Monthly Archives: June 2014

Letter to the Fireplace

“I have songs in my head, and sometimes not just one but up to two or three. I have words in my head, popping up from nowhere and lingering, so many that if I could catch them all they might make an amazing story; but, like people and autumn leaves in the wind they often just pass by leaving little trace if any that they were once there. I would tell you I know too many words, I speak two and an almost-half languages with a few words of others floating around. For example, I know three ways of saying hello in Japanese. And because I know too many words, I often forget the simplest ones and muddle up the others and I get unusual blanks. I have too many worlds and stories in my head that I usually forget this one. I have people in my head, not often ones that really exist but often that come from stories I like. They talk to me, we have adventures, or we don’t. There is a small place in my head for the people I love where I remember those ones, who they were, who they are, who they could be and what they mean or meant to me. I tend to forget fights or grudges, either completely or just enough to still remember them when I need them. Things I don’t want to remember are hidden in the Tartarus of my brain. I don’t want people to know who I am, because it makes me vulnerable and I know some wouldn’t understand. I tend to stay away from people because most will judge me and I’ve always been shy. I often have difficulty staring reality in the face, I’m usually never completely there except for a few rare times when I’m confident enough about it. I can only sit still when I’m not really there, when I’m dreaming of something and my mind is far away, if I’m not I’m always twitching and fidgeting and looking around as if I were watching an invisible fly.
I don’t know if I want to change, but I don’t know if it’s possible to live like this forever. I don’t even know if I can change. And it wouldn’t be easy.
But no one can see this deep in the depths of my heart, so none will ever know.
Or could they?”

Tiger felt silly now, writing a letter to no one at all. What did she think she could achieve? But she knew that writing had helped clear her mind. So, before going to bed, she scrunched it up softly and watched it burn in the warm fire. With a clearer head and a well kept but not heavy secret she left again to catch people and autumn leaves in her dreams with floating songs and loved ones.

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Posted by on 12 June 2014 in Banzaï


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I stood on my tiptoes,
Trying to see more clearly what was hiding
In those baskets too high
For me.
I reached out to feel the fruits:

The apples smooth-and-slightly-sticky,
Red green an yellow like
Jumbled up traffic lights.

The pears,
All pear-shaped
Except for one,
More potato-shaped
Than anything else.

The strawberries,
Red and green some mostly green
Some are hard and some are

Lellow and curvy
They look quite bouncy
But they’re not really…

Small and soft with two bumps like
Little bums!
But they’re orange
And I’ve never seen
An orange bum.

Next cherry
Mum said
But I like cherries…

But in the cherries there’s something else
A small hand looking for cherries
Touches my small hand
Looking for cherries…
Giggling we quickly take
Our hands away
(Mine has a bit of cherry juice on it now)
And peek under the tablecloth:
It’s a little curly girl with red all over her face
Hands and dress.
Giggling we run away
Except that we run
The same way
To our mums talking and
Being very annoyed when we touch them with our
Sticky hands.
Silly little girls
They say.


Posted by on 12 June 2014 in Banzaï


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DragonSpark speakeasy 165 – Park Politics

I was walking down a park pathway. To my right was a plaza, overlooking the city. Brussels stood there, in the distance, as a steel and glass monument to Democracy and Freedom. The city housed the EU parliament, core of the world’s biggest trade block. She was the phoenix that had risen from the ashes of last century’s conflicts, and I am a cog in that machine. Men and women like me come here, dressed in Italian suits and silk dresses, with ideals of peace and prosperity, in order to make life better for those who live within our borders. Recently however, our machine has gone rusty. Some of the cogs that have been added to the machine in recent elections bring with them ideals that threw Europe into a fiery battle with itself 75 years ago.
Politicians now days focus more on themselves and each other and less on those who elected them. Politics no longer deserve the title “the people’s business”. It’s become a game played by the selfish and ruthless, the only true idealists being on the far ends of the political spectrum.
I breathed a sigh of despair as I kept walking down the path. Petals were raining down from the trees, drinking in sunlight like a sponge, making their surface vibrant with colour. Feeling the heat of the sun on my shoulders, I took off my tie and undid the top button of my shirt in an attempt to cool down. Blazer still on my back despite the sun, I kept walking, my mind absorbed in thoughts of world politics. Tensions were rising everywhere on this world of ours. There was plenty to think about.
China and Japan were arguing over claims within the China Sea. Russia and the US were once again enemies because of Ukraine. The never-ending Palestino-Israeli conflict still had NorthAfrica holding its breath, even in the aftermath of the Arab Spring. Syria was still a battleground. French involvement in Africa’s wars only worsened the situation in the area. And, as if the crisis wasn’t enough to weaken the EU, she now had extreme right populists and neo-Nazis within her parliament. The dreams of those who created this institution were coming apart, and we are powerless to stop the engines, to turn the ship around before it hits the iceberg. The ones holding the stern, the people, have lost interest in the very ship they’re sailing.
I leaned over the plaza, elbows resting on the guardrail. The city was there, before me.
What would I say if the souls of Europe’s founding fathers came to me, asking why mobs of angry people were walking the streets, shouting the virtues of fascist ideals through loudspeakers? How would I justify the widening gap between rich and poor? How do I explain the mass distrust in classical parties that allowed the rise of extremists? What do I answer when they ask if I felt good about the state of the world, knowing that I had a part in its shaping?
How do they react when I say “We gave it everything we had, but it wasn’t enough”?
I slammed my right fist on top of the guard rail and spat a curse. After a moment I checked my watch. The debates would resume in half an hour. I needed to prepare myself to face new foes in the battle of words, foes that hadn’t spoken this significantly since 1933.

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Posted by on 9 June 2014 in Dragonspark, Speakeasy


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Speakeasy 165 – Madness

The stars shone so bright it seemed like day and they were blinding, the birds flew so high they were but bright specks in the sky and their song was so loud it could be heard from miles around and everywhere bright splashing colours invaded the space around me; the grass was a sparkling emerald the tree seemed twice as big and loomed as crimson drops of blood fell everywhere like soft blossom petals to cover everything they touched and all around me there was no-one, just the voices in my head, taunting, “We gave it everything we had, but it wasn’t enough” and in that scene too bright there was something so horribly wrong and ugly and the tears of one thousand dead people fell from the sky too bright full of stars and onto the grass, ruby smothering the emerald and the blue sky that wasn’t blue wept and all the ghosts in my head were crying out and I saw I was confined between invisible blood-red walls and the tree was blank as it shed its tears like a million little stars and crystals falling like feathers startlingly red while the voices in my head screamed “Murderer!”.
And everything died down, the stars dimmed and fell to ashes at my feet, the grass grew yellow and came to dust and the blood kept falling, it couldn’t stop falling and I was falling, tumbling through the void of the colour red: a million different shades,
a million different ways to die.

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Posted by on 9 June 2014 in Banzaï, Speakeasy


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Garden Shed


I liked this poem, yesterday’s was good too 🙂

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Posted by on 7 June 2014 in Daily poem



DragonSpark – Speakeasy 164 – Tavern

“There’s no warning rattle at the door.” he said, his voice booming out of his ribs like a rhino out of a cage, “That means you can come in without knocking!” Gearan was a thirty some man built like a golem. He had shoulders like an ox’s and arms that could lift almost twice his own weight. His legs were hard as steel, making him more nimble than most. He had a large beard that covered most of his face and long auburn hair that fell behind his shoulders. Gearan had built and owned the tavern before the city grew and engulfed it. He had gone from fighting boars and raiders with his battle-axes to fighting scrummy kids looking for trouble with wooden clubs and a rusty firearm. His tavern was known throughout the city as being one of the safest, cosiest place to spend the night.
That night, Gearan’s booming voice welcomed an unexpected guest. Outside his door stood a small, cloaked figure, feminine of frame, the curves of her cloak revealing the fit and strong body of a warrior. She seemed puzzled, as if unaccustomed to the ragtag nature of a structure revamped to fit within the metropolis. She stepped in, obeying the bulky host. Gearan frowned in surprise.
The girl wore the imperial army’s Renova crest on the chest of her doublet. She was an elite solider, yet she couldn’t be older than 17. “Too young to be exposed to wars, the poor child”, Gearan thought, “Unless of course…”
“Hey girl”, he spoke out with his deep voice, “Do you know that wearing fake army gear is a felony in the eyes of imperial law?” The man’s voice was still echoing throughout the hall as the girl shot the man a dark look. At this point, most of the tables had gone quiet. Most of the eyes in the room were glancing between the small, cloaked girl and the massive host.
The girl sent the back of her cloak flying with her left arm, revealing a scabbard. With a gesture that seemed natural, she drew her blade gracefully. She walked up to Gearan, who stood his ground, not bulging at the sight of naked steel. She then silently spun her sword around, putting the handle in front of the giant host, holding the weapon by the edge of the guard.
“Gearan the weapon’s smith”, she spoke, her voice soft as velvet yet cold as ice, “surely your expertise in this field will confirm that my tool cannot belong to any other organization. Gearan grabbed the instrument after a moment of surprise. He didn’t like to remember that man, the young engineering genius that permitted some of the greatest advances in weapon’s technology since the discovery of steel. He didn’t like to remember the cold, cynical solider that developed tools capable of genocide and mass destruction. He didn’t like to remember the man he used to be, especially when the memory was forced upon him by others. This girl had done her homework well if she knew this.
He turned his attention towards the blade. It was a rectangular piece of black steel with a slot carved out in the middle. One of the narrow sides of the rectangle was forged and bolted onto an intricate red guard decorated with golden curves. “The army’s colours”, noticed Gearan. The guard protected a long leather grip. The three other sides of the rectangle had been sharpened into deadly edges.
He held the tool in hand. Even if, to him, it was more a battle dagger than a sword, he could tell the thing was amazingly well forged and better balanced than any street smith’s work. It could have been one of his own. Maybe it was. Maybe that’s why the warrior girl wanted him to hold it. Gearan chuckled at the thought. Little did she know that weapons didn’t have that kind of meaning to him.
“What’s funny?” the little girl said, badly hiding irritation, “I give you a blade, and you laugh?” The big man shifted his weight, relaxing his muscles. “I don’t know what you want little girl, but I am not stepping in those shoes again” He had just finished speaking when the city’s sirens went off. Explosions could be heard in the distance. “Are you sure?” said the little girl, her face hidden below her hood, her tone showing no surprise, yet infected with a hint of fear, “Because we’re about to need your skills desperately…”

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Posted by on 3 June 2014 in Dragonspark, Speakeasy


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Speakeasy 164 – Ghost Stories

There is no warning rattle at the door. There is no howling of the wind. There are no white sheets when they come. Ghosts. They just appear. Some take the form they had before they died, some alter it but it’s easier for them to take over animals, especially small ones, especially birds. Small birds. People don’t notice them, I think I’m the only one to see dead people. Of course at first I didn’t know, it was mainly kind people, worried about me but then I met a guy who hated to lie. So he told me the truth. And he told me how he died. Dead people are usually harmless but when they are angry they can appear near your bed and kill you. Of course that’s very hard for them to do.
My best friend is dead, I’m pretty sure she’s the first dead person I’ve known though I can’t be sure. She’s often near me and we talk a lot. At night she always makes sure someone’s beside me if she can’t be there. If she weren’t dead I would have married her later. She knows everything. She’s the only girl worth existing and sometimes I wonder why she sticks around a “little boy” like me. Of course I’m a big boy now but people often get it wrong.
People, living people I mean, say I’m weird. They think I talk to myself. They’re weird, why can’t they see ghosts? I don’t like boys my age. I don’t like girls. I don’t like grown-ups, I don’t like babies, I don’t like puzzles, books are boring, drawing is too long and I don’t like games that involve other people. I like talking to dead people. They know things. They tell me stories about everything. I want to be a pirate when I grow up. They tell me pirate stories and all sorts of other ones too. When I grow up, I want to be a dead pirate and my best friend can be my parrot.

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Posted by on 3 June 2014 in Banzaï, Speakeasy


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I think I’m not the only one who can regrettably relate to said cousin 😉
That was today’s poem that I wanted to share with you 😀

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Posted by on 2 June 2014 in Daily poem



Shadorma – Fossils


In the Alps
The world is still wild,
Rocks jutting
Out like teeth
From a giant, ancient shark
Many rows of spikes.

Rainbows fade,
In the mist, rolling
Down in wisps
From the heights.
The ominous jagged cliffs,
Black, of Mordor loom.

You could still
Imagine beacons
Lighting up
The mountains
Calling for help that won’t come
For none’s at the end.

Gnarled and twisted trees,
Parts of snow,
Mist, rain, fog,
“Trespassers, you shall not pass!”
Say they, staring still.

Lost pillars
Still standing, not knowing,
What they’re for
So small in the mountains tall

Rolling down,
The human
Is a spark
In the lifetime of this proud,
Giant wilderness.

Awed still now
Of these rocks far gone
I sit here
In wonder
Counting my fingers
For every
Until every line is right
And ’till all is said.

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Posted by on 1 June 2014 in Banzaï, Shadorma


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