What if
I don’t see a
a blue sky
through all the grey tears
What if
rain is more than
appreciation
non stop till
it floods the land
and I don’t see
green hills
What if
the spring flowers
lose their vibrancy
the autumn leaves
fade in a flash
winter overatays
my welcome
What if
black is too supressing
white is too bland
and grey always
colours my soul
Author: Cassa Bassa
🇦🇺🇨🇳 inquisitive, observant, witty, a thinker, was a misfit child 😊
Blindness
Jealousy, insecurity
cast over logic
like blindness
Venom spills over
from your heart
onto your fingertips
Abusive words dance
along with nonsense
message after message
I cannot
make a blind woman see
Only God can
Shut out the white noise
Peace is with me
Rain
The rain makes her feel pretty
In the mirror reflection of
A subdued and purified backdrop
Softly glow cheeks
Luscious parting lips
Reciting poetry
Like falling petals
Shells
I long to be
these little shells
laze around
on a bed of moss
wearing the marks
of the ocean
bath in the healing sun
I Once Sang
I was once in the school choir, then the district choir, and I sang the leading part. There were performances, and they were a blur.
What I remember though, clearly, the eccentric conductor with wiry hair threw the baton on me, it hit the corner of my head. It didn’t hurt but I was shocked, so as the rest of the choir. We stopped in the middle of the rehearsal. He literally drove the kids out the door and commanded me to stay.
He signalled a spot next to the piano for me to stand. He started to play the piano and I sang again and again where I was out of tune. I could read the frustration on his face, his eyebrows particularly.
I knew what frustrated him, me singing out of tune. I wished I knew how to fix it. I couldn’t tell I was in tune or not. I only knew when the whole choir was doing listening exercise, I was the only one lagged behind. Everybody else seemed to be able to tell what three piano keys he played at the same time. But me, nada, I couldn’t grasp it.
I had no idea why I was singing the lead part. I did what I was told for being a very compliant child. I was demanded to practice and practice until his eyebrows relaxed and his face softened. Then he called the rest of the choir back in and carried on with the rehearsal.
I did it for three years until my father told me there was no future for me to continue in the choir because we had no family connections in the entertainment industry, and I had no real talent in singing. I didn’t disagree and I was glad that the baton was no longer a threat.
In my last choir practice, the eccentric conductor said to me in a grumbling voice, “You are wasting your talent by quitting. Do you want me to have a word with your father?” I replied in a very quiet voice, “My father said I have no real talent in singing and we have no family connections. I think my father is right.”
He started to play the piano and signalled me to sing. I did so compliantly till the practice session finished. That was the end of my singing.
A Greener Childhood
Living Poetry prompt – Discovery
Looking for my lost childhood
deep in the luscious green
I was once delighted
in the gossamer
of my innocent face
looking into the reflection
of the calm river
With each erosion of the bank
I grew older
as the tree trunks grew thicker
until the familiar path
became unrecognisable
overtaken by years of absence
Searching but not finding
the same joy
when a world discovered
to be greyer
beyond the forest gate
Unrepeated History
Denise’s Six Sentence Story prompt – Petrichor
Petrichor, fresh cut grass, lavenders in summer evenings, are fond memories of her childhood.
The wooden spoon landing on her shins, her mother’s sobbing, bottles being emptied into the trash bin, is the history she is determined not to repeat.
She sits in the garden with her children to feel the winter sun and smell the crisp air, plays silly little games with them, teaches them about plants and the earth, sharing precious moments with them, before they grow up too soon.
She is content with having very little, scraping by each week, because she knows spending time with her children is more valuable than more wealth but poorer with time.
She never looks back at the house she once lived in, filled with expensive art works and furniture, and malnutrition of love.
When she heard her neighbours gossiping about her living on welfare, or her children turning up at school with summer uniforms in the middle of the winter, she smiles and reminds herself that she has given all she has to her children, including time and love which she has never received.
Sweetheart
Denise’s Six Sentence Story prompt – Box
My nose is blocked, and I keep sneezing.
My 4 year old son is running towards me with his arms throwing in the air. I quickly grab a box of tissues and wedge it between he and I, ‘Sweetheart, don’t come near me, I got a cold.”
He squashes the tissue box, wraps his arms around my neck and kisses my nose, “Mummy, you’re worth catching a cold for.”
My heart melts into a goo. My eyes are red and moist with a mix of a cold and an overwhelming feeling of love.
Dream
Last night
I dreamed of sex
It had
An aftertaste of ocean and watermelon
A smell of ambergris and bookshelves
A sound of crashing waves and paging books
Heat and moisture stayed on my skin
I think
I must have made love to poetry
***This poem is inspired by Bree’s poetry book “All Our Secrets”.
More Reviews Are In
A couple more reviews are in for my 1st book ‘The Scars We Don’t See”.
Please check out my Author Page: Cassa Bassa on Amazon
Flicker of Thoughts 