Just Like a Tree

Sometimes I feel just like a tree -

there are those who love and admire me

and those who'd like to cut me down

and some who'd like to shape

and mould me to their needs

but I don't want to be a chair and sat upon -

I want to be a tree

reaching for the highest heights

branching out to see the world

from different points of view

touching depths that no one would suspect

until they tried to topple me

and found the going tough -

but even if they managed it

deep deep down

I know I have the means

to work my way back up.

I wrote this poem in the early nineties when I was working on an educational magazine spotlighting gender equity. I found it among a pile of papers today and I realised all this time later in 2017 we are still grappling with inequality and discrimination across many areas such as gender, age, disability, sexual preference, religion and race. How can this be when the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights states that ALL PEOPLE are EQUAL before the law and are entitled without any discrimination to the EQUAL protection of the law?  And so it is that I dedicate this simple little poem to the LGBTI beautiful individuals who at this moment in 2017 seek the human rights, fairness and equality that should rightly be theirs by law. 

NYC - Central Park Strolling

Today I walked in Central Park

where I casually passed

picnickers and castle climbers

men in suits and boathouse diners

buskers, rowers, volunteers

painters, poets, park voyeurs

gymnasts flipping in the sun

doggy walkers on the run

frazzled teachers with their classes

bird watchers with travel glasses

NYPD’s watchful eyes

strolling players in disguise

turtle spotters by Turtle Pond

peering through the duckweed fronds

models posing in designer gowns

tourists in from out of town

hawkers, vendors, crying babies

city workers, Manhattan ladies

musicians, mothers, tourist guides

wedding parties, dazzling brides

sleepers, snorers, roller-bladers

sun-lovers in their bathers

John Lennon fans imagining

strolling Strawberry Fields with him

gardeners with green-thumbed hands

sweet music from hot-jazz bands

darting toddlers on their knees

crawling under cherry trees

pedicab cyclists slowing down

for starry-eyed tourists from out of town

carriage pulling citified horses

chatting teens and skateboarders

people loving every minute

of Central Park

and all that’s in it.

NYC - Mahler Symphony No. 1

Today at Carnegie Hall

Mahler swept into my soul

with sounds that spoke

of new awakenings.

My heart took flight.

It jiggled around inside me

cartwheeling from side to side;

it raced to heights

of highest high;

danced on clouds

of purest white;

it ebbed and flowed

with swirls and swells,

then darkness fell

veiling my heart

with sorrow.

I hid in the shadows

hoping it would pass by

but melancholy descended

swallowing me whole

in its ballooning belly.

It hurtled me through

passages of deepest dark

and grinding hurt

and just when I thought

my heart would burst

the darkness lifted

and light returned

to bathe me

in its healing glow.

 My thoughts while listening to Mahler's Symphony Number One played by the New York Youth Symphony one Sunday afternoon in May in New York City with loved ones.

NYC - 9/11

On September 11 2001

2893 men, women and children

perished in a terrorist attack

on the World Trade Centre

in New York City.

Today I stand at the memorial site

with a survivor.

He relives his story step-by-step

from the first shudder

on the 68^th floor of the first tower

where he worked

staying to do his job

until an alarm finally sounded

releasing him to his fate

on the stairwell

with hundreds of others

all making their way down

as brave souls in uniforms raced up.

He says that retelling his story

doesn’t affect him

but as he journeys back

he paces distractedly,

his voice trembles,

his eyes search his memory,

tears flow –

his and ours.

He takes us there with him on that day

as he tries to flee the building

only to be turned back from the plaza

because burning people

are jumping from the top floors

landing at the wearied feet

of the responder crews below.

We are with him as he reaches out

to help a moaning lady who begs him

not to touch her rubbery melting skin.

We are with him as he searches

for friends he cannot find.

We are with him as he follows a light

wondering if maybe he’s dead

and finds help instead

 asking, ‘why me?’

We are with him

step by painful step 
as he journeys through the horror
of his memories.

.

Post Script: I wrote this poem in 2013 during a guided tour of the 9/11 memorial, which was still under construction at the time. Since 9/11, millions of innocent people around the world have been killed in both terrorist attacks and the war on terror leaving behind scarred and traumatised survivors. In some countries a whole generation of children will carry the trauma of war and terror for all their lifetimes. It is so senseless. Civilization does not seem to heed the lessons of history. I am reminded of the African proverb, ‘When elephants fight it is the grass that suffers.’

NYC - Canal Street Sunday

The drizzling rain

accentuates

the hustle and bustle

of Chinatown on a Sunday.

Whiffs of fish find my nose

as I make my way

along Canal Street

to my dim sum date.

The jumble of market stalls

all colour and chatter

and the sight

of table upon table

of seafood

about to make its way

onto luncheon plates

are the backdrop

to my journey.

I dodge umbrellas

mushrooming in the rain

and paddle in puddles

I cannot dodge

because I have not learnt

the art of jostling

in streetwise crowds.

Dripping into my destination

I trip over

the New York greetings

of soon-to-be friends

and slide into my seat

round a table for ten

where a raised altar

spins offerings

of jasmine tea.

Clasping a cup in my hands

I give thanks

for friends on Sunday

in Canal Street.