Innocence

She said she wanted to colour the rainbow,
Cocked back her head, and laughed,
Asked if it was possible for her to make the rain glow,
Adelle set fire, maybe she'd use the charred coal.

She asked why we insist the sun is yellow,
When it is obvious it shines a brilliant white,
Asked why our faces are always mellow,
If work was so hard then why didn’t we just quit.

She was sure she could paint the face of God,
With her brown crayons and tiny bottle of paint,
Asked how come we don’t find it odd,
That the word psycho had an unnecessary ‘p’

She wondered of men who stayed up all night,
Watching over us while we rested our minds,
Asked why we were filled with such fright,
“Don’t thieves as well, need to sleep?”

She said she wanted to buy a unicorn,
Not for herself, but as a gift for santa,
Asked how come a man, full grown,
Has never had a proper family Christmas?”

She said she wanted to change the world,
Put an end to war and disease,
I looked at her,
And smiled,
One day at a time, I told her,
One day at a time.

Shades of His Future

He said he would paint the soles of his feet,
Paint them some absurd colour, maybe purple, or black
So that every time he would walk down the street,
They’d see for themselves, he was leaving a mark.

He said he would scent his each and every word,
Apple cider, eucalyptus, frankincense, blueberry or sunflower,
So that every time that they were heard,
They’d hear for themselves, this was his hour.

He said he would spice the work of his hands,
Exotic spices, cayenne pepper, dhana jeera and a dash of cinnamon,
So that every time he executed his plans,
They’d taste for themselves, he was going to be the man.

He said he would choreograph his dreams,
Swift salsa, beautiful ballroom, complex chacha, cover all his bases
So that when he told the of his schemes,
They would know for themselves, he was going places.

He said he would engrave an effigy on his palms,
An image reflecting the person that he wanted, one day, to be,
So that whenever they looked in his eyes, shook his hand,
They’d feel for themselves, he wanted to be free.

He said he would paint the soles of his feet,
Paint them some absurd colour, maybe purple, or black
So that every time he would walk down the street,
They’d see for themselves, he was making a mark

Goodnight

Music will always be but a gateway to the soul,
It will always fill the void, make you feel whole,
Words will express emotions, but faces will tell the story,
Books will be confusing, a minute ago will be history,
Don’t worry your pretty little head

Everything changes and so everything is the same,
The ozone is burning up and we don’t know who to blame,
The earth is a cycle, as you will come to see,
Things have been, are and will continue to be,
Don’t worry your pretty little head

Poets will lament, musicians will fall in love,
Pastors will call for miracles from high up above,
Hummingbirds will do the backstroke, mockingbirds will sing,
The midday sun will beat and church bells will ring,
Don’t worry your pretty little head

Classes will confuse you, girls will do worse,
You’ll speak your word in prose, then do it in verse,
Cars will excite you money will entreat you,
Men shall allure you with bargains untrue,
Don’t worry your pretty little head

Your beliefs will be questioned your integrity doubted,
Your words discarded and your actions mistrusted,
Your heart will be crushed then tossed aside,
No one will care for what you feel inside,
Don’t worry your pretty little head

But that is a long time from now, so go to sleep,
I don’t want to hear a sound; I don’t want to hear a peep,
And when fear comes to your mind, doubts at you are hurled,
Smile, and remember, it is still a wonderful world,
So tonight as you go to bed,
Don’t worry your little head.

An Ode to A Lost Friend

I played a game when I was yet still quite tame,
With my best friend called Silva,
Of pirates and ships and our numerous trips,
To the places we would stop to pilfer.

With a yo oh ho, our faces would glow,
As the world came alive around us,
Pillows as Islands and tables as Highlands,
We fought with hawkers and hunters.

Now, Silva was older, and a great deal bolder,
Than I would ever aspire to be,
He’d get us in trouble, and then on the double,
We’d run off screaming with glee.

Then we would swear, upon a rugged teddy bear,
That forever we would be best of friends,
No mountains or dungeons, dragons or canyons,
Would dictate how it ends.

They say it was cancer, that provided the answer,
To the question that he called his life,
The rest is history, cancer is no mystery,
His death was slow and filled with strife.

On that last day, just before he passed away,
He gave me one of those sly smiles,
“X marks the spot where you shall find your gold pot,
Aargh tis a journey of a thousand miles”

Five years down the lane and when I feel the pain,
I go to our corner so private,
And remember back when, with a paper and a pen,
I could change into a pirate.

A Different Kind of Beauty

The last thing I remember,
Is the smell of freshly fallen Jacaranda,
That sweet scent surrounding my sinuses,
Each flower delicately touching my skin as it fell,
The wind whispering in my ear “I have a story to tell,”
Smiles from the sun cast down in rays, creating shadows,
Restless rabbits running for shelter in their furrows,
Endless possibilities, joy that knew no bounds,
Nature uninterrupted, pure smells, pure sounds.
Then I blinked,
It is all I did; I closed my eyes and opened them,
Just in time to jump out of the way of a speeding truck,
Paper bags replace the flowers on the ground,
Used condoms, discarded wrappers where they were once found,
Buildings tower, look down upon me, filled with pity,
The wind rushes past my ear giddy with felicity,
The sun smiles harder beating on brows,
Businessmen and briefcases look up with frowns,
Everything is rushing now; everyone has a sense of duty,
Some say it’s ugly, I call it a different kind of beauty.