New Voices

Want to read some new voices and see some great photos – please follow this link to Mybewilderedbrain to read more.

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Save as…

How does the brain store the memories we gain?
What criteria does it use for saving this, or that?
There are people who struggle with their mother’s name
But can describe to us, in detail, their dear old hat.

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Only Child

I always did my best but it was never enough.
A daughter who had to earn love.

Always compared to those shining examples -
the daughters of my parents friends.

The smart girls. Sluts who stole money from
their parents to buy smokes, see boys and drink.

Mentally wounded and physically abused -
For what? For being a good daughter?

School, University and Guilt: good grades.
Home Report Card: “Could have achieved more.”

I sat in my room drawing a better life than mine.
My Dansette on so I could sing along to pop.

Never really fitting in but had some friends.
I was classed as intelligent but difficult. Needing help.

Escaping from school when I was little and
being dragged back.

Trailed around Doctors and Psychologists. Until:
“We don’t really have a reason, it’s just her.”

He probably loved that idea, of me being branded:
“A bad child.” Mum advised not to have any more.

Closer to my Mother, hating and fearing my Father.
He was the family breadwinner and a church elder.

Mother caught in the cross-fire, as often is the case.
She cared. Though not enough to stand up to him.

Mother watched as I was teased and goaded into
fights that I did not want and could never win.

At work Father was well liked and even respected.
A noble scientific mind who loved to help others.

If I had said, would I have been believed? No.
Would Mother say? No. Not in those distant days.

Both were obsequious in front of people of perceived
power. Fake greetings dripped from their lying lips.

Both are now dead but the dust never settles,
it colours my life grey, in some way, every day.

He died a much weaker man showing no regrets.
Mother died later, though we became very close.

I could only ever just be me. This, they despised.
The truth is we never understood each other.

We spoke and thought quite differently – and I was loved
– but never for just being me.

I am on the autistic spectrum: ADHD and Aspergers.

For years I thought that I was the problem.

They had their own, hidden and unresolved.

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The Interview (five minutes with God)

Five Minutes with… God

01 You are always very busy, do you ever get a chance to rest?

02 Do you have any hobbies or things you do to unwind?

03 Have you a good sense of humour and can you give examples?

04 Millions pray to you daily how do you manage to answer them all?

05 Who is your favourite artist and why? – This can be across any of the creative arts.

06 What is your favourite colour?

07 How would you rate the human race out of ten on maintaining the Earth?

08 Is there anyone, perhaps even another “being”, that you admire?

09 Are we just one of many projects that you have underway across the known universe?

10 What is the most important lesson that the human race has not yet learned and why?

11 Is there anything that you would go back and change about something you created?

12 There seems to be so many “Gods” it is confusing. So why create so many?

13 How did you qualify to be God?

14 Why did you give the human race free will?

15 If you were not God what would you be?

16 You had a son, do you consider yourself a good father?

17 Do you have a favourite period in history and why?

18 If you had a wife how would you feel and what would you do if she had a child with another?

19 Where were you on the 26th December 2004?

20 Is there anything that might make you think about retiring?

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Resting

Once I feared the creeping darkness
Where the folds of moonlit curtains
Delivered their silent screams
To my ears, my skin and memory.

Now darkness draws me near her.
To sleep. To recuperate and think.
More sanctuary than mere bleakness,
A golden field of wheat where I can lay -

Forever.

 

 

 

poem © copyright Brian Shirra 2014

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