DRY BONES

I am a fighter,
a scarred warrior
in battles unnamed
and wars unknown,
but in which all must fight
else in oblivion vanish.
I fight the grave
with word and deed,
planting a small seed
while I am still wet.
Soon I'll be dead,
rotting in flesh,
fading from living memory,
all the while germinating,
growing forth from the grave
to have my final say
right on death's face,
"You can't handle me, loser!"
Dry bones will speak,
in a tiny graveside whisper,
of the legacy I now seek.
Dry bones will sing,
and in some literary corner
my praises will ring.
Dry bones will testify,
my dedication to purpose
'til the inevitable last sigh.
Dry bones will lay content,
in peace wait on eternity,
so their reward they can collect.
Dry bones will be dry,
but not so their essence
for I watered 'em while I lived.

DESTINY HAD ITS WAY

I had a poem to write,
an idea suddenly bright,
but on paper it cast no light.
Thus black never crossed white

I had a song to sing
in my moment of rejoicing
but tune ever a foreign thing
flew on my croaky breath's wing.

I had a ready smile
to befriend the world awhile,
but it wouldn't walk me the aisle;
deliver me to death in style.

I had dreams to chase,
which'd help me gain face
but I woke to another race,
a race to survive the days.

I had this great desire
to rise ever higher;
but that was a life prior,
whilst I was my own liar.

I wanted to have my way,
never thought it led astray,
but destiny had the last say,
and on right path had my feet stay.

FINALLY, I LOVE NO MORE

Once upon a youthful impulse,

pen and paper had a brief romance.

And this story I repeat was told,

of a valorous heart, in love bold.

Taught to always give his all,

he loved with heart and soul.

Believed until eternity passed

love had their hearts laced.

But an ill wind blew his way

and took her love away.

She spoke of seeing again

and severing the yoking rein

which had had her trapped

(Oh yes, trapped she called it).

And blamed her subdued wit

for time lost, in my arms wrapped. 

So, in a common tergiversation of fate,

I watched love bitterly change to hate

for the storyteller and I were one.

Only difference: he observed, and I loved.

Later, in peace he wrote while I contrived

to repair a broken heart, only when done,

my soul whole, would I too finally be free.

Free to sail again upon the treacherous sea,

whence joys of love are likely met.

Free to seek freedom from regret,

with my sole and last item of leverage,

which is why there’s joy in this message:  

I’ll not love you from the grave, in death,

I will not love you with my dying breath.

I’ll reserve that for my final repentance,

seeking absolution for my sins against me,

And with that one last chance

I’ll have no more love for thee.

BELIEVE AND LET BELIEVE

Dogma is similar to folly in so many ways that it is quite difficult, if not impossible, to draw a clear boundary. There are times I am fully convinced there is none; that dogma is merely an aspect of the other multifaceted mind-numbing monster. We all know that any a fool worth their salt has a manifold ways of expressing their foolishness. It is thus only natural that they stumbled upon dogma and integrated it into their art, if it is politically correct to call it art. Nevertheless, an art it is. It takes such finesse to resist logic and thwart all attempts to change one’s opinion. Interestingly, Solomon gave up on only two intellectual matters. His mind was boggled trying to understand the divine. Similarly, arguments with fools proved too frustrating and he decided to abandon all attempts to affect a fool’s opinions. But in his wisdom he saw it fit to speak against foolishness with the vehemence and veracity of a street preacher.

I share those sentiments and believe it to be my divine duty to speak out against folly. However, I refrain from taking myself too seriously and would advise you do the same. Remember I warned that foolishness is diverse. This article is not immune to folly; in fact it might be pure nonsense camouflaged as thoughtful writing. Further, by merely reading this, you run the risk of being misled by my reasoning wherever it may be erroneous. So do not run around quoting me as if I were the oracle at Delphi, but if you must, please do so at your own discretion.

The most common dogmas in mainstream society hide behind religion. Incidentally, every religion has at least one dogma it holds as one of its core principles. Without such dogma’s most religions would collapse under their own weight. Who would want to deny themselves of pleasure without some guarantee of reward? But since no single religion can offer valid proof of the existence of a transcendental deity (idol worshippers can of course show their gods, but like the others cannot proof the metaphysical abilities of said gods), such rewards for piety and righteousness are only guaranteed by reinforcing dogmas. So I’ll not steal, lie, fornicate or kill because I want to spend eternity in heaven. Further, I will endeavour to avoid any small mistake imaginable because I don’t want any such tiny slip to send me hell’s way. Of course not all religions believe in hell per se, but they all have equivalents, similar in that they are all punitive.

By now you have seen that I, like any other bloke, am not devoid of dogmatic tendencies. Some dogmas are arguably important for a society to exist, perhaps even indispensable if there is to be a semblance of order and co-existence. Ironically, it is for this very reason that some moderation is called for when we try to assert our dogmas, however noble they may seem. Intolerances based on difference of opinion are retrogressive, and only aggravate already volatile relations. What makes a Christian more foolish for believing in God and not Allah? Conversely, is belief in Allah what qualifies the Muslim as foolish? And while you are busy criticising the idol worshippers, remember they can see their god unlike you who only suspects His presence. It is important that we don’t forget that the same measure we use against others may be used against us, and that our animosity need not be directed at individuals. Many a time dogma is as a result of experience, so that experience should be considered the source of our acrimony.

It is a good dogma that is limitable to its owner. If it happens that they are other holders of a similar dogma, well and good. However, if you seem to be the only one with the dogmatic view, don’t judge others for not sharing your perspective. God forbid that you should persecute them. It is not hard to trace most civil wars to egotistical dogmas amongst at least one group. With ingrained convictions which can only be shaken by a weapon buried deep in their flesh, they’ve time and again set out to affirm their dogmas. The destruction from such wars is only matched by the folly that instigated them. Dogma or not, a fool is always a source of his own destruction. The way I see it, we can significantly distance ourselves from foolish dogmas if we can just ‘believe and let believe’.

NOTE: Pardon my use of the male gender. I’ve come to realise that some of my readership is still confused whenever ‘their’ is used to achieve gender neutrality while talking about a singular subject.

RAPED INNOCENCE

I have taken time out over the last three months to reflect on why I have only become a bully so late in life. The interesting thing is that since I began this little introspective exercise, the reasons seem to be popping up from every aspect of my early life. I’ll be reminiscing about my parents, teachers, childhood friends, Pus our pet cat, or VoK the cow and I see a habit I picked up that reinforces my bullying. The self-centred ego wants to shout, “Poetic justice! I finally get to pay back in equal measure.” But my moral upbringing and conscientious disposition make me pity those who now suffer because of my acquired vice.

The blame for all the misfortunes I suffered from bullies can go either of two ways. Whichever the case, the larger burden of the blame always will be, in my opinion, borne by the perpetrators of my sufferings. I, for purely hypocritical reasons, concede to bear the rest of the blame. So I can have a genuine proof of the nobility of my personality. How many people can blame themselves for all the ills they suffered?

I suffered the intolerance of my father, the upper handedness of my teacher, the bullying of my schoolmates, the strictness of my mother and the bossiness of my siblings. Where I do not have a physical scar to show for the pain, I have tears neither fully cried nor properly dried from my heart. My aching soul still remembers how much it craved revenge, any hitting back action. That is probably why, despite my desire to move on, I am stuck at bullying hapless innocent bystanders caught in the crossfire. My senses are still numb and cannot master my faculties; cannot command them to look and move ahead. My mind is unable to forget the past and concentrate on the future. Only a rape victim would fully understand my trauma. This is not downplaying the agony of rape victims. On the contrary, I am trying to attach sufficient weight to the abuse of my personality by friends, teachers, family, all people I should’ve been able to trust, and every Dick, Jack and Harry.

The question the cynical amongst you will ask is, “What did you do to mitigate your suffering?” Nothing. That’s right; I was too innocent, too respectful, too well behaved, too much of all the things I’d been told were honourable in a man. Consequently, I had an ingrained timidity when it came to dealing with adults or anybody in a perceived higher social standing. I knew it was unfair. My harassed intellect could even then formulate viable logic against such treatment. However, I never saw myself standing up to anybody and giving them a piece of my mind. I was not cut out for such highly charged situations. My victimisers had diligently prepared me for meek acceptance of whatever they threw my way.

I suspect I cannot sit still because my behind is still sore from my father’s thrashing. Perhaps I procrastinate because chores remind me of the punishments at school. It could be that I am unforgiving because I knew no mercy from my mother. Is my overbearing attitude simply my way of having my turn? Never has the meaning of ‘the boy is father of the man’ been clearer to me. I was treated like an emotionless object. Consequently, I learned to live with repressed emotions so as to lessen the effect of all hurtful remarks or actions. Smaller wonder that I can now fail to hear the pleadings for mercy or the painful cries from my victims. Pity and mercy are just other emotions, and I learned to shut off from feeling when it suits me. At some time the on/off action was fated to become autonomous. After all, sifting through words to choose which to take seriously is just as hurtful as the words themselves.

All in all, you will most probably be bullied by me at one time or other if you have the misfortune of crossing me at a time when I am not in control of those impulses. I damn hope that you, however, will not let me get away with it. If you do, you will be reinforcing this retrogressive behaviour. Bullies draw both their strength and motivation from our cowardice and submission. Don’t feed this monster that is intent on polluting my nature and vilifying my morals. Please hit back in all ways you know how; you will not be fighting me, rather bullying as a vice.