The Innocent Cries

Broken pieces fly over me

Shards of memoirs flash by

Running across green hills

Smiles and chatters with family

Will these days ever return?

Fears paint the faces around me

Hopes and dreams crumble and torn

I lie awake with no more tears

Numb to bombings and shootings

Will this madness ever end?

Hunger and thirst becomes a norm

The little one cries out for milk

I have nothing left to give

Not even my pride or dignity

What is left for me to do?

Blood spilling like water fall

In the name of religion and politics

Broken limbs and dying spirits

Defeat rises more than victory

What have I done to deserve this?

I ponder on the golden days,

Bread and honey on the table,

The white lamb at my feet,

Dance to the echoes of the caves,

Will I ever hear music again?

Source: http://www.mamalisa.com/images/non_ml_images/bluebird.gif

A bird perches on my window sill,

Fluttering with chirps of glee,

Pecks on my cheek with a kiss,

Something melts in my heart,

Is it trying to say something?

A shrill cry fills the gloomy shack,

A child hovers over her dying mother,

She shakily says to her and me,

I will see you both in heaven,

Are my days fewer than I think?

Source: http://www.momscleanairforce.org/wp-content/uploads/sky_bird-580x386.jpg

The bird flies up high to the sky,

Blue and pink with sunny rays,

A drop of peace amidst death notes,

Do not be afraid it seems to say,

My body shall die but not my soul

I dedicate this to the innocent victims of the recent Gaza/Israel War and especially the minorities who might be slaughtered in Iraq. 

YOUR TOUCH

Dazzling freckles on my face,

Messy hair floating adrift,

The waves slowly roll me over,

Basking in shades of orange,

The hazy sky beams a smile,

Are you waving from up there?

Siar Beach on a Hazy Noon

Sea shells scrape my toes,

Buried in the crispy sand,

A fish or two wiggle past,

Crabs scamper out from holes,

Barnacles bid hello from under,

Are you whispering from beneath?

Old uncle casts his fishing net into the cool waters

An old uncle casts his net,

Little fishes run like mad,

Trapped in between strings,

I release and throw them back,

Freedom from men’s grasp,

Are your hands reaching me?

A wooden house graces the beach,

Rusty boat pushes into the waters,

Coconut trees sway left and right,

I draw on the sand with a stick,

A shape of love big and clear,

Is your love big and wide too?

Children giggling in wet suits,

Building sand balls and castles,

Running with no cares or tears,

I sit down and watch them,

Wishing life has no worries,

Are you even listening to me?

A wrinkled lady dives into the sea,

Cheers and glee spread all over,

Young like a deer she dances,

I wave and catch her lively glow,

Close my eyes and feel the breeze,

I think you have finally touch me

IMAGINE

Another bubble bursts, out

from the springs of headless secrets. Shivers

On a dark winter’s night, Bends forward

and curls up, Phantoms of music

float by.

Footsteps flee past, tip toeing, pattering

haunting the demons in the head, Knocking.

Waves roaring across the heart, storming

the rocky shores of death, faint calls beckons,

Strings of opera notes

fly high, The moon breaks up

and leaves, shattering apart

Alive or dead

no one sees, Not living souls but

fireflies dancing, Little lights mid air

over the black sky, Insanity strikes

like booming hammers. Chuckles and cries fight

for attention, Dots of energy blues swirl

into cocoons of heartbreak, Whispers

of nothingness floats, Diving deep

into the unconscious realm of seas bedded

with chorals of despair, Brings forth

golden specks of light, Perhaps the aftermath

never shall be, of a tsunami

worth uncovering, The occasional forbidden

wishes, Deep down in the oceans of mercy, Wading naked

through the raging Waters, Splashes in the face

Jellyfish dancing on goose bumps, when

crushed memoirs swarm in, Burned petals

raining down on silky porcelain skin, brushing through

the breeze sings, melancholy notes of old, fly not to catch

and swallow, Buried dreams explode into

particles of light, Ashes gone awry

Harder to grasp, Drowning faster

than waves can sink, The night soars

into plights of healing, Trickles of tears

bobble up and down, Shuts eyes

clamouring in madness. Moment vanishes.

Somewhere

over that invisible star, In a forsaken land

skies are bright, Opens eyes

to honey drops and rose buds.

Blue birds sing like angelic sopranos, Smile.

A stranger holds hand, says Imagine.

Dawn welcomes, No more fears, a fresh

hug of hope.

To MH17

Strings of questions

Floating around us

Clouding our senses

Burying specks of hope

Pointing fingers left and right

Crashing burdens up and down

What happened that day

The missile shot upwards

Feathery clouds scattered

Bags and shoes vanished

Smiles and laughter gone

Rain of bodies poured down

Phone calls darted everywhere

To believe or not to believe

Reality quickly sank in

Outrage and cries exploded

How can this happen

Right before one's radar

A promise of safe air

Who is to blame

Evils lurking everywhere

Suicide bombs and endless wars

Where is humanity

Why are you fighting

Why the greed and lust

Power to kill and conquer

Can you bring to eternity

Then why bother at all

Are you like wild animals

Without a mind and conscience

Merciless barbaric savages

Are your hearts stolen

We beg you to stop

End this grave torture

Of robbing innocent lives

Before your souls burn

The days look grim

Darker than ever

For the rest of us 

Is there no more hope

Still we cannot give up

Let us hold hands

Hold our heads high

We must live and love

For a better tomorrow

For the souls of MH17

Who are perhaps smiling

Down at us from heaven

Imperfect is Perfect

I saw a friend of mine posting on facebook, "What is disability to you?" It got me thinking. When you see a young man on a wheelchair, a blind man on the street, a little girl with Down Syndrome, your neighbour who has lost a limb, does disability rings out boomingly loud across your brains?

Well, most of us would react that way when we see someone or something that appeared different from us. We would call them abnormal, handicapped or disabled and most of the time, we would shun them or run away. 

I am brought to mind this vibrant young lady that I met in South Africa. We performed together in a musical play. She not only danced passionately in her crutches but she was so full of life and determination that I was put to shame! That's when I saw that she was not disabled, just slightly different and way more beautiful than many of us. Her soul was a shining gem!

I would like to dedicate this poem I wrote few years ago to those who are born different, handicapped or disabled as society calls but nevertheless perfect in the eyes of God, mentally challenged or perhaps just an underdog who feels like an outcast!

Here's to you:

Imperfect is Perfect

Irregular lines are beautiful

Stains patterned the most unique tapestry

A crooked nose

A smaller eye

An extra thumb

Behold the uniqueness that many despise

The tears of the blind

The moaning of the dumb

The silence of the deaf

Look beyond the physical shell

That hides the beauty of the soul

And reach for the diamonds within

The brokenness of a widow

The death of an unborn child

The limb that no longer exists

The dappled things in life

They are extraordinarily beautiful

If only you will see

Look beyond

And you just might find

The treasure buried inside

In each and every being called human

In each and everything that exists

And grasp the precious gem

The untainted cavern that we can go

The hole that shouts

Imperfect is perfect

A Cultural Encounter with Basadi Balefatshe

It had been more than a day travelling. My body slumped against the chair at the transit area in Doha airport while I struggled to keep my eyes from shutting and dozing off. It was three am and there were a few more hours to go. My heart fluttered in excitement as I reminisced the first time I saw her.

Almost five years ago, I met this vibrant African lady during the Delphic Games in South Korea. We were both representing our countries in the lingual arts competition and as we recited our poems on stage, we both felt connected through our stories and thus, a friendship developed. Through the years we kept in touch and one day, she invited me to South Africa to perform in a musical play and be part of a cultural exchange.

I had heard numerous stories about Africa but I had never been there. I did not know what to expect but I trust whatever happened will be a good adventure. My stomach stirred like busy butterflies and I felt like a teenager having a crush for the first time as I boarded the plane to Johannesburg. I clasped my hands tightly dragging my luggage as I looked out for that familiar face that I had not seen in years. She spotted me first and gave me a big, tight hug. All nervousness dissolved as soon as I met those sparkling eyes that lit up with smiles.

A warm welcome awaited me as some of the cast greeted me with cheerful glees. My heart melted further as the little girl whom I was supposed to stay with allowed me to hold her in my arms. My curiosity had ventured into random questions about what my hostess was going to be like and all questions vanished into thin air as her sweet aura made me felt instantly at home. That was the beginning of a wonderful one month stay with them.

Waking up to the lively chirping of birds, I was all ready for my first day of rehearsal.  As I crossed Mandela Bridge, I saw the iconic legend’s face on a poster with a big smile plastered across his face and I sensed his soul beaming down at me from heaven.  To my amazement, Constitution Hill would be where I would spend the rest of my two weeks practicing. This historical heritage was where Mandela and other freedom fighters were jailed and tortured. I knew this had to be a good start as my morning was showered with the vigour and charisma of Mandela’s determined spirits.

The cast captivated me from the first moment they started singing and swaying their hips to lively African music roaring from the talented band. Everyone was bursting with energy and I wondered if I would fit in. After all, I was not much of a singer apart from echoing melodies in church choir. I assured myself I was there as a storyteller so it would not be a problem. Little did I know I would also need to sing and dance. My eyes glanced up to the wall facing me with words written ‘Conversations We Do Not Have’ and immediately, images of prisoners chained with loneliness flashed before my eyes. My throat choked with emotions as voices soared to the tunes of “open the floodgates of heaven, let it rain…” How ‘coincidental’ it is that this ‘dungeon’ was chosen as our meeting venue to have conversations about women issues which was the main purpose of the musical play.

Basadi Balefatshe meaning ‘World Women’ was the title of the theatre play. As South Africa celebrated Women’s Month, this show was staged in conjunction with International World Women’s Day in March 2014.  It showcased an international journey of a woman as she walked and danced through various phases of her life encountering many other women. She connected with them in various ways even though each was different from her in terms of culture, background, belief and race.

All the women in the play each conveyed tales either of their very own or inspired by people they knew. It was manifested through poetry, storytelling, acting, songs, music and dances. I was humbled to be part of this enriching process of getting to know one another through the weaving of experiences. A refreshing approach that opened my eyes for I had never been in a performance where each wrote their own piece and all was intricately knitted to form a story of its own.

I was moved to tears by the passionate dance from a physically challenged dancer. The powerful and soulful voice of one singer kept me enchanted and I found myself giggling with happy grins to the vivacious expressions of a poet telling us about how the play was birthed through a conversation between her and a dear friend. My fingers tapped with delight as I heard the umakhweyana, an indigenous African instrument being played during a storytelling session where kids gathered around.  My heart cringed at the expressions of depression and anger where one woman was very hurt by her own mother. My mind was blown away by the exquisite recollection of an Eritrean woman’s experience as a soldier defending her country where women had to carry guns and waged on war. I had to clutch my stomach aching from laughter by the comedic acting of one poet who enthusiastically put on a sophisticated accent while communicating a serious message across to the audience about getting laid and paid. I equally enjoyed bringing forth an Asian perspective to the Africans.

The highlight of the presentation was the conversation we put across about women issues. Oppression and discrimination due to gender, cultural expression and beliefs with increasing underpayment were among some of the concerns addressed and brought to light. As we lifted the rain sticks to let its soothing sounds take flight, a male performer joined us and spoke out in support of women to raise awareness on the plights of human trafficking and prostitution. The stage brightened up with a colourful concoction of multiculturalism. That was when the bonding formed with an invisible hand holding us all together to rise up for unity.

As we invited all women to come together as one through a very uplifting track, we heartily moved to the beats set aflame by the band and engaged the audience to the catchy rhythm. I still could not believe my own ears as I heard myself singing along in African. I guess I did not have to worry about fitting in at all. What a priceless moment in celebrating the beauty and purpose of women through arts, culture and music!

The three days performance ended but the messages and the people kept a glow burning in the recesses of my heart. I had a week left to chill with my newfound friends. It was an amazing cultural exchange. Waking up to sweet innocent cries of the little baby girl with long eyelashes blinking at me, singing lullabies to her, savouring exotic and scrumptious food specially prepared by my hostess, watching South African sitcoms, walking on the streets with an African princess donning a myriad of fabrics and beads with her rain stick by my side, being asked all the time whether I know kung fu, listening to storytellers in Freedom Park, giving impromptu drawing workshops, relaxing with Rastafarians, trying vegan food while laughing at each other’s jokes, dropping by Mandela’s house, visiting townships, drinking coffee served by traditional healers in their hut adorned with animal skins and hearing wise words from a young spirit-filled pastor were just a few of the little perks I got to try. Not forgetting taking the taxi-vans known as combis almost every other day with all eyes on me every time I climbed into them. Not surprising at all considering I was practically the only Asian looking person boarding them. It was fun.

The time finally arrived to bid farewell to the loving souls that I had met. Parting at the airport was sad but I knew somehow we would meet again. Reaching home made the trip felt surreal.

Months passed but that memory relived itself from time to time. It is with much hope that this little baby of creative genius, Nolwazi Mkhathini also known as Nomkhubulwane will continue to grow and flourish. This idea of bridging the gap while crossing cultures by having a dialogue between women from all parts of the world to stand united in embracing each other’s identity and diversity working towards promoting peace and humanity is a noble one.

I believe the little glow that had started should be passed around the globe and set a spark to get the conversation going. A toast to more of Basadi Balefatshe!

'Waiting' Times Present Opportunities to Write

I am waiting to collect my medications. Hospital is almost like another home to me now although not one I quite like. It's a long, long queue.
I used to be really impatient and dread waiting. I found it a waste of time and I hated people who are late. I'm not saying I like it now but I am more tolerant towards it.
Being in hospitals have taught me to have a little more patience and gave me the chance to be a bit more creative about handling 'idle' time.
Here I am seated with the rest of my peers who are waiting to be served with food in the form of pills, creams, ointments, solutions and etc. I am glued to my tiny blackberry screen as I typed my thoughts away while wishing I have an Ipad or at least a Samsung with a bigger screen.
Anyways, I do have time on my hands. So what do I do? The queue is long. So why not write?
Many of us including me struggle to find time to write. There is the 'other' job that pays your bills. There's a crying baby and perhaps a pile of dishes and laundry waiting to be washed. There might be a sick uncle to attend to or perhaps  your little five year old never fails to bug you every other second while you fumble for words to describe that crazy scene in your first chapter. There are a thousand and one things that require our immediate attention. In the end, many of us give up writing.
I'm here to tell you that perhaps you can use your 'waiting' times to write or scribble down ideas. Unless you are born rich without responsibilities and live alone in a paradise, there will always be distractions and chores on your hands.
If you're a mum waiting in the car to pick up your kids, use that time to write no matter how little the time frame may be. Perhaps you're like me waiting for your turn in the hospital or your date is running really late. Perhaps you're stuck in the traffic jam or riding alone in the train. Don't waste those precious times.
As for me, those 'waiting' times give me the opportunity to do my sketches, to have 'quiet' conversations with God as most of the time I will be waiting alone, to think of my characters in the next fiction, to observe people for a new story, to weave some poetry or like now, I am writing away :)
Oh and it's my turn now so I'll have to go. Have a good week ahead my dear writers and think of your 'waiting' times as golden opportunities to write away ;)