The singing whale, oblivious to our wonder
the ones left behind
the little ones whose world has gone
the books no-one will get to read
the weary moon wary of the spotlight
the snug earth around the buried bones
those who have nowhere to go
the tiny country hated from all sides
the gun that wanted to be a plough
the arm blown off from the elbow in the shelter
the snake that dreamed of being a butterfly
the soldier who just wants to be a yoga teacher
the things we see but do not learn from
the clouds that hold no grudges
the tiny ones buried in the rubble
the ladybug whose house is on fire and children are gone
teeth and rings that survive death
the stretcher hauling the hurt
those who came to dance and never will again
the wives and mothers who wait for news
the story of sorrow, reinvested
the mending wall and the folded wings
the desperate truth and the secret chord
the boy asking, ‘Safta, how did Ima die?’
the grandmother who cannot answer
those who knew it was over and texted ‘I love you, I’m sorry’
the ship we wait to come and carry us home
the hands that pick the fruit now
the bitter, bitten apple
the weddings that will never be
baby bear whose porridge, chair and bed were ransacked by a white girl
the righteous among us
those to whom we subcontract our violence so we can be pacifists
the orange balloons that stand for the babies taken
the terrible things that still lie ahead
those that will never forgive us
those we will never forgive no matter how we try
those left out of the story
the friends who are friends no more
the starving and homeless no-one will shelter
Chicken Little who wanted to stop the sky from falling
the sky that fell – how could a chicken stop it?
the boy who returned from a run to find his whole family slain
those betrayed by God
the sisters who stayed silent
the mothers who still don’t know when the night will end
the day before it was too late
the narrow bridge we walk
the holy among us still
the unreturned
those who even now, pour beauty back into the world
the poets stitching words to the wounds.
the dead that want us to live because they cannot anymore.
the ones left behind
the little ones whose world has gone
the books no-one will get to read
the weary moon wary of the spotlight
the snug earth around the buried bones
those who have nowhere to go
the tiny country hated from all sides
the gun that wanted to be a plough
the arm blown off from the elbow in the shelter
the snake that dreamed of being a butterfly
the soldier who just wants to be a yoga teacher
the things we see but do not learn from
the clouds that hold no grudges
the tiny ones buried in the rubble
the ladybug whose house is on fire and children are gone
teeth and rings that survive death
the stretcher hauling the hurt
those who came to dance and never will again
the wives and mothers who wait for news
the story of sorrow, reinvested
the mending wall and the folded wings
the desperate truth and the secret chord
the boy asking, ‘Safta, how did Ima die?’
the grandmother who cannot answer
those who knew it was over and texted ‘I love you, I’m sorry’
the ship we wait to come and carry us home
the hands that pick the fruit now
the bitter, bitten apple
the weddings that will never be
baby bear whose porridge, chair and bed were ransacked by a white girl
the righteous among us
those to whom we subcontract our violence so we can be pacifists
the orange balloons that stand for the babies taken
the terrible things that still lie ahead
those that will never forgive us
those we will never forgive no matter how we try
those left out of the story
the friends who are friends no more
the starving and homeless no-one will shelter
Chicken Little who wanted to stop the sky from falling
the sky that fell – how could a chicken stop it?
the boy who returned from a run to find his whole family slain
those betrayed by God
the sisters who stayed silent
the mothers who still don’t know when the night will end
the day before it was too late
the narrow bridge we walk
the holy among us still
the unreturned
those who even now, pour beauty back into the world
the poets stitching words to the wounds.
the dead that want us to live because they cannot anymore.
Author, writing mentor, retreat leader. I’m an internationally bestselling author of nine books, inspirational speaker and writing mentor. I’ve had books published in just about every genre- fiction, non-fiction, self-help, memoir – by some of the top publishing houses in the world. My books have sold over 650 000 copies and have been translated in a range of languages. Two of my books have been #1 Amazon bestsellers, and at one point the German edition of Secret Mothers’ Business outsold Harry Potter- crazy, right?
This writing journey over one week will serve those who are new to writing and don’t know where to begin or what to write about. As well as seasoned writers, we all need to reignite an old flame with words to see if there’s any chemistry.
Join me for my next 7 Day Free Writing Challenge and learn simple but profound writing tricks.
Categories: Articles, Poems
