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The playgrounds were better in our area than the rich ones, because our parents knew how to make stuff. We weren't the kids of the lawyers and the ultra rich - more the builders and the plumbers. So when the government said the schools could get materials for free, ours were the best by year's end. We had it all, conservatories too. We went from sink school to waitlist and it was so ace. It made everyone smile a bit inside, cos for once we were winning.
Where did you go, my love?
Where did you go?
There's this guy,
Who walks,
And talks,
Just like you,
But it's not you.
It's like he got your skin,
And wears it,
Like his own,
But it's not his.
That skin belongs to a man I loved,
On him it was beautiful,
And soft,
And warm,
No longer.
The skin is ashen,
The smile I loved,
Gone,
The protection,
Gone,
Just attacking and cold.
And so,
I feel like a widow,
One with no funeral,
To go to,
To mourn at,
To express my grief...
For the man who wears your skin,
I wish him love,
Long life,
Happiness,
Whoever he is,
Because he looks so much,
Like the one I loved,
And even that shadow,
I love more,
Than most ever love,
In a lifetime.
Did I ever tell you,
That I love you?
No?
Because I do.
It's just that,
My heart broke,
And mended,
With you,
On the outside,
And then he came,
And you left,
Forever.
They call it theft, I say it's ethical redistribution. I'm not going in noone's house, not beating on old ladies or pulling knives - I just do my thing, flow along, enjoy the day and stuff finds me. It's weird like that. But those ones in the suits they don't see it from where we are, that all these stores are their oasis, their bounty, but for us it's a mirage in the desert, cruel. We can see all that stuff we need, our kids too, but it might as well not be there at all. How would them suit people like to wake up and see only cheap unhealthy shit on the shelves and no decent clothes, cos that's our life. When does stealing become something else; I'd say when it's filling a real need. That's all I do, peaceful facilitating of providing for urgent needs. It's the fifth emergency service.
I try to be an ethical thief, people admire Robin Hood, right? I'm not stealing to sell it, or buy drugs or be bad. It's just that my wages don't buy clothes and a roof and heating and pay all the taxes and bills. There are guys a block away that pull 300 an hour when I scrape 10. How are they worth 30 times more than me? Seriously? So I steal. I take the cheapest thing that will do the job and I feed my kids. It ain't luxury; it's survival and if you don't like it you can stick it because I do what I gotta do.
My father had a shield, a great piece of protective armour. For the most part it lay upon the floor near the hearth that kept us warm. As a child it was my boat, or a roof when the rain quenched the earth. It was a comforting thing, though plain and functional. He only ever touched it upon the roar of a foe, the call of one who means to harm. He raised it to keep us safe, his heart beating as steady as when he slept. He was always sure of himself and so having faith in him was easy, we simply did our best to emulate his ways and hope to one day be as great.
Every time I saw Sasha I let myself hate her, feeling nothing if she were sad, feeling angry if she were happy. It took a while to see those feelings as my problem, my envy. All she did was stand there looking athletic with a smile that could light up the world. Then, one spring day I saw the truth, saw that she was lovely. It was my job to make myself better, to take that negative energy I poured in her direction and make it work for me instead, make it positive. I started working out more, eating better, helping others. Sasha was a God-given role model and I'm thankful to finally see her properly.
Somewhere above this sky, born of the colour of summer Iris, swirl galaxies of brilliant stars. On fine days such as this I feel their energy the same way the smile of one I love infuses my soul, raises me higher. So I pause, let my feet join the serenity of quietness, and breathe. That's when I feel it all the more, sense energy from the trees, the birdsong and the very soil upon which I stand. They say the universe is all connected, as are we all, and in this moment it's so tangible, real.
It was Excalibur, shining in the sun as if it were fashioned from the brilliant rays themselves. The broad silvery metal was warmed, as was the rock it rested upon. In all the landscape it was the thing that drew the eye, a symbol of the kind of bravery that enables others to find their own courage, to be more than they thought themselves able to be. Yet, as the moon, it was a reflection of the sunlight, of love's own energy and the duty of protection.
In those difficult times he was the king we needed, down to earth and real. He showed us what he'd learnt in life - the value of nature and the simple things. He drank water, tea, normal things. He loved gardening, growing vegetables with his grandchildren and being in the company of animals. He was humble about his mistakes, obviously scared, but so bold in his will to love deeply. That's the example that helped our nation on the road to a kind of healing, seeing that we too could make amends by living well, respecting both nature and one another.
Kyanne drags her worn pumps over the sidewalk cracks between the bakery and the drug store. Between them she has three-quarter hours but with the travelling and delays between shifts she's out longer than a junior doctor. Low pay and no benefits, casual all the way - great for the employer. Kyanne is a true bargain. The cheque is cut by her university debts, the tuition for a degree that never got her foot in any doors. As she walks she hears her mother telling her not to take an Arts subject, to be a nurse or a dental hygienist. But Kyanne loved colour and shape and form. She dreamed in oils and thought in imagery. She could conjure fantastical ideas no number cruncher ever could, open doors to new ways of thinking. She pushes open the drug store door, painting a smile on her face that almost brought a spasm to her cheek muscles. "Hello."
"Kyanne, mop the floor before you reorganize the back shelf. There's vomit in aisle three."
Under that "Mum's biscuit tin" sky, a hue so gentle between cloud and baby-blue, I watched each bird upon wing. It was one of those spring days with a kiss of coldness that somehow heightened the warm rays of the sun. I paused to admire the flowers, to sense their aromas, to be in the moment with their transient beauty. Beyond all, it was a day of gifts, all their simply for noticing, for letting the steady nature-given happiness in.
Grandpa would remind me how little I can see with my eyes, how much I can see with my heart. He would say that all the eyes call tell you is a result of what happened, never the reason, the intention, the deep emotions that swim below. "It is only with the heart," he said, "that we can see pain, see the sadness that dwells beneath anger." Perhaps when the heart is the eyes, the eyes show love, and we feel connected within, healed, able to walk with compassion.