Breathtakingly Beautiful

I went on to Grooveshark to find a song that I wanted to blog... And stumbled on this treasure again- To This Day, by Shane Koyczan. Just like the first time I heard it, it was exactly what I needed to hear, and now I feel teary but better. However, I think my early night might be taken over by listening to as many of his beautiful words as I can find!

To This Day- Shane Koyczan

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A Good Day (Kait Rokowski)

This is a poem by Kait Rokowski. It is far beyond amazing, and aptly sums up so much. It's one that's touched me really personally, and I hope others find it just as beautiful. As it explains- when someone has issues with their mental health, the whole definitions of words such as 'good' begin to change. You no longer rate things the same way; to recover, you have to look at the world differently, in light of your struggles. As I said in the post about being ill, I'm surprised that my mood's stayed reasonably high- and that makes it a good day, because I could be worse. There are days when nothing much happens, when maybe I just revise all day or tidy or something like that- but that's good, because there were times too when that didn't happen. It's a different definition of a good day: but it's a good day.

Yesterday, I spent 60 dollars on groceries,
Took the bus home,
Carried both bags with two good arms back to my studio apartment
And cooked myself dinner.
You and I may have different definitions of a good day.
This week, I paid my rent and my credit card bill,
Worked 60 hours between my two jobs,
Only saw the sun on my cigarette breaks
And slept like a rock.
Flossed in the morning,
Locked my door,
And remembered to buy eggs.
My mother is proud of me.
It is not the kind of pride she brags about at the golf course,
She doesn’t combat topics like, ”My daughter got into Yale”
with, ”Oh yeah, my daughter remembered to buy eggs”
But she is proud.
See, she remembers what came before this.
The weeks where I forgot how to use my muscles,
How I would stay as silent as a thick fog for weeks.
She thought each phone call from an unknown number was the notice of my suicide.
These were the bad days.
My life was a gift that I wanted to return.
My head was a house of leaking faucets and burnt-out lightbulbs,
Depression, is a good lover.
So attentive; has this innate way of making everything about you.
And it is easy to forget that your bedroom is not the world,
That the dark shadows your pain casts is not mood-lighting.
It is easier to stay in this abusive relationship than fix the problems it has created.
Today, I slept in until 10,
Cleaned every dish I own,
Fought with the bank,
Took care of paperwork.
You and I might have different definitions of adulthood.
I don’t work for salary, I didn’t graduate from college,
But I don’t speak for others anymore,
And I don’t regret anything I can’t genuinely apologize for.
And my mother is proud of me.
I burnt down a house of depression,
I painted over murals of greyscale,
And it was hard to rewrite my life into one I wanted to live
But today, I want to live.
I didn’t salivate over sharp knives,
Or envy the boy who tossed himself off the Brooklyn bridge.
I just cleaned my bathroom,
did the laundry,
called my brother.
Told him, “it was a good day.”

As I said at the top, this poem is by Kait Rokowski- please please go check her out!!

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Instructions For A Bad Day- Shane Koyczan

I've just had one of those moments where you find exactly the thing you need to find... Read this, and I hope that if you need it, it'll help- if you don't, maybe it'll still give you something to think about. This poet is phenomenal.

There will be bad days. Be calm. Loosen your grip, opening each palm slowly now. Let go. Be confident. Know that now is only a moment, and that if today is as bad as it gets, understand that by tomorrow, today will have ended. Be gracious. Accept each extended hand offered, to pull you back from the somewhere you cannot escape. Be diligent. Scrape the gray sky clean. Realize every dark cloud is a smoke screen meant to blind us from the truth, and the truth is whether we see them or not - the sun and moon are still there and always there is light. Be forthright. Despite your instinct to say "it's alright, I'm okay" - be honest. Say how you feel without fear or guilt, without remorse or complexity. Be lucid in your explanation, be sterling in your oppose. If you think for one second no one knows what you've been going through; be accepting of the fact that you are wrong, that the long drawn and heavy breaths of despair have at times been felt by everyone - that pain is part of the human condition and that alone makes you a legion. We hungry underdogs, we risers with dawn, we dissmisser's of odds, we blesser's of on – we will station ourselves to the calm. We will hold ourselves to the steady, be ready player one. Life is going to come at you armed with hard times and tough choices, your voice is your weapon, your thoughts ammunition – there are no free extra men, be aware that as the instant now passes, it exists now as then. So be a mirror reflecting yourself back, and remembering the times when you thought all of this was too hard and you'd never make it through. Remember the times you could have pressed quit – but you hit continue. Be forgiving. Living with the burden of anger, is not living. Giving your focus to wrath will leave your entire self absent of what you need. Love and hate are beasts and the one that grows is the one you feed. Be persistent. Be the weed growing through the cracks in the cement, beautiful - because it doesn't know it's not supposed to grow there. Be resolute. Declare what you accept as true in a way that envisions the resolve with which you accept it. If you are having a good day, be considerate. A simple smile could be the first-aid kit that someone has been looking for. If you believe with absolute honesty that you are doing everything you can - do more. There will be bad days, Times when the world weighs on you for so long it leaves you looking for an easy way out. There will be moments when the drought of joy seems unending. Instances spent pretending that everything is alright when it clearly is not, check your blind spot. See that love is still there, be patient. Every nightmare has a beginning, but every bad day has an end. Ignore what others have called you. I am calling you friend. Make us comprehend the urgency of your crisis. Silence left to its own devices, breed's silence. So speak and be heard. One word after the next, express yourself and put your life in the context – if you find that no one is listening, be loud. Make noise. Stand in poise and be open. Hope in these situations is not enough and you will need someone to lean on. In the unlikely event that you have no one, look again. Everyone is blessed with the ability to listen. The deaf will hear you with their eyes. The blind will see you with their hands. Let your heart fill their news-stands, Let them read all about it. Admit to the bad days, the impossible nights. Listen to the insights of those who have been there, but come back. They will tell you; you can stack misery, you can pack disappear you can even wear your sorrow – but come tomorrow you must change your clothes. Everyone knows pain. We are not meant to carry it forever. We were never meant to hold it so closely, so be certain in the belief that what pain belongs to now will belong soon to then. That when someone asks you how was your day, realize that for some of us – it's the only way we know how to say, be calm. Loosen your grip, opening each palm, slowly now – let go.

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This Man Deserves Waay More Recognition

***This post is scheduled***

Another one from possibly the best spoken word artist ever ever ever. Go find more by him and fall in love with him, like I (fairly obviously!) have.

More Often Than Sometimes

If I knew what I know now then, way back when we first met, I’d point to the sunset and say, “I drew that for you  Every now and then you can catch it wrinkling in the rain.”
See, I can talk a good game from the stage, but if you want to gauge the romantic things said when we’re messing up the bed, the best I can give you is, “Oh my god, we’re totally humping.” Regardless  there’s something beautiful about stating the obvious. All of us do it in the moments when we can’t believe it we have to say it. It’s like pinching yourself to make sure you’re awake. Take for example something as simple as touching someone; we so often say, “You’re so soft”. And the last person to touch them may have said it for the twenty-eighth time, but today, I’m number twenty-nine. And I’m not saying it for her benefit, I’m saying it for mine. Because there’s almost seven billion people in the world, half of which are men, and when the number of them is 3.5 billion it’s pretty fucking cool that I was number twenty-nine.
And once upon a time I was first in line for a girl with freckles and strawberry blonde hair. We loved like an electric chair hooked up to a nuclear power plant and plugged into the sun, and everything we did had never been done. I woke up with a smile the next morning that told the world “I’m number one.”
I think of her more often than sometimes.
And if she ever hears this, I want her to know that our first kiss tasted like pepper. I met her on June 27^th. That year it was Yellowknife’s first day of continual light and, despite the sun not setting that night we each went home alone, even though our parents told us, “Be home before dark.” We could’ve stayed out for weeks. Could’ve watched the way the sun leaks like liquid over the horizon, casting shadows over all the right places of a bargain bin where love was 75% off, and we were collectively 25¢ away from forever.
There are times in the North when the sun never sets. And it gets confusing when we ask ourselves questions like, “Is it too late, or too early?” More often than sometimes we didn’t care. We lived like two games of solitaire waiting to be played by one another. Her mother once asked me, “do you love her?” And I said if there were one million teachers breathing down my neck telling me that the answer is no, I would say yes. I guess that was enough for her, because that girl’s father palmed me a condom and wished me a happy birthday. Even now there’s no way to tell, was that awkward or creepy?
We loved like two hit-men hell-bent on assassinating regret. Her orgasm was a wet gremlin multiplying itself into another. Her younger brother knocked on the bedroom door asking, “what are you guys doing in there?” And somewhere amid the awesome and all of the in between we replied in unison, “Studying.” And we were.
I wrote notes on her skin in flesh toned permanent ink that would sink and set inside as I tried to underline the important parts of her: bellybutton, birthmark, collarbone. And I wrote notes explaining that hers felt like silk stretched over stone. I said, “you’re so soft.” She smiled and said, “duh.” followed by, “my bellybutton is not an erogenous zone.” And I said, “I hate that word,” and she asked, “Which one?” and I said, “Erogenous.” I told her, “There’s beauty in the obvious, and your bellybutton, that’s where you started, it’s where cells divided and grew into you so let me do what students do best, you can test me later but right now let me study.” She said, “You’re lucky this is a take-home test, boy.” I highlighted and double underlined. Lips.
I think of the beauty in the obvious, the way it forces us to admit how it exists. The way it insists on being pointed out like a bloody nose, or how every time it snows there’s always someone around to say, “It’s snowing.” But the obvious isn’t showing off, it’s only reminding us that time passes, and that somewhere along the way we grow up. Not perfect, but up and out.
It teaches us something about time, that we are all ticking and tocking  walking the fine line between days and weeks, as if each second speaks of years, and each month has years listening to forever, but never hearing anything beyond centuries swallowed up by millenniums, as if time was calculating the sums needed to fill the empty belly of eternity. We so seldom understand each other. But if understanding is neither here nor there, and the universe is infinite, then understand that no matter where we go we will always be smack dab in the middle of nowhere. All we can do is share some piece of ourselves, and hope that it’s remembered. Hope that we meant something to someone.
My chest is a cannon that I have used to take aim and shoot my heart upon this world. I love the way an uncurled fist becomes a hand again, because when I take notes, I need it to underline the important parts of you: happy, sad, lovely. Battle cry ballistic like a disaster, or a lipstick earth-quaking and taking out the monuments of all my hollow yesterdays. We’ll always have the obvious. It reminds us who and where we are, it lives like a heart shape, like a jar that we hand to others and ask, “Can you open this for me?” We always get the same answer: “Not without breaking it.” More often than sometimes, I say go for it.

Shane Koyczan

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The Crickets Have Arthritis- Shane Koyczan

Such a beautiful beautiful poem by an amazing poet!

The Crickets Have Arthritis

It doesn't matter why I was there, where the air is sterile and the sheets sting. It doesn't matter that I was hooked up to this thing that buzzed and beeped every time my heart leaped like a man who's faith tells him God's hands are big enough to catch an airplane, or a world. It doesn't matter that I was curled up like a fist protesting death, or that every breath was either hard labour or hard time, or that I'm either always too hot or too cold. Doesn't matter because my hospital roommate wears star wars pajamas, and he's 9 years old. His name is Louis, and I don't have to ask what he's got.The bald head with the skin and bones frame speaks volumes. The gameboy and the feather pillow booms like they're trying to make him feel at home because he's going to be here awhile.

I manage a smile the first time I see him and it feels like the biggest lie I have ever told, so I hold my breath cos I'm thinking any minute now he's going to call me on it. I hold my breath because I'm scared of a 57 pound boy hooked up to a machine because he's been watching me and maybe I've got him pegged all wrong, like maybe he's bionic or some shit. So I look away like just I made eye contact with a gang member who's got a rap sheet the length of a lecture on dumb mistakes politicians have made. I look away like he's going to give me my life back the moment I've got something to trade. I damn near pull out my pack and say, "Cigarette?"

But my fear subsides in the moment I realize Louis is all show and tell. He's got everything from a shotgun shell to a crows foot and he can put them all in context. Like, "See, this is from a shooting range", and "See, this is from a weird girl". I watch his hands curl around a cuff-link and a tie-tack and realize that every nick-nack is a treasure and every treasure has a story, and every time I think I can't handle more he hits me with another story. He says, "See, this is from my father" "See, this is from my brother" "See, this is from that weird girl" "See, this is from my mother". Took me about two days to figure out that weird girl is his sister, it took him about two hours today after she left for him to figure out he missed her. And they visit every day, and stay well past visiting hours because for them that term doesn't apply. But when they do leave, Louis and I are left alone. And he says, "The worst part about being sick is that you get all the free ice cream you ask for." And he says, "The worst part about that is realizing there is nothing more they can do for you." He says, "Ice cream can't make everything okay."

And there is no easy way of asking, and I know what he's going to say but maybe he just needs to say it, so I ask him anyway. "Are you scared?" Louis doesn't even lower his voice when he says, "Fuck yeah." I listen to a 9 year old boy say the word fuck like he was a 30 year old man with a nose-bleed being lowered into a shark tank, he's got a right to it. And if it takes this kid a curse word to help him get through it, then I want to teach him to swear like the devil's sitting there taking notes with a pen and a pad. But before I can forget that Louis is 9 years old he says, "Please don't tell my dad."

He asks me if I believe in angels. And before I realize I don't have the heart to tell him, I tell him, "Not lately." and I just lay there waiting for him to hate me. But he doesn't know how to, so he never does. Louis loves like a man who lived in a time before God gave religion to men and left it to them to figure out what hate was. He never greets me with silence, only smiles and a patience I've never seen in someone who knows they're dying. And I'm trying so hard not to remind him I'll be out of here in a couple days, smoking cigarettes and taking my life for granted. And he'll still be planted in this bed like a flower that refuses to grow. I've been with him for 5 days and all I really know is that Louis loves to pull feathers out of his pillow, and watch them float to the ground. Almost as if he's the philosopher inside of the scientist ready to say, "It's gravity that's been getting us down."

The truth is: there's not enough miracles to go around, kid. And there's too many people petitioning God for the winning lotto ticket. And for every answered prayer, there's a cricket with arthritis. And the only reason we can't find answers is because the search party didn't invite us, and Louis, right now the crickets have arthritis. So there is no music, no symphony of nature swelling to crescendos, as if ripping halos into melodies that can keep a rhythm with the way our hearts beat. So we must meet silence with the same level of noise that the parents of dying 9 year old boys make when they take liberties in talking with heaven. We must shout until we shatter in our own vibrations, then let our lives echo and grow, echo and grow, grow distant. Grow distant enough to know that as far as our efforts go, we don't always get a reply.

But I swear to whatever God I can find in the time I have left, I'm going to remember you kid. I'm going to tell your story as often as every story you told me. And every time I tell it I'll say, "See, there's bravery in this world. There's 6.5 billion people curled up like fists protesting death, but every breath we breathe has to be given back. A 9 year old boy taught me that." So hold your breath, the same way you'd hold a pen when writing Thank You letters on your skin to every tree that gave you that breath to hold. And then let it go, as if you understand something about getting old and having to give back. Let it go like a laugh attack in the middle of really good sex, the black eye will be worth it. Because what is your night worth without a story to tell? And why wield a word like worth if you've got nothing to sell?

People drop pennies down a wishing well, so the cost of a desire is equal to that of a thought. But if you've got expectations, expect others have bought your exact same dream for the price of a 'hard work, hang in, hold on' mentality. Like, I accept any challenge so challenge me. Like, I brought a knife to this gun fight, but the other night I mugged a mountain so bring that shit, I've had practise. Louis and I cracked this world wide open and found that the prize inside is we never lied to ourselves. Never told ourselves that we'd be easy or undemanding. So we sing in our own vibration, and dare angels to eavesdrop and stop midflight to pluck feathers from their wings and write demands that God's hands take the time to catch you. So, even if God doesn't, it wasn't because we didn't try.

I don't often believe in angels, but on the day I left Louis pulled a feather from his pillow and said, "This is for you." I half expected him to say, "See, this is the first one I grew."

Shane Koyczan

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(Another) Beautiful Poem

For Rita With Love

You came home from school

on a special bus

full of people

who look like you

and love like you

and you met me

for the first time

and you loved me.

You love everybody

so much that it's not safe

to let you out alone.

Eleven years of love

and trust and time for you to learn

that you can't go on loving like this.

Unless you are stopped

you will embrace every person you see.

Normal people don't do that.

Some Normal people will hurt you

very badly because you do.

Cripples don't look nice

but you embrace them.

You kissed a wino on the bus

and he broke down and cried

and he said 'Nobody has kissed me

for the last 30 years.

But you did.

You touched my face

with your fingers and said

'I like you.'

The world will never

be ready for you.

Your way is right

and the world will never be ready. We could learn everything

that we need to know

by watching you

going to your special school

in your special bus

full of people

who look like you

and love like you

and it's not safe

to let you out alone.

If you're not normal

there is very little hope

for the rest of us.

by Pat Ingoldsby

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Another Good Poem

Another poem I found somewhere on the web. This can be thought about to varying levels (!), but whatever, it's got a really good message.

For Barbara, Who Said She Couldn't Visualise Two Women Together

Picture lilacs.
Picture armfuls of lilacs, wet
with rain. Nuzzle your whole face
into the bouquet. Feel the cool drops
on your lips. Inhale.

Picture the ocean
from a cliff.
Stand at the edge, see
how the foam tumbles in
and disperses,
watch this heavy water
undulate until you’re dizzy.
Lie down.

With one fingertip
touch the flat petal
of a California poppy. Lightly
travel the entire surface.
Close your eyes.

Imagine sun on your eyelids.
Recall the smell of wild mint
and the taste of wild blueberries
and the grace of coming upon a doe
at dusk by a river
and she does not bolt.
She lifts her gaze to you
before she goes on drinking.

Imagine damp seeds sending out blind roots
into the generous soil.
Picture the root hairs absorbing the mineral-rich drink.
Feel the turgid green push up
with a force that splits rock.
Hear the laughter.

Barbara, open your eyes.
look at these women. You can visualize
any two
together.

(Ellen Bass)

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To This Day- Shane Koyczan

Okay, so I was in a fragile mood before, and then my friend sent me a link to a video and now... Now I'm still feeling fragile, and I'm a little bit teary, but this is beautiful and the man who made it is beautiful, please just listen. I know it's long, I've put a transcript underneath, but it's a lot better if you listen...

To This Day- Shane Koyczan

To This Day

When I was a kid

I used to think that pork chops and karate chops

were the same thing

I thought they were both pork chops

and because my grandmother thought it was cute

and because they were my favourite

she let me keep doing it

not really a big deal

one day

before I realized fat kids are not designed to climb trees

I fell out of a tree

and bruised the right side of my body

I didn’t want to tell my grandmother about it

because I was afraid I’d get in trouble

for playing somewhere that I shouldn’t have been

a few days later the gym teacher noticed the bruise

and I got sent to the principal’s office

from there I was sent to another small room

with a really nice lady

who asked me all kinds of questions

about my life at home

I saw no reason to lie

as far as I was concerned

life was pretty good

I told her “whenever I’m sad

my grandmother gives me karate chops”

this led to a full scale investigation

and I was removed from the house for three days

until they finally decided to ask how I got the bruises

news of this silly little story quickly spread through the school

and I earned my first nickname

pork chop

to this day

I hate pork chops

I’m not the only kid

who grew up this way

surrounded by people who used to say

that rhyme about sticks and stones

as if broken bones

hurt more than the names we got called

and we got called them all

so we grew up believing no one

would ever fall in love with us

that we’d be lonely forever

that we’d never meet someone

to make us feel like the sun

was something they built for us

in their tool shed

so broken heart strings bled the blues

as we tried to empty ourselves

so we would feel nothing

don’t tell me that hurts less than a broken bone

that an ingrown life

is something surgeons can cut away

that there’s no way for it to metastasize

it does

she was eight years old

our first day of grade three

when she got called ugly

we both got moved to the back of the class

so we would stop get bombarded by spit balls

but the school halls were a battleground

where we found ourselves outnumbered day after wretched day

we used to stay inside for recess

because outside was worse

outside we’d have to rehearse running away

or learn to stay still like statues giving no clues that we were there

in grade five they taped a sign to her desk

that read beware of dog

to this day

despite a loving husband

she doesn’t think she’s beautiful

because of a birthmark

that takes up a little less than half of her face

kids used to say she looks like a wrong answer

that someone tried to erase

but couldn’t quite get the job done

and they’ll never understand

that she’s raising two kids

whose definition of beauty

begins with the word mom

because they see her heart

before they see her skin

that she’s only ever always been amazing

he

was a broken branch

grafted onto a different family tree

adopted

but not because his parents opted for a different destiny

he was three when he became a mixed drink

of one part left alone

and two parts tragedy

started therapy in 8th grade

had a personality made up of tests and pills

lived like the uphills were mountains

and the downhills were cliffs

four fifths suicidal

a tidal wave of anti depressants

and an adolescence of being called popper

one part because of the pills

and ninety nine parts because of the cruelty

he tried to kill himself in grade ten

when a kid who still had his mom and dad

had the audacity to tell him “get over it” as if depression

is something that can be remedied

by any of the contents found in a first aid kit

to this day

he is a stick of TNT lit from both ends

could describe to you in detail the way the sky bends

in the moments before it’s about to fall

and despite an army of friends

who all call him an inspiration

he remains a conversation piece between people

who can’t understand

sometimes becoming drug free

has less to do with addiction

and more to do with sanity

we weren’t the only kids who grew up this way

to this day

kids are still being called names

the classics were

hey stupid

hey spaz

seems like each school has an arsenal of names

getting updated every year

and if a kid breaks in a school

and no one around chooses to hear

do they make a sound?

are they just the background noise

of a soundtrack stuck on repeat

when people say things like

kids can be cruel?

every school was a big top circus tent

and the pecking order went

from acrobats to lion tamers

from clowns to carnies

all of these were miles ahead of who we were

we were freaks

lobster claw boys and bearded ladies

oddities

juggling depression and loneliness playing solitaire spin the bottle

trying to kiss the wounded parts of ourselves and heal

but at night

while the others slept

we kept walking the tightrope

it was practice

and yeah

some of us fell

but I want to tell them

that all of this shit

is just debris

leftover when we finally decide to smash all the things we thought

we used to be

and if you can’t see anything beautiful about yourself

get a better mirror

look a little closer

stare a little longer

because there’s something inside you

that made you keep trying

despite everyone who told you to quit

you built a cast around your broken heart

and signed it yourself

you signed it

“they were wrong”

because maybe you didn’t belong to a group or a click

maybe they decided to pick you last for basketball or everything

maybe you used to bring bruises and broken teeth

to show and tell but never told

because how can you hold your ground

if everyone around you wants to bury you beneath it

you have to believe that they were wrong

they have to be wrong

why else would we still be here?

we grew up learning to cheer on the underdog

because we see ourselves in them

we stem from a root planted in the belief

that we are not what we were called we are not abandoned cars stalled out and sitting empty on a highway

and if in some way we are

don’t worry

we only got out to walk and get gas

we are graduating members from the class of

fuck off we made it

not the faded echoes of voices crying out

names will never hurt me

of course

they did

but our lives will only ever always

continue to be

a balancing act

that has less to do with pain

and more to do with beauty.

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An Amazing Poem I Found

don't tell me I'm beautiful
until you've seen my scars
which carve my legs
like thin white veins

don't tell me I'm sweet
until I've shut you out of my heart
because I swore to myself
that you are just like the rest

don't tell me I'm perfect
until you've seen me break down
I'll show you all the darkness
consuming my mind

but if you
have seen my scars
bitterness
and breakdowns
then perhaps I'll believe you

- Amanda Katherine Ricketson

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Rememberance Sunday

** Just so people don't think I'm being disrespectful, blogging at the minute silence, this post was written yesterday and is on schedule to post at 11am **

My words here are superfluous. The most I can do is share a collection of poems that have touched me, and reminded me to remember.

They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old:

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning

We will remember them

- (Extract From) For The Fallen; Laurence Binyon -

When you go home

Tell them of us and say

For your tomorrow

We gave our today

- Kohima Epitaph, Major John Etty-Leal -

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

 The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

 We are the dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.

Take up the quarrel from the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with those who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields

- In Flanders Fields, John McCrae -

Flower of the eternal sleep

Watching with the ones who weep.

You, whose lives, so short in bloom,

Saw such bloodshed, death and gloom.

You trembled to the sound of guns.

Which tore to death beloved sons.

You fluttered, died, before your time-

Dropped blood red petals in their prime.

Crimson poppies 'neath the clouds-

Short lived, yet colourful and proud;

Now worn by humans with such pride

Remembering those who bravely died.

You represent young lives cut short-

Those who, for freedom, bravely fought.

Flower of eternal sleep-

Silently your vigil keep

 - Flower Of The Eternal Sleep, Josie Whitehead -

Why are they selling poppies, Mummy?

Selling poppies in town today?

The poppies, child, are the flower of love

For the men who marched away

But why have they chosen a poppy, Mummy?

Why not a beautiful rose?

Because, my child, men fought and died

In the fields where the poppies grow

But why are the poppies so red, Mummy?

Why are the poppies so red?

Red is the colour of blood, my child

The blood that our soldiers shed

The heart of the poppy is black, Mummy

Why does it have to be black?

Black, my child, is the symbol of grief

For the men who never came back

But why, Mummy, are you crying so?

Your tears are giving you pain

My tears are my fears for you, my child

For the world is forgetting again

- The Inquisitive Mind Of A Child, Anon -

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