Roberto sits down, dreading that fated hour each Sunday, when his father would force theology down his throat, the way his mother used to coax him to swallow those sickish yellow dredges of fish oil.

“So, my boy,” he father begins, rubbing a glass with the tea towel that hasn’t been washed in days, “Get me that jug.”

Roberto obediently fetches it and sets it down on the table. By then his father had already finished with the glass, and it is standing neatly on the table, not what Roberto would call “squeaky clean” but not exactly dirty either. Water is poured into the glass, and obscures the imperfections on the surface.

“Love your enemies,” the old man grumbles. “What do you think that means?”

Roberto doesn’t want to answer. How could he love the idolators, the rapists, the liars and the sycophants? He opens his mouth to speak, and shuts it again,

Roberto has no more hope for humanity. The world seems to be descending. Politics is something that is ever changeable but universal; the old rules never fail and history repeats itself, the same backbone of the same story with different characters and context. The silent ones stay silent, or “neutral” as they love to call it, and watches the oppression without a word, without so much as a twitch. The tyrants do whatever they want, extending their monstrous hand to cover half the world in darkness, and commit acts of unspeakable crime that threatens to be spoken. The year has seen protests all over the planet yet the authorities would not budge, not even when it comes to humanitarian crises. The brutality gets worse day after day, behind closed doors and shuttered windows, and nothing concrete is done about it. The nations have not moved forward one inch.

Roberto’s father softens his face. “Why is it that some protests have continued support?”

Roberto thinks about it. “Because of what the protests are about. Because of what the protesters do or don’t do.”

“Because those protests are borne out of love, not hate,” his father added. “You’ve lost faith in humanity. I can see it in you, the way you shut yourself off. But know this: ask and you shall receive. Pray and He will answer. If He is for us, nothing could stand against.”

Roberto has heard this many times, and doesn’t want to hear it again. “I know, I know, and if nothing could stand against then perhaps none of this should have happened in the first place - ”

“Battles are not won in a day. Battles require sacrifice, patience, and most of all, hope.” His father looks at him. “When Pandora opened that box, every unspeakable terror came out of it, but the last thing that was in the box was Hope. It may be small , but don’t ever underestimate its power.”

Roberto stays silent. He does not really get the purpose of today’s lecture; in fact, this seems to have nothing to do with God in anyway.

“You know why you need to go out on to the streets. You know that when you stand united with your friends, love connects you. If you didn’t love the planet you wouldn’t be protesting against climate change. If you didn’t love your friends, you wouldn’t be fighting for their rights. There is goodness, still. Our enemies cannot win, if we strive for the end with light and with love.”

Roberto looks down at the floor.

“I never said I was out,” he mumbles.

To his surprise, his father laughs at that remark. “Oh come on, everyone knows that you skipped church.  I’ve read that that note that you carry around with you. There’s a lot of love it in. Fierce love.”

“Dad, that sounds cheesy.”

The man gives him a slap on the arm. “Even if you don’t believe me right now, you’ll see in the end.” He grabs the lingonberry squash and adds it to the glass of water. The syrup snakes down the side, dispersing and slowly contaminates the clear water, turning it into a crimson chalice. The colour reminds Roberto of fake blood, overly vivid, thin and watery.

“You see, even though the water is no longer pure, it is still transparent,” his father says, raising a finger behind the glass. “You can still see through it. We may seem to be on a downward trajectory, but actually the universe is ascending, and those that want to take us down will only expire themselves.”

Roberto, skeptically, nods, not wanting to argue. He can’t help but think, what if coffee granules were added, instead of the squash?  A prince’s court is like a common fountain. Poisoned at the head, death and diseases spread throughout the land. Doesn’t the bible tell of a time darker than our days, when all humanity has gone insane, before Jesus comes again?

Everywhere in the world, the fight continues, as activists speak out against human right abusers, against climate change, against rigged elections, against poverty, skyhigh taxes, and more, all with the common goal: to build a future.

I remember last September

An enchanted month to be with you

I wondered what you’d do

If I told you I like you too much

I remember sitting on my front steps

Chatting with you late into the night

You telling me you’re starting school tomorrow

And me texting you after you’d got home

And this Summer I look back at this

I marvel at how innocent we were -

How innocent I was, how happy we’d been,

And feel a pang in my chest-

Because we can never be this happy together again

We now live in a city of gas and bullets

And enjoy a summer in smoke, a song of fire,

You fight at the front and I’m too weak to join you

Night after night I shut my eyes to the image of red tears

Streaming from your face, wishing in vain it is not real,

You screaming your name soundlessly to the cameras watching

My horror at seeing what they’d done to your beautiful face

The worst thing is that this is not killing us

The worst thing is that they’re slowly poisoning us

The worst thing is that we’ve got everything and nothing to lose;

And that I can’t tell you I still love you.

©bluebellz (2019)

Originally published on my blog: https://isabellesparkles.wordpress.com

Image source: https://www.instagram.com/p/B12sTehAhtJ/ taken 31 Aug 2019

________________________

#poetry

#fightforfreedom

#StandWithHongKong

#HongKongProtests

#love

#politics

#depression

I remember when I was small

to my school policemen came to call

They told us about their weaponry

and we thought it was cool, when they flashed their batons

Now I'm older and I've seen more

I could tell the right from wrong

And those batons, I've got to say

They shouldn't be used in this way

I tell the priest all I have seen

He tells me, "Kneel before Him, come clean."

I ask him why, what is my sin

He tells me, "Be quiet; non-violence by all means."

I turn the page and seek the Lord

I ask for guidance, from His word

Acts and Daniel, Ephesians and more

Conviction distilled, I am now sure

That keeping quiet is not the way

Equipped and armed, demons I'll slay

Don't judge, don't cry and do not fear

For I am with you, and freedom is near.

©bluebellz (2019)

Originally published on my blog: https://isabellesparkles.wordpress.com/2019/09/30/angel-of-vengence/

#poetry #religion #politics

Inspiration is a fickle thing.

You cannot force inspiration.

You can only wait and hopefully, only hopefully, will inspiration come to you and you will be blessed with its magic. Inspired.

You see the world go up in flames

and watch as people die by guns

Hit and run - that’s what they’re best at

Screams echo down the street as air becomes smoke.

You are not strong like Heracles. You are not fast like an arrow or a bullet. You are not clever enough to be a general, and you are not qualified to be a medic.

So you write. Your words become your weapon, pencil sharpened to a point lethal enough to kill. The lance you wield best in the battlefield.

You fight to keep your own sanity as the world descends into chaos. As madness takes the world by storm. You hold on to words and broken promises as the wind sweeps everything away, leaving you naked and bare, vulnerable to the world.

An outlet of pain, blood and tears. Solidarity and mutiny. A call to battle, a call for peace. In no man’s land none will be spared. Resist while you can, the people sing.

So words become a game, a dance to never directly reveal what you truly mean. Your best form of retaliation, mild and weak but bullet proof. They can kill you, but they can’t kill ideas.

Words are all you have left, yet empty words of deceit are all that they will offer you, from their corrupt thrones.

So I decided to write things plain, in my last post. So that everyone would know, the evils that came to pass, in a place where ‘freedoom’ is an empty word, a place where ‘justice’ is an empty word, twisted to achieve the government’s means. I wrote them all, in a book of death, bound in leather from my father’s hide, parchment from my skin, tied together with my mother’s hair, the ink made from my brothers and sisters' blood, my hand forced to keep writing even as I scream and scream and scream - “No.”.

Paperwork filed and flyers made

The letter of objection we await

Appeals are made, each time denied

Yet still we walk, no fear, no heed

We raise our hands with peace and love

And turn our backs away from strife

We share and run and laugh and cry

Teenagers on streets forever young

In darkness they watch in dismay

Black clothes they don, with gear to match

Onto the streets they steal like dogs

And pretend to laugh, rehearsed and sly

Their plastic lines soon give away

Who they are - as cops by day

Cover blown, they only but grin

Unleash their claws and famed batons

They see one standing by the road

Swift and quick arrest they make

In boy’s pack a sharp pole they stick

Beat to a pulp, bleeds the boy’s brains

To the station impenitent they chase

And fire away, no questions, no jest

In game they hit and blood is shed

A tooth falls out, hit-points they gain

Down the stairway down they go

Following like mad dogs gone rogue

They take their gun and fire again

This time point-blank, as close as one

The final blow they deal with care

A bullet shot aimed true with flair

An eye for an eye, A tooth for a tooth,

Yet sadly neither eye nor tooth would ever grow again.

©bluebellz (2019)

Disclaimer: All events described are (painfully) inspired by true events which took place in Hong Kong on 11 August 2019. This depiction, though by no means comprehensive and cannot be regarded as a complete representation of the truth, tries to remain as faithful to the truth as possible.

#poetry #politics #forfreedom #policebrutality

The boys and girls march hand in hand

Dressed plain in black with hats to match

Long roads and streets they occupy

With love, with peace and fierce hearts

Out of the blue them henchmen come

With rifles, batons, pepper and gas 

The bullets fly, oh how quickly they wheeze

Past no man’s land, straight for the boy’s knee

Bang! It sings right through the air

Bypassing protocol, before flag and warning

Crash! The bullet rounds explode; reveal a hole

Blown through bare skin, helmets and shields

At the station North the zombies drift

White Wankers masked with faces lit

Shameless they march right to the crowd

Beat down with their sticks, with trembling zeal

999 calls are made, ’bout pandemonium and pain

No answer, just tone, “We’re dealing with this.”

Two hours, no help, just black libels

“We are busy down South,” they relentlessly say.

Screams rattle the train, the doors won’t close

They barge through closed gates, naught would keep them at bay.

Red marble on white; “Stay home if you’re scared.”

What such things are done on Victoria’s shore?

©2019

You can find more of my work here: https://isabellesparkles.wordpress.com

#poetry #standwithHK #fightforfreedom #freehongkong #HKprotest #PrayforHongKong

This was what happened on the night of July 21st. It was the night Freedom was assaulted by gangs dressed in white. Freedom screamed in pain that night, and someone shoved a red rag down Freedom's mouth, to muffle the sound. Someone shot Freedom with 36 rounds of bullets. Someone gassed Freedom, and Freedom choked and sputtered and coughed up blood. Those who had sworn an oath to protect did not come to Freedom's aid when Freedom cried out for help. Justice slammed the door in Freedom's face.

On July 27th, Freedom was denied the right to speak up, but Freedom took a stand anyway, only to be met with increasingly brutal measures. Freedom was again denied the right to protest on the 28th.  Freedom was shot in the head. Freedom was abused by police thugs trembling with zeal; Freedom was kicked and trampled on. Freedom bled and almost died. Freedom was framed and arrested. Freedom was no longer free to roam the streets, no longer free to live in their own home, no longer free to travel on the train, no longer free to speak their mind. Freedom was replaced by Fear, and though both cousins of the letter F, Fear made people cower while Freedom made people smile.

Freedom went home with a battered body but Freedom refuses to give up the fight. Freedom has a voice and will keep on singing. Who is your real friend and who is your enemy? Who chains you? Are you for Freedom or against Freedom? Are you friends with Deceit, friends with Corruption, or do you make them your enemy? Everyone has a voice. Half-hearted choices are not real choices. Choose, in order to live.

#standwithHK #fightforfreedom

Holed up in a dark pit, I found it hard to climb back up again.

There was no Light. No end in sight.

For a time I thought that maybe I was going insane because I’d stopped writing, because there was nothing to write about. Brain. Dead.

Like a deserter, retreating before the order,

I reentered that forgotten world where my characters once breathed, made flesh through ink,

and where ships don’t sink and no one cries.

So I began to write prose, broken poetry,

if only to escape from this hell for five sentences, or five stanzas.

I picked up a paintbrush and let it fly. It became a thread, a rope of hope, painted into existence, or perhaps the other way round. It didn’t matter.

I followed it, and at the end, I met You.

Originally published on https://wp.me/p1uzpB-8p

Happily. Ever. After.

After.

After comes later than one would expect from fairytales.

Fairytales do not tell you the lows, the hurt and the blows.

Blows that can no longer touch you, in the After.

In the After, there is true bliss.

In the After, there is no hunger.

In the After, there is always light.

And what about night? I hear you ask.

In the After, there is no night.

We do not need the night.

We do not need to sleep.

We do not even need to eat.

We simply are.

In the After, I live in a garden.

A Garden of the Dead.

In the After, I bask in the Eternal Light

And feel, at last, content.

If you were real

I’d give you an apple

and call you by your name

You’d nicker when you see me

and we’d be best friends.

If you were real

I’d tell you my secrets, my worries and fears.

you’d nudge me and

let me know everything’s okay.

If you were real you’d be in races;

I’d be the jockey,

yours and yours alone.

If you were real we would fly

across the sky,

together, you and I.

If you were real

I’d stay with you through the night

and nurse you back to health.

But you will not grow old;

and all these things I would do with you

I do in vain.