Wednesday, 15 April 2026

Resilience - poem written for open mic on Saturday night - How to keep your inner child alive

 

A cat has a lot of resilience, doesn't it?





I was walking on Life’s path, 

and I fell down hard

The route was dusty,

Lined with stones and shards


They tore into me

and I thought the end was near

but I got up and walked on, 

overcoming my fear


I walked on and Life was going

its wondrous way,

The challenges came again, 

to my deep dismay


I stumbled forward 

and lost my footing,

This time I thought

My lovely world 

was sinking


But again I gathered all my strength 

and got up,

and this time I promised to not 

always be on my guard


Cause Life’s challenges will will me to grow up,

be cynical and complain

and behave like an adult 

who has had it tough and out of the mundane


But now I get up 

and wail if I must,

I throw a tantrum if it’s hard

And then rise above 

The flying dust!


Like a pilot in a crash,

of a glider that’s fuming,

I walk out majestically

To see the World again, 

Unassuming


Cause the child in me,

Has never died.

Yes, yes, she has suffered,

Oh Yes, she has criedI was walking on Life’s path, 

and I fell down hard

The route was dusty,

Lined with stones and shards


They tore into me

and I thought the end was near

but I got up and walked on, 

overcoming my fear


I walked on and Life was going

its wondrous way,

The challenges came again, 

to my deep dismay


I stumbled forward 

and lost my footing,

This time I thought

My lovely world 

was sinking


But again I gathered all my strength 

and got up,

and this time I promised to not 

always be on my guard


Cause Life’s challenges will will me to grow up,

be cynical and complain

and behave like an adult 

who has had it tough and out of the mundane


But now I get up 

and wail if I must,

I throw a tantrum if it’s hard

And then rise above 

The flying dust!


Like a pilot in a crash,

of a glider that’s fuming,

I walk out majestically

To see the World again, 

Unassuming


Cause the child in me,

Has never died.

Yes, yes, she has suffered,

Oh Yes, she has cried


But today she’s again forgotten yesterday,

Today us a beautiful New page, 

that’s waiting for her to play..



Written for an open mic session with @m.orgazm at Poetic Babelier, Brussels 


But today she’s again forgotten yesterday,

Today us a beautiful New page, 

that’s waiting for her to play..



Written for an open mic session with @m.orgazm at Poetic Babelier, Brussels 

Watch me read the poem recorded live her on Instagram or Facebook, the link should work. Do follow me or encourage me on there if possible!

https://www.instagram.com/p/DXJUUPfjKUF/

https://www.facebook.com/reel/1638377820743201

Or watch me on here directly by clicking the 


This is the lovely sweatshirt I won at the evening from Morgazm for her theme 'Gangsta Slay'




#resilience #poetry #englishpoetry #openmic #englishpoetrylovers #resilienceagainstchallenges

#innerchild


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Thursday, 9 April 2026

Yours Truly - strained relationships - short story




 In 1980

Dear Son,

It’s been 12 months since we have spoken. 12 months since I’ve seen your face. It’s a very long time for a mother, don’t you think? I’ve written to you once or twice every month since you left the house angry, all those months ago. Yes, what I said was harsh. No, I didn't mean to offend you to this point of no return. Your absence has been felt by everybody. 

Your father & sister keep asking where you are? Why are you not even replying to their letters?

I’m now worried that something has happened to you. None of your friends from our town have any idea where you may be. I managed somehow to get this address from one of them but it seems like you aren’t there.

Please at least give us a sign that you are fine and that you’re not answering me on purpose. 

All I want is to hear from you. This anger that you have can be thrown back at my face. I’m ready to hear it.

Your worried mother.

 

The postman who has now delivered the letter to the address that’s on the envelope wonders what to do with the letter as he looks at the previous letters and envelopes collecting on the top of the post box. The thought of tearing open and reading one of the envelopes that have the same handwriting crosses his mind. But he knows he can’t and walks away.

 

 



In 1980


Today I stand on this railway platform and I’m about to embark on a long journey. I’ve just had a huge fight with my mother. I spoke to her about the feelings I’d hidden away in my mind for so many years. She always thinks I’m a small child, doesn’t she know at 19, I’m a man now? I’ve always listened to her and the only time I’ve expressed my true feelings, this is how she reacts. All I saw in her face was anger and near loathing. Yes, when she saw I got up to leave, I noticed concerns, fear and some small degree of empathy. But that had come too late. I’ll just go to the ticket office and take the first train away from here.

A month later Harish receives his mother’s first letter by post. Some time ago he had written to his best friend Madhu about what had happened that fateful day at home. Harish had believed that Madhu wouldn’t betray his trust but guesses his family got to Madhu’s kinder side and prised the postal address out from him.

Harish reads the letter from his mother briefly. He’s afraid his mother or family will show up at the rental room. He packs the few things he has into his bag and leaves. He takes the opened letter with him.

 

 

 A year or so later


Harish is lying in bed after a week of illness. He dreams about his mother. In this fragile state, he closes his eyes and remembers her at her kindest. She had skin that glistened in the Sun. Her odour was like talc. He remembers her feeding him the soup that he loved and being concerned about his health. Working to survive on his own this year had been hard on Harish. He doesn’t even have the energy to pick up a pen at the moment.





In 2020

Harish looks at his children’s photo in the frame next to his bed. He picks up the phone to look at the messages he hoped he would have received in the night. Lately, he found himself wanting to receive news from his children more than ever before. They were grown now and living their own lives. He thought he and his wife had brought them up well. It had been some months since his wife had passed away. He hadn’t noticed that his kids didn’t call to speak to him much when she’d been alive. They were constantly in touch with their mother. Or was it she who was constantly calling them? He wondered about it now. It was hard to understand why they didn’t call to ask about him. 

He sees a new message in the inbox of his phone. His daughter has sent him a long message. He gulps hard as he reads the accusations. There were things he hadn’t done right apparently. His joy on having received her message now turned sour. He closes his eyes in fatigue. The first person he thinks of and sees while he reels from the message is his mother. He can see her face as clearly now as he did when he’d walked out of their home.



#strainedrelations #toxicrelations #motherandson 



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Sunday, 5 April 2026

Yvonne - The Tennis player - short story

 



Yvonne got into the lift. The morning had been eventful. She had just finished playing tennis, and her body felt the aftereffects of the match. Benji, her tennis partner, had thought that since she had not had enough practice recently, he would win the match easily. Ha, she had proved him wrong, and he had to buy her lunch after the match. That had been their bet when he had boasted about winning before the match. Now, as she looked at her reflection in the mirror in the lift, she felt deeply satisfied with herself. The rest of their tennis group had cheered her on as Benji lost the three sets 3–6, 2–6, and 4–6.

She was now mentally noting that their next match as a group of friends would take place in two weeks. She really loved tennis and had always been passionate about the sport. Luckily, her car was still working fine, and she could drive herself to the club when needed. The car was getting old, and soon she would have to get it inspected and certified to be on the road for another year. She put the thought aside as the lift door opened, and she walked into the corridor she shared with her Indian neighbour. She wondered if the lady was at home, as she wanted to give the neighbour’s children the Easter eggs she had purchased for them.

The light in the corridor came on as she moved along, searching for her keys. She struggled to find them but finally did. She found herself mumbling as it was difficult to focus and fit the key into the slot. She thought it was probably the one cold beer she had had with her lunch that was playing tricks on her sight. As she struggled, the door across the corridor opened, and the Indian neighbour, who had heard her, asked if she was alright. Yvonne turned around and saw the lady standing there with one of her children just behind her. “Yes, yes,” she said, as she felt the key finally enter the slot and heard it turn.

When she got into her apartment, she stood at the doorway and told her neighbour, “I have something to give you later. I just came from tennis, so I need to freshen up a bit. Are you at home this afternoon?”

“Yes,” said the neighbour.

They both wished each other a good day and closed their doors. Yvonne placed her keys on the side table near the main door.

Once inside, the neighbour’s child asked her mother, “She still plays tennis?”

The mother replied, “Yes, she’s impressive, isn’t she? To still play at 89. What a woman!”

#strongwomen #womanlivingalone #independentwoman #independence #eastereggs

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