Commonword Blogs

A café on every corner,
Basked in the radiance
Of a precious history.
City lights
Ancient vantage points
Envelope me as I stroll past.

Rich dialects
Multitude of sounds
Aromas of a nearby sea
Recharge and invigorate the day.

Apartments filled with laughter
Kids' faces alive with mischief,
They play, barefoot.
The sun their perennial companion.

The ancient citadels inform me
Of a once infamous past,
Where two faiths collided
And the battle to prevail raged.

The market place is ablaze
With love and passion,
Gestures of both
In abundant supply.

He walked down the corridor,
My mum's hand tightly locked in his.
The cold walls radiated their eerie chill,
He was about to receive a cruel message.

He never was one for talking much,
Now in his late sixties, the wrinkles
Merged into the natural contours of his face,
Locking in the anticipation of what was to unfold.

Filing into the clinic, the two of them
Waited to hear the results of the tests.
His fragile build struggled to carry his weight,
Fear rose in his eyes, brow moistened in anticipation.

The announcement made, his mouth dried,

Taxpayers paying the price,
Through the incompetence
Of the privileged few,
Water, electricity, food and the like
Too pricey to maintain.

Ordinary folk selling their cars,
Losing their homes,
Redundant from their jobs,
When will it end?

The courage to be themselves
Diminishing fast,
Rising up to be tested,
The masses unite.

Bankers' blunders,
Ministers' malpractices,
Weighing heavy
On the consciences
Of the righteous.

Working into the grave,
Pensions that don't stretch
To even the most basic of rights
To be properly fed and heated.

This is your chance

Night deepens, the stars in full display,
Street lights feeble, as if blinded by the dark.
You walk home, a carefree swagger
Evident for all to witness.

New York skyline, awash with lights and energy,
Yet on this street, there is not a soul to be found.
Ample opportunity for this perpetrator to get his prey,
Forever leaving questions unanswered.

Alert yet dreamy, memories of a fun night
Fresh in your eyes. Native attire
Envelopes around you in a comforting embrace.
Your smile widens as you approach your destination.

A car approaches, its speed quickens as it gets closer.

Vibrant trees gleam this balmy April morning,
Leaves a rich green, reflections clear in their hue.
Cool lemonade quenches a dry palate,
Its flavour infilitrating torpid taste buds.

Cut grass permeates its aroma,
Kids in lively chatter,
Whacking footballs in the park.
Music erupts from worn-out stereos,
Kicking off a carnival of cacophonous sounds.
Life, in all its joyous majesty, recharged.

(c)2011, NZ

There are many observations to be made from a book cover. There is the classic observation of "Never judge a book by its cover", but often the very nature of our own engagement with a particular book actually does stem from the cover itself. We look for colourful artwork and typeface to entice us towards the particular text in question. It draws us in, seduces us with its vibrance, and ultimately determines whether or not we actually venture beyond the cover and introduction.

I still feel it.
I still feel it.
I still feel it.

The sadness, the anger, the loss,
Yet, I'm forever grateful for the years we had.
Hit and run on a New York street, committed by a paranoid, tunnel-visioned person,
Intent on instant destruction, just for the colour of your skin, for being proud of your own identity.

9/11 still rocks me, were it not for this, you'd still be with us.

I am sick with rage and disgust, even today.

My only consolation being you didn't suffer when you passed away.

Yes, I still feel it.

Vibrant trees gleam this balmy April morning,
Leaves a rich green, reflections clear in their hue.
Cloudy lemonade quenches a dry palate,
With its refreshing crispness,
The flavour infiltrating the taste buds.

Freshly-cut grass permeates its aroma
All around, kids in lively chatter
As they play football in the park.
Music blares from worn-out stereos,
Kicking off a vibrant carnival of fresh sounds.
Life, in all its joyous majesty, begins.

(c)2011, NZ

You stare at your reflection,
Eyes saturated with broken sleep,
Blood vessels about to rupture
Through exhaustion.
It's not as dark as you think.

Loss is normal,
Your departed friend knows this.
He reaches out to console you,
Only you don't realise.
He pleads with you to witness
The true picture,
It's not as dark as you think.

Appetite non-existent,
In spite of raw hunger,
Stomach spinning with distress.
Hair tousled and and stiff,
Like a bale of hay
Only fit to be tossed aside,
It's not as dark as you think.

Morning journey fraught
With queues and indecision,

Invisible Truth

Chapter One

Manchester, England, 16 May 1997.

My name is Matt, I'm 22 and I'm lost. What I'm in search of, even I don't fully comprehend.

For a Friday morning in late spring, something unnatural was stirring. There was a definite chill in the vicinity as an incessant wind jousted relentlessly with the curtains, lapping viciously against the clean, almost clinically white window frames, the windows themselves only slightly ajar.