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
We Are Back at Where We Were
Memory of you running in full force all the way to the end of the jetty, leaped in the air holding your knees, gravity sank you in the reflection of the cloudless sky, stayed with me.
You packed up and left for the concrete jungle city life. Many nights, I listened to your voicemail messages, with deafening clubbing music, slurry speech, and lots ‘I love you, Silly’.
You missed my wedding, my 30th birthday party, my brother’s funeral and my divorce party. I didn’t know how to stay friends with you. You’d never there for me like you used to when you were here.
Every time I sat here, I looked at the jetty, remembering all the laughter,all the time we spent together, wondering what had gone wrong.
Now I am sitting here, with you by my side. I still haven’t had an answer. In my frail voice, I ask, “Why did you leave me and never came back all these years till now?” You wrap me tighter in the shaw and hold me closer, “Because I love you, Silly.” I still don’t quite understand, but I am glad you are back here with me in my last days. My heart is full again.
Ringers
Denise’s Six Sentence Story prompt – Yellowbelly
He was adopted into this town of ringers to work hard in the cattle trade.
Either died in the heat with thirst, or sold himself to the tavern as a slave and prostitute, the choice was obvious.
The Darwin scorching sun fried him into a freckle mess; callouses and blisters kept him in agony; the worse of all, he was belittled by the macho men who called him a Yellowbelly.
He didn’t want to fight back because he was a lot weaker than them, and his God condoned violence.
He prayed to his God like Daniel, three times a day, “Lord, when I am weak, your strength is magnified. Keep me from the temptation to murder them in their sleep, and deliver me from their evil acts. Amen.”
Surely, his God answered his earnest prayer, when the town election came, he was elected to be the local member because he was the only man could read and write.
Pluviophile
Living Poetry word prompt – Park
The silver curtain oscillates
with the rhythm of the autumn wind
drenching every surface
of the park
outside my kitchen window
Vaugely the bird songs come through
in the gaps of house chores
until coffee is ready
and a book is chosen
The inviting moist timber chair
and the wet wrought iron table
in the patio
soaking in the rain
My face meets the ash sky in delight
The coffee cup will soon be overflowing
with laughter
The poetry in the book starts shedding
tears of joy
Flicker of Thoughts 