Flanders Field: Memories

The field of death and beauty,
Grass of red
Poppies gaining its colour as our soldiers bled.

The flower of remembrance,
of our past.
A tradition to make the memories last.

We fought and we won.
But Flanders Field remains a place for our dead.

We try to honor the fighters of a 100 years past,
But much as still been left unsaid.

School Life: Outside

Rickety wooden benches with splotches of bird poop.
Big giant brown spiders crawling up the trunk of almost leafless tree,
Wet orange and red leaves scattered on green grass.

The sound of birds cawing no-stop as the dive from the roof and into the sky.

The inane chatter of teenagers as they gossip.

The long, empty football field leading into creepy looking forestry,
with its old unidentifiable trees.
The tall and imposingly modern building contrasting with all this greenery.

School Life: Library

Silence and the quiet whispering clacks of computer keys,
Rough navy blue carpeted floors and rows of wooded shelves,
Plain signs marking the genres of not so plain literature.

The heavy smell of paper as books are opened,
frustrated sighs as someone fails to understand something they're reading.
and the alluring sight of sunlight that escapes through the sides of closed blinds.

School Life: Cafe Max

Colours of green and white, long ailes and plasma screens.

93 modern looking green chairs scattered around just as modern tables.

Food everywhere; at the front counters and at the back in complicated vending machines

Friends and strangers alike sat around talking loudly and cheerfully,
loud laughter and squeals,
Dreadful music.

The scent of coffee and tea, bitter and cringe worthy,

Ballot boxes empty and pathetically strewn on the floor as a group of boys rush past them.

Silence as SU member Fiona shouts at them even as they continue on out through heavy non-automatic glass doors.

Angel

The crunch and groans of cold blanketed snow under my feet goes unheard
as I focus on nothing and everything.

Rustling of wind, the sight of ghostly air as shallow breaths are taken.

Shadows of contorted faces as I begin my ascent into the sky;
arms weak, legs shaky and unbalanced.

I can see my destination and the only way is forward,
there's no other way but down as I floated above my friends
unseen as they all huddle together like cattle waiting to be slaughtered.
Just a spec in my eyes as I continued on.

Patriot?

I’ve got blood on my hands,

Is it the blood of an innocent or a tyrant,

the choice was never mine,

to kill an innocent to be in the favor of a tyrant,

or to kill the tyrant and suffer the loss of many more innocents.

But who are the innocents,

and who is just using the facade of an innocent

to conceal their tyranny from those who wish to usurp them from their throne of power.

I’ve got blood on my hands from following orders,

but who is to blame,

is it the man who allows himself to be controlled

or is it the man who controls.

I’ve got blood on my hands,

but feel no remorse,

The battle to rid myself of such indifference has not yet been won

the stain of another person’s life that can not be removed, that can never be washed away.

I can see that I am a murderer who has been disguised as a soldier, I am nothing but a mere minion created to do the tasks of the powerful.

My hands are covered in blood,

but still I walk free,

I am free because the blood on my hands is the blood of the enemy

The blood of those deemed our adversary by the country I have devoted myself to.

I’ve got blood on my hands,

and I’ve shed no tears,

but still no-one cares,

because to them, I am good, I am a hero

and most importantly I am a patriot.

Attempted Travel Writing- Jamaica

It’s been years since I last stepped foot in this country; a fact that’s being exposed by my body as I began to overheat. Sweat pours from my body only to evaporate seconds later.  I look back towards the massive crystalline glass building I had just exited, wondering considering whether I could go back in for a bottle of water. It’s an airport of course I couldn't.

Instead I continue on my trek, breathing the hot air in and out, my mouth becomes as dry as desert sand. The handle of my black and white polka dotted bags seems to dig painfully into my palms as I struggled to keep my footing on the rough gravel flooring beneath me.

 After walking for what felt like miles, I finally saw the civilisation I had left behind as a child; the cramped streets filled with stands upon stands of stalls as boisterous sales men and women shouted out to the busy people bustling around as to gain their attention. Bright colours of clothes/ food and hand-made jewellery distracting me from my thirst, as the rich scent of food that hung in the dry air caused my stomach to growl in excitement. These people were speaking in a language I had not heard for so long. I was being re-educated in my lost culture in that very moment and it was truly overwhelming.

It was Christmas time and yet nothing signified the time of year except the carelessly thrown up green, yellow and red posters detailing the traditional Christmas fair ‘Grand Market’. I was home at last. I was home but I felt like a stranger, like a foreigner just looking in. What was I supposed to do now that I was here? So much was the same but so much had changed as well. I couldn't find my own way home.

 I was looking around myself with the confusing feelings of happiness and fear twisting at my gut when my eyes met with a woman’s. She was stood behind one of the smaller food stalls across from me and as our eyes met she started to move towards me.  She looked about middle aged, her frame was big and her hair knotted in messy dreads that hung past her shoulders, she wore a dirty sky blue apron over what I assumed was a flower patterned frock.

As she stopped in front where I stood in the middle of the busy street, she gave me a massive toothy grin before shouting my name. This confused me and I assume I must have looked it too because she clapped me on the shoulder and laughed. ‘Weh yu a look pan mi suh fa?’ she asked in heavy patois. I didn't know whether to speak it back to her or to just speak in English. I chose English. ‘I don’t think I know you’ I said as loud as my dry throat would let me but she just laughed again ‘Mi know yu and yu mum, mi kan tek yu home lata’ was all she said as she pulled on my arm towards her stall where she shoved a bottle of a Jamaican homemade ginger beer into my hand. I didn't question her and just drank it.

I handed the empty can to her where she chucked it towards a pile of tin cluttered mess in a corner by her stall. A customer came by and I watched as she served them what I remembered to be rice and peas with curried goat on thick polystyrene plates while speaking in patois about the customer’s new hairstyle; a Jamaican style called rope twist that fell to her shoulders like open curtains. That’s how the rest of the day went before I was taken further into the country where I knew my house to be, where I grew up.It wasn’t until the stall keeper who I found out was a family friend named Janet took me to my family home later that day did I find out that a bunch of the people I had seen in town when I had just arrived were our neighbors.

I spent the rest of my time visiting town and all its market stalls and hanging around on different beaches all around the country like Dunns River Falls where it was a river of water falls and the sandy dunes of Negril beach. I even got the chance to go to a field of mango trees hidden within a subtropical dry forest Limestone Hills of the Hellshire Hills in St. Catherine and Portland ridge Clarendon in southern Jamaica. It was so green and eerily quiet with all its sneaky wildlife and hidden shrubs of exotic plants like Rubiaceae and Bignoniaceae with its green tendrils wrapped around everything that comes into contact with it.

It was fantastic.