BEGIN AGAIN

I enjoy making lists

Sitting down with a cup of

My latest indiscretion in my hand,

And thinking

‘Wow, you’ve done it again’

I go back to the start.

To the beginning.

And try to map out

The order in which

This most recent city of dreams

Began to fall apart.

I rotely repeat this process

Each time.

Getting back to the bare bones

Of a catastrophe.

Examining it.

Carbon dating it to see

How far back it really goes.

How old is a scar?

So I make lists,

I number my failures

My ill conceived endeavours.

I try to give structure to something…

Chaotic,

With no crystal lattice to hold its form.

I try.

But we have to start somewhere.

And number one on a list

Is as viable a starting point as any.

And who knows,

Maybe next time

I’ll get beyond the first

Before I have to begin again. 

CHILDREN OF THE TIGER

Our nation,

Known for poetic words

And gifts of song.

For bards and storytellers,

Scholars and academics.

Silenced.

Hushed to mechanical monotony.

Creativity pushed from view.

I stroll past a scrubbing brush

Soapy water

Washing away the evidence of a killing field

From a Graff war.

Its value held only in the eyes of the beholders who

Find beauty in the truth of street.

Art all around us, waiting to be formed.

Visible through the smog.

Look, listen, take heed.

Absorb the stories the pavements tell us.

The histories hidden in the walls,

In the sound of a breathless republic.

We the children of the tiger

Fear not,

Take charge,

Time comes

Urban chaos transcends

Deconstruct, reconstruct, find a voice.

Our arts not dead.