The Miry Clay!

812642_30616576

My hands got stuck in the clay

My skin melts into its blackness.

I became one with it!

I slouched through the mush of my decay.

I smelt the perfume of my horrors.

And wept at the snigger of the hollow.

I looked up and saw the light.

I clawed through the darkness.

I miffed through my tears and felt

The sorrow of the miry Clay.

****

My soul sniffed my shame.

My hands shook with defeat.

I struggled to save what was left,

But grasp empty air!

    Love looked me in the eyes and screamed.

Faithfulness hissed at my discomfort.

Hope staggered when I called.

Faith strolled past me in disgust.

Mercy held me close…

And I caught a glimpse of heaven.

I am, but a clay…

________________________________

Can love forgive all sins?

******

I wrote this poem when I heard the story of a woman whose husband repeatedly abused her, physically and emotionally. She was still willing to forgive him, she tried to make people see things through the eyes of her abusive husband, calling him the miry clay, insisting that he has issues!!!

 Well, this is me writing in the POV (point of view) of this vile man!  (By the way, she’s had a miscarriage as a result of the emotional trauma she’d been subjected to)

And believe me, it was difficult trying to know what goes through the mind of such a horrible man! It’s sad that so many women (and sometimes men!) are stranded in abusive relationships, and the heart wrenching part is when the abused tried to explain the irrational behaviours of their partners! I know we cannot be overly protective of our loved ones, but intervening subtly can really prevent tragedies.

One way is by speaking to the abuser, encouraging him/her to seek help for his/her anger, but it’s easier said than done.

The crux of the matter is, how would you know that you’re falling in love with a monster? And, is there hope for the violent?

These are difficult questions to answer and I won’t even try but from my little office in London, I wish you, my friends, a peaceful, love filled weekend!!

Much love, always!

🙂

Advertisements

Stranded At Santum Close (3)

1414845_43023610 Face 2

 

Linda sat demurely on a wooden chair with her hands tied to the back, she had tried to search for a way of escape, but there appeared to be none. She looked round and surmised that the room where she was kept was a loft conversion, it was empty and bare, the tiled floor gleamed and had a funny smell. Her head ached and a soft moan escaped her bruised lips. ‘It’s unbelievable that I could be abducted in broad daylight!’ she thought indignantly with a frown.

She’d just came out from St Paul underground station and was walking briskly towards her office at Little Britain when a black Sedan parked beside her and two men jumped out, one grabbed her by the wrist and the other expertly dragged her to the back of the car and they zoomed off. Everything happened within minutes, she screamed but one of the men closed her mouth roughly with a white handkerchief, and the next thing she knew was waking up and finding herself strapped to a wooden chair. Strangely, she was not scared but was certainly worried about the motive behind her kidnapping.

She sat in the middle of the room with her back to the door. Sunlight streamed down from the only window in the room, for that, she was grateful because she hated staying in the dark. She heard a key turning on the door and someone entered. Linda gritted her teeth silently and waited.

A man came into view and slapped her hard on the face, her head jerked backwards violently, as an involuntary sob escaped her. Linda swallowed hard and tasted blood, rage built up inside her but she knew the only way she could survive was to show no fear. She clamped down on her resolve to scream. Her assailant was around Eliza’s age, twenty-three but massive with a baby face and arms built like steel, his brown wavy hair looked out-of-place on his white pasty skin. He crouched low and spat out angrily,

‘You’ve got nowhere to hide woman, your secret is out!’

Linda stared at the man, her hands hurt like hell, but the only thing she saw was her husband’s angry face. She stared defiantly at her accuser and asked,

‘What do you want from me? Who are you? What secrets are you talking about?’
‘You are the Führer‘s descendant and must be cleansed!’
‘The Führer?’ And she scoffed but suddenly, the dingy room where they were began to spin, Linda almost vomited as memories flashed through her mind. The whisperings in the night, the surreptitious looks her parents sneakily threw her way while she was dating Gordon and the final sigh of relief when she finally got married and her mother called her aside and dropped the bombshell, she was adopted – and from that moment onwards, her life changed forever. She had hidden her true parentage from Gordon; there was no need to embark on a pilgrimage that would only end in tears.
‘My biological father died shortly after I was born, my mother died in a road accident in Vienna when I was two, that’s all I know.’

‘You liar!’ the man screamed and raised his right hand to strike again but he froze when a shadow crossed his path.

*************************************

I appreciate everyone who has read this story up till now, two more posts and it’s over – unless I changed my mind and turn it into a full length adult fiction but I’ve not decided yet, my hands are full as it is. The message in this story has to do with race, or our parentage. We can’t choose where we were born or to whom, so let’s just try to love one another in spite of our differences. Thanks so much for taking time to drop by!

Live well and love well!

🙂 🙂

A Bull’s Revolt

Matador 1

Matador 1 (Photo credit: Son of Groucho)

I stared at the Matador with hatred oozing out from every fibre of my being, I remembered the warning I gave to Japheth (it was named after its owner) and the others about the plans of the humans.

”They won’t stop killing us, we can revolt,” I cried out in pain, willing the others to come out of their cocoon and think for once but it was futile.

”With what?” Growled the idiot, we nicknamed him idiot because he doesn’t care about anything except grass, it once told me thinking is for humans not for bulls but I do think about my future and I still have nightmares about the death of Japheth.

I decided to fight for my kind, to revolt against the perceived norms that bulls can’t think because I can think and I don’t want to be taken for a fool anymore, if only I can control my anger!

They’ve killed us for fun, they’ve killed us for our anger and all for what? A piece of red cape! Such abomination! But this time it had to be different, I won’t buy into it. My resolve was commendable even though it was so hard. I watched with misty eyes as the red cloth was whipped from side to side, the Matador’s oily hair gleaming in the sun as he beckoned to me and I smelt his arrogance.

I glanced briefly at my hoofs and the brown sand which had been darken by the blood of my kind, I told Japheth I would fight my anger, I won’t succumb. And then the Matador glared at me angrily, daring me to come get it, oh boy, it was so tempting!

How lovely it would it be to thrust my horns into his well toned stomach, to hack him down until his blood flowed the way my friends had been brutally murdered.

I remember Japheth with such fondness and today, I will not fight!

With a deep sigh, I turned away from the Matador amidst gasps from the audience in the arena…

*********

When someone succeeded in making you angry, believe me folks, they are controlling your life. Refuse to give in to the taunts and jeers of others simply turn your back. You’ll be glad you did and might actually be saving your life.

Thanks for reading my post and by the way, ‘A Bull’s Revolt’ was just a figment of my imagination. I will post ‘TIME’ on Monday and the rest of the story would be published in kindle and paperback soon.