Thematic Poetry Previews (3)

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All poems © Marie Faverio

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*Human Condition*

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Masks

 

I wish the waxen mask

would melt in the sun

of pretty sincerities

and sober, not so sober

platitudes.

 

The coloured chill

is threatened by sorrowful shadows.

It doesn’t warm or cuddle,

it doesn’t love.

It doesn’t melt into unity.

 

The mask stays.

The mask hardens

into inflexibility,

uncrackable,

 

just a mask among masks,

a limp marionette after the show,

tired,

eyes fixed to the ground.

 

The show goes on.

New marionettes step on the stage,

smiling masks,

crying masks,

shouting masks.

 

Nobody knows what goes on

behind the mask,

and it is probably better

so.

 

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Those Who Cared Have Gone

 

Those who cared have gone

and will not come back

because there is nothing

to long for here –

even birds have stopped

singing.

 

They didn’t say good-bye,

the train did not whistle,

and nobody was waving

outside –

how should they have known

that they had arrived?

 

The sky was still clear

outside,

but the final station was

deserted.

Nobody was waving

outside,

and the huge clock on the wall

had stopped.

 

Those who cared have gone

and will not come back.

How should the passengers have known

that they had arrived?

They were kicked off the train

without a single good-bye.

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People (2)

 

Some people disappear

like clouds or random thoughts,

or poems that want to come to life

when you can’t give them attention,

and then they just leave disgruntled.

 

Some people are casual encounters,

like people in a crowd

or the birds in the sky,

or daffodils doing silly things

in the wind.

 

And then there are the people who stay,

the orchids.

They are rare.

They are beautiful.

They have bits of sunlight

all over them.

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What’s the Deal?

 

What’s up?

Chaos, greed,

green crumbling into grey,

smoke uninterrupted by blue,

eyes that have become blind to beauty,

man destroying man,

and earth.

 

What’s next?

Hope, more sorrow,

or maybe a surprise in disguise?

Will dreams still be relevant

in this apocalyptic landscape?

 

Will the soldiers of progress

destroy the last hints of humanity?

Will the earth be turned

into a science-fiction scenario?

 

What’s the deal?

We must learn to love again.

We must learn to care again –

for others, ourselves, our planet.

 

Real progress is within ourselves.

The real victory is the victory

over our ego,

over greed and selfishness –

and that’s a big deal.

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The Untrodden Path

 

The untrodden path

is a place where the moon

is still worshipped

instead of teased by reality freaks,

a place full of wonders.

 

Dance, child, dance.

Nobody is watching,

and birds don’t judge.

Nobody will even know

that you have been here.

Untrodden paths

keep secrets tight.

 

Dance, child, dance,

because on well-trodden paths

you will have to make room

for those who are running

after money,

and if you keep dancing

they will push you aside

or declare you insane.

 

Flowers don’t like

well-trodden paths

for a reason.

Dance, child, dance –

the stage is all yours.

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Willoughby

 

In Willoughby,

where birds are not afraid of singing

and flowers grow undisturbed,

concrete is not an option,

and shoes are tidily kept by the door

for special occasions.

 

In Willoughby,

feet like grass,

and hands still wave

at neighbours and random passers-by.

 

In Willoughby,

smiles and handshakes

are as genuine as ice-cream,

the sun doesn’t burn

skin allergic to walls,

and the air is not a chemical compound,

but a buddy.

 

The train station is very small

in Willoughby.

No train departs

from Willoughby,

and the trees blossom

in all seasons.

 

There are no artificial flowers

in Willoughby.

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Advice to an Unborn Child

 

Dear child,

I am not going to deceive you

with happy-ending fairy tales

and chubby Santas

announcing themselves with a jolly ho-ho-ho.

I am not going to lie to you.

 

Life is tough,

and injustice inevitable.

There is no happy ending

to most stories,

and the bad are not always

black-haired,

nor are the good always

fair-haired and blue-eyed.

 

Smiles and hugs don’t

always mean “I love you”,

nor does the painful truth

always mean “I hate you”.

 

Only swim with the stream

if you agree, child.

The stream doesn’t always

flow in the right direction

and the end is usually

not in sight,

 

so you will have to learn

to judge for yourself,

based on the values

the masses won’t teach you

and that you can only

find in your tiny little self.

 

Do not listen to whispers, child.

Those who speak the truth

do not whisper.

Listen to the sound of nature

before you listen to the sound of man.

Nature sometimes speaks in riddles,

but it never lies.

 

Learn to understand.

Learn to listen

before judging.

Learn to love

before being loved.

 

Life is not a fairy tale, child.

I am not going to lie to you.

No fairy or wizard

will help you out.

 

You are your own magic,

your own music.

Better sing a cappella

than with a band out of tune

or an orchestra that doesn’t               

keep rhythm with you.

 

Good luck, child.

I love you.

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They Have Stopped Asking

 

They have stopped asking

because the questions have stopped nagging

and the fire has been quenched.

 

They have stopped fighting

because they have nothing

to fight for any more.

 

They look in all directions,

but the goal has just vanished.

It’s no use looking for something

that doesn’t exist.

 

They have stopped crying

because they don’t care any more.

Caring might lead to disappointment.

Caring needs hope.

 

Apathy has won,

but it doesn’t care either.

Greyness engulfs everything

in its range.

 

It engulfs.

It swallows.

It destroys.

 

Colours drip off

like acrylics under water.

Contours are faded.

 

They have stopped asking

because their mind has gone numb,

succumbing to greyness.

 

They have stopped asking

because nobody offered

sensible answers.

 

The questions have stopped nagging,

the mind has gone numb.

They have stopped asking.

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The Rage Inside

 

The rage inside

is often just lack of love –

don’t bash those nobody loves.

 

The hurt inside

is not contagious –

a hug can start the healing process,

more hugs can work miracles.

Don’t be afraid to hug

those nobody hugs.                                                                            .

 

When hands join,

the spirit is strong.

Strength comes from love,

not war.

Victory comes from union,

not division.

 

The rage inside

is often just lack of love,

and it can only be healed

by love,

not punishment

or finger-pointing.

 

The rage inside

is just a cry for help,

so help,

don’t judge.

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The Heartless Art of Survival

 

They think they are smart

if they can master

the art of survival,

but if you ask them

why they are so keen

on that funny

(not so funny)

heartless art

they are puzzled.

 

Sometimes they shrug.

And they always go their way

after staring in puzzlement.

Why would anybody

care to think

anyway?

Or even dare?

 

You just strive for survival

like everybody else.

Why would you want

to be different,

targeted by wiggling

pointing fingers

flickering with accusations?

 

Just be like everybody else,

dump your dreams,

indict individuality,

march with the masses,

survive.

Impress the sheep

with the art of survival.

Impress.

Survive.

Forget thinking.

Survive.

 

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Broken Rainbows and Artificial Suns

 

We live in the land of broken rainbows

patched together by make-believe,

desires drilled into messed-up minds

that try to make sense

of tossed-up puzzle pieces.

 

We live in the land of artificial

suns and nightingales,

our skin pale with forced walls

and flickering screens incapable of love

and random acts of kindness and hugs.

Screens stare,

don’t love.

 

We live in the land of fake smiles and likes,

while dangerous thoughts are towering up inside,

higher and higher,

until the tower starts leaning like in Pisa,

just more privately,

and then collapses like a Lego game

gone wrong.

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There We Go Again

 

There we go again.

Somebody has died right now;

somebody was born.

The cycle of life goes on

like a tedious echo

in the valley of no answers.

 

Who stops to listen?

Nobody.

Who cares?

Nobody.

Part of the circle,

we don’t see the whole,

and the spinning is getting

faster and faster.

Get me off this crazy

merry-go-round.

I am dizzy.

I cannot see

my loved ones any more

in this dark vortex

that unanchors memories

and stunts imagination,

the darkness that sucks.

 

There we go again.

Somebody was born right now;

somebody has died.

The instant has become eternity.

The beat of wings has faded away

and a new song is to be heard

far,

far away

in the distance.

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Phantom Souls

 

The curtain has fallen.

The actors are tired,

limp limbs,

blood-shot eyes that know,

but refuse to acknowledge,

acceptance defied.

 

The stage is dusty,

the audience walks out,

bored,

self-absorbed,

busy with that strange thing

called life,

unwilling to acknowledge

their failure to understand.

 

The curtain has fallen

and the hedonistic everyday

has taken over souls again,

souls that don’t seek,

don’t love,

phantom souls

in phantom people.

 

The actors walk out

and will not come back

for an encore.

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Life Happens

 

Under a voraciously

blue sky

scratched with light,

life happens

at the ticking of the clock,

insouciant,

obsessive,

breathless at times,

always marked by strenuous briefness.

 

Then one day

the ticking stops

as if nothing had happened,

nothing at all,

and dust runs wild

in the coffin.

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If Only We Could

 

If only we could grab memories,

shake the crap out of them

and start all over again –

but we can’t,

can we?

 

If only we could travel back in time

with more awareness of our own

stupidity on our backs

and start all over again –

but we can’t,

can we?

 

If only we could learn

just a little bit from life

instead of hopping through it

in survival mode,

but we can’t,

can we?

 

If only we could be

just a little bit better

than so stupidly human,

but we can’t,

can we?

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Lamentation

 

The night’s ink

dripped into the lagoon,

colours questioned the waxing moon

in the dark disorder of the dust.

 

The earth’s ribcage burst open

to celebrate the tears of a mother

who had lost her son to the war.

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Day In Day Out

 

Day in day out

you hope for a change

that will not come

because the bearded Wizard of Oz

won’t push the button

that will end

man’s forgetfulness of man.

 

Day in day out

sorrow takes on new shapes

so bizarre they could scare

Goya out of his mind,

fried by the night’s high voltage.

 

Day in day out

you hug visions

because that’s all you have,

but you are just

hugging yourself.

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Emptiness

 

Whistling train,

waving hand…

When you turn around the platform is

empty,

the morning breeze carrying away

empty

wrappings dropped by

empty-

headed tourists and kids.

You are scared,

but there is nobody around,

and your iPod has just gone flat.

The loudspeakers spit out announcements

that will not be followed

because there is nobody there.

 

This is not the kind of emptiness

that leads to enlightenment.

It is the kind of emptiness

that haunts.

 

You hope it is all a nightmare,

but it is not.

 

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Tears

 

You cry when you are born,

others (hopefully) cry when you die,

and in between there are the tears of life,

the tears the audience condemns

and doesn’t want to see

because you are supposed to be entertaining

on the absurd stage of the world

rather than remind them of their own hoarded

sorrows and mortality.

 

The choreography of chance

doesn’t like bribery or compassion.

You are supposed to play your role

without questioning

and put on a smirk at the most,

but never tears.

Surely you don’t think anybody cares

if you are sad,

do you?

 

So wear your fiesta mask bravely,

drown your tears in laughter

and “how do you do, mate?”,

keep a certain radiance on your face

to hide what others don’t want to see

because they don’t want

to recognize themselves.

 

Be a good actor, OK?

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Fatal Attraction

 

One day

during curfew

you will escape

the swarthy cell of your dejection,

and when you get

a glimpse of Reality

you will shout

“The sun, the sun!”

and almost get blinded by it,

but keep running

and running

and running.

It will be

a fatal attraction.

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Man Is a Child

 

Man is a child

who will never learn,

constantly toiling with the toys

of hope and greed.

 

Man is Mr. Prufrock and Mrs. Jellyby,

a fool among fools,

pirouetting on a precipice,

hitting the bottle

before climbing on a tightrope,

snap-freezing the traffic below.

 

Man beats his brother’s sails flat

if they ride the waves better than his.

Man is deaf to history’s stooge

and harps on the same heresies

over and over again.

 

Man cracks sick jokes

out of boredom.

Man is a fool.

Man is a child

who will never learn.

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Love and Fairy Tales Have Their Own Interpretation

 

He sat freezing

in front of the frieze-furnished church,

under a gathering of gargoyles

looking down on him so intensely

they almost toppled out of balance.

 

Wrapped in moth-eaten blankets

smelling of wine and urine,

he absent-mindedly watched happy-clappy people

whiz by under the bloodshot sun

of the dying afternoon,

while weary gulls tracked the postcard sky

slowly darkening into indistinctiveness.

The devotees were singing the vespers inside,

keeping each other warm with their breath

and the settled comfort of faith.

He didn’t share their slice of heaven.

 

He interpreted love in the nudging

of a mangy dog, a snout on his lap,

an understanding wail or wink,

not in the hankering for hymns

or giant cornucopias of horn.

 

He could see across to the sea

from his niche crosshatched with need,

he could see the last sunbeams

skipping like Josephine Baker

on the bristling water

mirroring shiver of wings.

This was the fabric of his fairy tales,

untouched by the filthy magic of ordinary dreams.

 

He took out some Homebrand biscuits

and shared them with his dog

on the cardboard reading

HOMELESS - PLEASE HELP,

pushing aside the cup

with three and a half dollars in it.

 

Inside the building,

believers were having a banquet

after the service.

 

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Children Don’t Ask

 

Children don’t ask for war,

yet in war and fear they die

when adults play war games

for the sake of money and power.

Children don’t ask for war,

yet their ears are deafened by bombs

and their eyes blinded by blitzes

when adults pull the trigger

with no good reason

but their sick imagination

and a will to win

over brothers they call enemies.

Children don’t ask for war,

so let them live in harmony

and the peace they were born for.

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