened sky.  And though I am being split open,  sliced upon a chopping board and set on fire...  That my pain would result in a pleasant plate Is the hope upon I rely.  So gather your coats,  I am throwing a feast For the lost and the least.  PS :  The past year I've been on a ride  trying to find light in the darkest of places, and here I am finally brave enough  to face the darkness.  Acknowledging that both reside in me  and both have their place and purpose.  I've started a baby blog in honour  of the dark clouds that eclipse the sunshine... Do not think of it as good blog /sad blog but rather a labour of self discovery. Link :  The Occasional Cloud

To be spun from wires so delicate  Forged in fire so elegant  Skin like decadent dessert On other days, like grimy dirt  That covers the earth  like blanket : My blackness...  Is a memorial of those who fell before me  A celebration of those yet to be My blackness is a race, an elite team Of athletic grace,  in which I get placed  Simply that I participate. It's a language too, not every nod means I agree with you Sometimes I shake my head in admiration Oh and how we dance,  almost absently, like we're unaware we're doing it Tap a rhythm with our feet,  grind a beat with our teeth Shoulders thrown back,  And shimmy shimmy shimmy  Swagger and sway our hips just walking down the street.  It's a weapon too, for those intimidated  by our differences In these instances we're expected to shrink to digestible size And for our boldness apologize For to be black and unapologetic Are two offences at once.  We are like people of the sun, who know no shade But despair not when

It's been 10 years, 8 days and 192 hours since you left this world But that was your way,  packing up and leaving without a word I'd trail after you, as a little girl Calling out a list of goods to bring when you return.  Sweets. Toys and things. Random book about anything.  The iPlay multilingual laptop (in pink) Now looking back, I'd trade it all For nothing, but your empty hands full of love  For 10 years, 8 days and 192 hours more. 

You ask why I carry myself Like an apology  Talk like a suggestion Walk like a question I don't quite remember how it happened If it was one big happening or a thousand little ones But from a young age, I had something Taken, no. Stolen from me I can't say what it was specifically Maybe my voice to speak, maybe my joy to sing Something crucial was missing, a hole within I am layers of tired, trying to keep it hidden  For it is ugly, unsettling to see. However, some light : it's a bit freeing admitting I am in bone deep agony  Not sad not depressed  Just LESS than what I should be.  The broken remains of a girl of age nine and sixteen, hiding inside me Decay hovering about me like an odour I've treated God like a deodorant stick...to be applied once a day  But I cannot rid the stench of this pain,  it lingers  It coats my fingers like a stain I went about healing wrong. It is not song nor  magical moment nor buzz in the air.  Little to do with feeling good  Simply, work

So what now? What's next?  Hey, gravity? Mind backing off a bit?  What would Shakespeare do? What would Sylvia Plath  not  do?   Must I suffer endlessly? But I am forever changed, no?  What are you most afraid of, living or dying? Answers: It's funny how it is always "what's next?" and never, are you alright? Take a breath . Life is more than destination and you are more than vehicle from one location to the next. You are home in your skin, in your lungs, in your breath. Yet you are in endless move searching for roof to lay your head, well look no further than...  As a matter of fact, yes I do Write a sonnet, I'm working on it.  Live on. So I will be doing just that.  (pending)  (pending)  I suppose it's a once-off appointment, dying. But to live, a daily commitment. And that is terrifying. 

In the daydream, I am weathered with age.  I know it’s a daydream because I am both in my body and an outside spectator. I hobble onto a stage, with jiggly knees Eager hands rushing to help me. I wave them away. In my 85 years of living, I have found reward in both pain and insanity.  But never in rushing. Instead I savour it, the stretch of my limbs of their own accord.  A lightning quick process in the brain, assembled into walk. My heels staccato across the stage and I hear a collective breath.  I can smell the anticipation, heady and inspiring, rolling off the crowd in waves.  From me, they await :  Words of wisdom.  The keys of life I have supposedly acquired on my journey. The one they suppose is ending. I allow myself a small chuckle. I am not here to be honoured. It is but a ruse for what they’re really after. Something profound. Finally I draw my lips to the mic, my smile accompanied by laugh lines It is easier to smile now than it ever was before. “What is profound?” my voice

Today I happened upon a wicker chair I favoured above the rest  And found upon there  a minx curled up in my place Here's the thing: It had my face.  We stood a while, getting acquainted I felt its cool gaze peering at me,   as though I were imposter To my horror, she began to speak: "Subtle, and distinct  And stronger than you think I am more you than you are you" I didn't so much awaken, right then But it put something to bed, to rest in me The fear, anxiety drifting to sleep And I slink, cool as a cat into my seat Soon enough, a familiar shadow  looms overhead Confused to find me there I am the minx in the wicker chair.

So I did it, I got a job. I ticked the all-important box.  Everyday I wake up and have a destination laid out before me. I wonder if that's all it's about, not money nor safety But to keep from wandering aimlessly.  To be a part of something real.  My days consist of chalkboards, Clammy hands and little critters we refer to, as children  But in reality they're creatures of mischief  Sweaty smiley kids with endless questions They lean forward in their desks, eager and thirsty For something in short supply To be seen noticed, given the occasional pat on the shoulder  A firm yet indulgent smile I tower over them, the only source in sight for miles This is a ruse, I realize A shelter disguised as school The pencils and uniform mere costume  I play my role as best I can, though I stumble over my lines I am learning from them too.  All in all, not the worst way to spend my time.  Now stand up straight, get in line That's Miss Sunshine to you. 

I write these words today because it compelled me to assert that I am, in fact alive.  Now. I hold no notions of a devoted audience pining for my return.  But it’s a funny thing... I do not measure my life by the number of breaths I take. But in the words I write. Every stroke of my pen becomes pulse. And I live, safely tucked in between the lines. Paper walls and bricks of ink.  I built this place syllable by syllable, rhyme by rhyme. Carved out a window to let in the sunshine. My tears polished the floor. My joy painted the walls a brilliant pink shade. Out of my laughter I've sewn curtains, that flutter just so, whenever the wind blows.  And when the rain comes as certain as the sun, out of faith I have built a roof. My door leads to anywhere I choose. I am never late and I am never lost.  Once... this was my entire universe, yet slowly it is shrinking. Or maybe I'm the one who has grown, no longer fitting. In the only home that I've known. Something came over me, then.

It seems a world has gone by in a matter of months October a blink, November a whirl  I am still dizzy with the momentum of it all I haven't had a chance to write  the way I am clamoring for rope, clinging for life My hands have slipped and found no purchase  Everything is so solid here, unyielding  It's funny, now that I am embarking on life as is expected of me I feel less alive, than I did then It's not until I hit the cold hard ground that I realized I'd been floating  I didn't know I was on fire until I saw the smoking It is an effort. Staying aground,  All those nights I fought to shake off  The weight about me and be free Now it is a hardship remaining on my feet  For poetry sits about me, like a set of wings Not floating in fantasy  But with eyes wide open.  I see so clearly the beauty in every living thing  It dances on my skin,  and I am more alive and alert than I've ever been  And when I rise to my feet, ready to face the day This, I think, is what i