The Showdown

This is my rather lame attempt to make these poems look like guns. I am about as anti- gun as they get. I won't regale you with a litany of examples of my cause, because you'll likely scroll past them anyway. Just let it suffice that some Americans hold onto that "right to bear arms" with everything they've got. But I have another blog that addresses this issue already and redundancy is not the way to garner supporters.

That being said, it's quite obvious that I am using firearm control as a metaphor for the battle that many are waging, and that is the war against AIDS.

Now I realise that, given a cocktail of antiviral drugs can potentially offer patients a normal, or at least close to normal lifetimes. They are expensive and not everyone can pay for them.  This has caused many to believe that a diagnosis of HIV,  the virus that causes AIDS was no big deal anymore. True, when this horrid epidemic was first introduced to the world by way of actor Rock Hudson, wh…

The Unmasked Concubine

The Unmasked Concubine

The visitors  no-one wants                                                 
They came in twos, side by side
The grim-faced officers, hats in hands
Spoke the words that sliced through your heart.                     

Ma-am, there's been an accident.
Is this your son? A high school photo.
Frozen in time; Just as your heart will be.
You nodded, your face  crumbling into dust.

Gus, a bright kid: Straight A's, a gentle soul
With loyal friends--over-achieving to make Dad proud.
Gus's father, Gilbert Hartman, expected perfection.
Goading his progeny with triggering results.

Sadly, when Alice Hartman called her husband
Sobbing uncontrollably, she pulled him to her:
"Our son is dead! His car was hit head on!"
Gilbert just stood there, facial muscles intact.

"Did you hear me? Don't you care that Gus's dead?"
Oddly, Gilbert's reaction never materialised.
No tears for his only son. What was wrong with him?
No remorse at all,  …

My Brother's Keeper

This past year had been extremely stressful and exhausting for Neil Tennant. It was 1988 and he was thinking that he was beginning to regret getting into the music business. Sure, there were a lot of perks that accompanied musicians who have what it takes to be a pop star, but the unending pressure and record company demands take some of the fun out of it. The sleepless nights are no picnic either. Damn you're a pathetic piece of work, Neil," Neil was standing in front of the mirror and talking to himself.

It was autumn, Neil's least favourite season. Everything was slowing down and dying: Tree leaves, which had the ability to be both brilliant and crumbling--bursting with beautiful colours that, seemingly overnight, tumbled to the ground, losing their lives and acquiring an ugly brown shade with the consistency of paper mache  Talk about a bubbly optimist.

 Neil glanced at his watch and realised that he was late for the music studio-----He was supposed to be an hour ear…


Do you hear that pitiful scream?
Or did it fly in and out of your ears again?
This dangerous dance we've been
Doing has worn out your welcome                 

Tired and disappointed.
Disillusioned--I'd have to be
The definition of wool-pulling
To have any compassion left for you.

Twisted and matted: Your heart's
Been in need of washing out by now
And stop the doe-eyed manipulation.
You need to learn, once and for all

That the world doesn't like to be tamed.
For years and years, I looked after you
Was tied up for years and years.
So what can you offer me? Nothing.

Self-absorbed---but not letting anything
Sink in. You're not a stupid person.
You simply lost the plot and now
That brittle landscape's already turned yellow.

After staring at his reflection in disgust and hatred

Neil grabbed a large rock and pitched it
Into that reviled and despised object of rage
Having done so. he then shattered into a thousand pieces

Leaving the mirror smugly intact.