The sound of the shotguns, music of war:

sensory response poem, see picture for more.

  • (c) Danielle Parrish 2017

 

Lonely, cold, hurt, bold, calm.

The sound of battle fire – fear runs through the veins.

Crunch, leaves, forest, ash, blood.

I’m scared for my family, my friends and my welfare.

Boom, sizzle, pop, snap

The air was cool like the corpses rotting bodies void of souls, the sound of silence deafening as the soldier marched forward.

Frail hands glide over the old mahogany grand

Blood stained keys seep into the wood

That once stood in the parlour of a family’s antique home

Alone is stands, but is not alone in song

 

Silence, music, sound, out of tune, out of time – soft

 

The crackle of the shotguns,  poisonous to peace

Faces of the fallen, heroes and enemies weep

 

Second chances are futile as all is now done

On the battlefield of silence, only one song is sung.

 

A lonely feeling, no pain just numbness– all past tensions fall away into nothingness.

 

It was the eve of the end, the silence of the battleground. The air was cool like the corpses rotting bodies void of souls, the sound of silence defining as the soldier marched forward.

 

A clearing in the woods, musty and stale held secrets and sorrows of a past mans tale. The melody of serenity plays through the chilling air.

All is lost but hope is still there.

Frail hands glide over the old mahogany grand

Blood stained keys seep into the wood

That once stood in the parlour of a family’s antique home

Alone is stands, but is not alone in melody.

 

The crackle of the shotguns,  poisonous to peace

Faces of the fallen, heroes and enemies weep

 

Second chances are futile as all is now done

On the battlefield of silence, the only song is now sung.

 

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Like a child with an innocent curiosity to question:

  • (c) Danielle Parrish 2017

 

I am awake like the clock’s  never ending tick

I am a restless train of thought, running off the tracks

I am the voice inside you that burns at your core

You are powerless against my

constant  

Overbearing

unwavering  control

You are divergent

You will never stop me

I am the fuel that burns at your fire

 

Listen… L i s t e n  t o  m e!

The voice inside you nags and natters in your brain

Everyone you know

thinks you are a horrid mess

The things that make you You

irritate them endlessly…

What do they REALLY think about you?

You will never find out

You are too cowardly to question

YOU know you do not  need to be

“happy”

to be successful…

So why bother trying?

 

It will follow you – you will never feel alone

In every breath and moment it torments you

 

I am right. I know all about you

You are wrong

like a child with an innocent curiosity to question

I will always be there for you

When all others leave

I

  will

        remain…

You will never be free — as long as you listen to me…

I am all you know

Why change that?

Why destroy our bond ?

 

These voices in your head pulling at your soul

Which is right – which is wrong?

Should I even listen?

Do you even want to?

 

Let go

be free  

 

The turmoil you create will be your downfall

Be the river

that was once a stream

Forge new beginnings

Encounter your  milestones

Do not run from them

 

So let that voice inside you speak

          listen to it  

                 Imagine its perspective

                               but never let it engulf you whole

 

Anxiety is an energy

You —

Feed its desires

You —

Fuel its cruel intentions

Only you —

can smother it

Let those embers dissipate.

 

Manuscripts of the mind – Poetry

No words can reach my heart

it is locked up inside

no books or ideas can quench my mind

philosophy is a hunger and i feed on it daily

an open heart to ideas of the past expand my future

but i cant bear to loose my present

my family and my life all mundane but worth it.

so i write to you dear reader in hopes you’ll understand

a world with ideas is great but love is worth more

enjoy what living gives you,  for you wont experience it again.

I might be old but i am wise – some have said, much before my time.

but what time was it that i wasted writing manuscripts of my mind.

  • (c) Danielle Parrish

 

The annexe of misfortune: – poetry

The annexe of misfortune:

 

Cold, dreary and somber are the emotions that run through the beating heart of the annexe.

 

The smells of stale summer air flow through the cracks, a hint of spice from the warehouse below.

 

The only news is misfortune and the only food is hope.

 

Could huddling for warmth degrade their worth in the eyes of some who take away their rights to even breathe, to be human?

 

The two families merge as one throughout the year – becoming like the tides, ever near and yet ever far.

 

Thoughts of hope flow through ink to paper, the annexe calls – from within the cold dark walls, and fogged windows.

 

Radio broadcasts the outside world, it seems so foreign, and so frightening to her that people that they knew are being stolen in the night.

 

All the propaganda making Jews feel like herded cattle, only one direction- to the slaughterhouse, the annexe feels the fear of those whom she protects, a souls combined cloaking is the only safety they have left.

 

Like whispers, the nights cold air rustles through the cracks of the annexe, for fear of feeling the families have no heater – no material worth, for it was striped away when peole found out about what their worship is worth.

 

Poison is the power of some at the helm of a revolution for the masses – The poison that proves evil can see no truth – no truth of the future, or of the families  that he holds in his hands.

 

Cradling shelter the annex gives to many- although misfortune is around the corner and the sirens make breathing heavy.

 

Heavy are the hearts of  those who carry on, a candle’s light flickers- like a lone birds song.

 

Emotions as bitter as the food that they eat – fighting over who in which family has the bigger piece, of the dust on their plates that they have to eat.

 

But in this house of misfortune, a diary it does contain with the hopes of a young girl running through the papers veins.

 

From this hope, a story of the the house in which it contains- a little girl and her big family-  all but one, never to be seen again.

 

Goodbye, said  Anne- you were my only true friend.  – Danielle Parrish

(based of of the diary entry, friday 10th of march – 1944)

A bundle of contradictions:

A bundle of contradictions:

 

Alone in the annexe I sit, becoming one with the days, and the seasons.

Alone she sits, pondering about whether the war will end soon, or if her time is up.

I ponder about my family and what strength drove them through this bundle of contradictions that I call my life.

She ponders about  the restless nights, the fights and the sirens throughout the mess she calls her life.

Becoming a lady, I must sit poise, prim and proper.

Becoming a lady, sacrifices must be made, her beauty for her brain, and her heart for her hope.

I begin to wonder about the chimes, chimes that break the day into evening and the evening into night.

She wonders about the chimes, the sand shuffling through the hourglass- she wonders about her future.

 

A bundle of contradictions, I write to my diary- two halfs of a whole person but a split in my personality.

 

A bundle of contradictions she writes, anger, happiness hope and despair- two halves of a person that no one sees is there.

 

Could the war be over, all my suffering coming to end?- I am begining to view  friends as family, but my family i am starting to view as friends.

 

Could her savoirs be near?- could the new beginning break the dawn – or is this just a painting that a talented artist has drawn.

 

One thing is for certain I’ll be the best writer yet- even after death, my life will become a sonnet for the masses.

 

One thing is for certain, her life will live on- through movies, poetry and song- her words will become history every time she lays her pen to write, until her final breath bits the night .

good night. – Danielle Parrish

 

(based off of her last diary entry, Tuesday the 1st of August 1944)

The side of angels – a Sherlock Holmes themed poem

“I may be on the side of angels but do not think for one second that I am one of them” – Sherlock Holmes

The side of angels

is a terrible side indeed

where experience is lacking and intelligence is in great need

but do heed my advice for i wont repeat it twice.

The game is on Watson, and I haven’t got all night.

Moriarty is dancing with the Devils tongue,

setting of explosions in the name of fun

“The people are in danger, Sherlock”

you exclaim with great heed

Yes, i know that  Watson – but i care not for the loss of human stupidity.

the world is better off with the peoples heads cut off – they run around like chickens anyway- trust me i’ve experimented every possibility

That the side of angels is righteous- and just

But i need freedom- to do what devils must.

You know i don’t have many friends Watson – in fact i only have one.

You put up with my intelligence, and i mess with you just for fun.

For that I am truly sorry, but the chase is just begun.

I may be on the side of angels but do not think for one second that i am one.

  • (c) Danielle Parrish 2016

Sherlock homes themed, man I love me some Sherlock 🙂

 

Dry spells of the mind – Poetry

My mind is rattled

my faith is in shackles

Who I love…

and what I love is vexed by everyone,

who doesn’t understand the meaning. 

My hope is dried up like a well in a drought.

People toss coins in and expect their wishes and expectations  to come out.

School is a endless haze of work and no emotion 

an infinite turmoil of knowledge with bias, the truth with added opinion.

But if they agreed that everyone is unique and emphasize individuality 

would they still attack me ?

attack my faith?

My body ?

my lifestyle?

and who I love?

They say your life is your choice, but we will tell you which one to pick

When will life choose who to attack,

my shield of a facade….

or what they find crawling underneath.

Dry spells of hate, no water – no mist 

My imagination runs wild – it tells me to jump a cliff.

 

Should I tear down my wall or just call it quits…….

People fight in wars based on religion, but we choose to focus on who people love – and talk as if it was their opinion.

Why do we fight when nothing turns out right?

My dry spell of a mind is fighting to figure out what is right…….

-(c) Danielle Parrish. 2016

 

 

 

A changed mind, for the same world – poem

We conspire against the odds

our brains re-wired 

we are the problem kids

the retards, and the lazy ones, the misfits

Where it is our problem that teachers

look over their perfect class 

to find less than included children at the back of educations ass

We are the dyslexics, and the kids with ADHD

And all the other issues that aren’t addressed

that is; WE.

But if you find beneath our perceived looks

are the geniuses, the minds that will carry the world  with the books and ideas that we ponder.

The ones you wish you could be when you are older.

But our road is filled with potholes of missing understanding or fear

that being not normal is something that schools don’t want near.

So rise up, shout, speak up against your foes – to all who wish to place you with labels

You are the new beginning,  so create what you know you can 

you are not retards  – but people misplaced in a messed up world.

  • Danielle Parrish (c)  

(A.N – I wrote this because I am one of the people who are enabled in a different way –  I have dyslexia and dyscalculia – so i know well the struggle of education for a changed mind)

 

Falling down the shadows – Poem

Stars fall around by my feet

the night sky whispers to me

ever in a trance- moving like waves in the sea

is there someone that can help me?

True are the words that others preach

lost, dazed, and hard to reach

but my mind is caving in – into my body

into my heart, it sinks like a ship lost at sea

it’s captain far from reach.

I’m falling down the shadows – into an endless void.

not a voice can be heard,

not a movement made change change my direction.

I’m falling into the shadows,

and the shadows are falling into me. 

  • Danielle Parrish (c)

The Road To Revolution; A slaves diary.

The road to my revolution, A slave’s diary:

 

Month 1: The sale of a new slave.

I’m awakened with a sharp slap to my cheek, the cool air stings my taut limbs as I dangle aimlessly from a long chain. The chain is long enough that I am on the floor but just short enough to prevent my escape, with a torturous intent on breaking my will. Today is the day that I am sold, like cattle with no rights and barely the will to speak. My name is, Etris. Etris Domica Corinis.

Or at least it was until I was captured. My life before slavery, is a memory long lost amongst the torture and beatings to break me. I was a farmer, on the borders of a neighboring province that was under siege by roman legionnaires. I remember bloodshed, and the pain in my side as I was knocked unconscious by a roman soldier, The last thing is saw under his helm was cold unfeeling eyes. Trained to kill.

 

Back to the present, where I find myself at now – in a room with people being slowly dragged out by chains, I recognize a few of my fellow country men as they walk past- hope all but lost.  A guard comes for me next- he looks at me with disdain in his eyes and spits, actually spits. “ sporcizia”. Filth. Thats is all I am degraded to as i am hauled out to the markets with the others, the future is all that awaits me now.

 

Month 2 : The fields in which my freedom grows.

 

I was lucky enough to be sold to a wealthy patrician who works in the senate. I spend my long days working with my fellow brothers in the fields, guards keeping an eye on us as we work, to make sure that we don’t escape.  We eat very little, while the foods that we cultivate are used for lavish parties for the masters co- workers and their wives. Most of the food we have to haul out again, unable to touch or eat any in fear of losing limbs. So much food wasted, and for an ungrateful pig that whips his slaves and starves them, while we suffer- under his cruel reign.

 

Month 3: Revolution, but at what cost ?

 

Rumor amongst the slaves have grown from murmurs to wakes, a man named Spartacus is rallying all those who wish to join the revolt. I am well used to the life of a slave now, freedom all but a foreign concept. Besides once a slave, you are your masters for life- unless he grants you freedom, fat chance of that happening in my case.  I’m thinking about the revolt -I wish to be free so much, but at what cost to I value my life.

 

Month 4: A lesson learned is a person punished.

 

The days are longer, more guards are hired, slaves that I befriended in the fields have been slaughtered for trying to escape. My owner make a show of it, executing them in out fields on crucifixes. They hang there even now – 3 weeks after their death, out in the fields, a reminder of what awaited those who wish to be liberated. The fields stink like death making the days even  longer and my stomach weaker with every glance.

 

When will this war end ? Spartacus wants freedom- but how many lives will it cost ?- death is ever present on this road to my  revolution.

Danielle Parrish (c) 2016