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DoodleScribbles

Scribblings and scrawls of a hopeless romantic soul

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politics

e=mc2

no-future-girl-balloon-by-banksy

e=mc2

what do the children say
about special relativity?
when they neither had
a space to live and
a time to be free?

when past, present and future
were never in their grasp
when limbs, tears and blood
were all that they have

ask them an equation
they only have one:
the end is equivalent to the
mass of people multiplied by
the square of the speed of bomb

© 2017 Maria. All Rights Reserved.


In response to dVerse’s Open Link Night hosted by Grace.

This piece is also inspired Bjorn’s prompt at Toads.  The photo above is from Banksy. In 2010, Banksy did another version of his Balloon Girl with a monochrome child, spray-painted on the wall of a private house in Bevois Valley, Southampton, England.

 My heart bleeds for the people of Syria, especially the children. The alleged gas attack from Assad regime in a rebel-held town in Idlib has killed many innocent souls. Who really did this? We’ll never really know. One thing is for sure, mankind has become most dangerous animal in this world. And, sadly, the leader could only respond with a missile airstrike. Sigh. Poets around the globe are unleashing their swords through their pens. Here are some of them that you might want to read:

Instagram: #withsyria
Bjorn’s Another Name for Terror
Jade’s An Elegy for Them

Head over here to join the fun:

dverse

Take Me Not To Dreamland


Take Me Not To Dreamland

take me not to dreamland
to the lands of make-believe
but lead me to a place instead
that swathes of artistry
where faces ashen to the sight
of reality
where pointing fingers curl in guilt
and men spring to take the blame

amuse me, bemuse me
but not with fantasy

© 2017 Maria. All Rights Reserved.

Photograph by David Levene/Eyevine via TheNewYorker


In response to dVerse’s Poetics: Amuse me! Take me for a ride! hosted by the lovely Lillian.

P.S My apologies if this one digress from the fun. 😅 As an avid fan, I couldn’t help but think of Banksy with today’s prompt. In 2015, the world was shaken when the artist opened his bemusement park, Dismaland. Situated in the Weston-super-Mare seafront, the themed park displayed demented assortment of bizarre and thought-provoking artworks from Banksy and more than 50 artists around the world— from street art, spoof fairground rides, derelict Cinderella castle, grim reaper exhibit, a dystopian model village and many more. Ah, if only I could teleport! 😦

You can find more info and images of Dismaland from these links: Colossal, Reuters, The Guardian

Head over here to join the fun:

dverse

If I Could Build A House

rooms_artist03_z

If I Could Build A House

If I could build a house
I would build one not for mine

A house of warmth for those in the cold
Sprawled on the streets, no one to hold

A house of strength for those who are weakened
No mortar or bombs can ruin again

A house of light that beams in the night
For the lost and weary to cast away their fright

A house of love for the lonely and hopeless
Who threw away trust and second chances

A house of peace for the hate-filled heart
Who’s trying to keep from falling apart

If I could build a house in a snap of fingers
I would build a home for each rat that lingers.

© 2017 Maria. All Rights Reserved.


In response to dVerse’s Tuesday Poetics: DIY Building by our guest host, Sara McNulty.

Your challenge for today is to imagine that you have been given free rein to design any type of building you wish. What would your building look like?

Banksy is back with a brand new project called “The Walled Off Hotel,” where people can literally sleep inside this work of art. Located in Bethlehem, Palestine it offers the ‘worst view in the world’ with windows overlooking the controversial barrier wall that separates the West Bank from Israel territory. The image above is one of the wall decorations in the room. Banksy is <3.

Head over here to join the fun:

dverse

Home

a-syrian-refugee-holding-009-640x384

Home
By Warsan Shire

no one leaves home unless
home is the mouth of a shark
you only run for the border
when you see the whole city running as well

your neighbors running faster than you
breath bloody in their throats
the boy you went to school with
who kissed you dizzy behind the old tin factory
is holding a gun bigger than his body
you only leave home
when home won’t let you stay.

no one leaves home unless home chases you
fire under feet
hot blood in your belly
it’s not something you ever thought of doing
until the blade burnt threats into
your neck
and even then you carried the anthem under
your breath
only tearing up your passport in an airport toilets
sobbing as each mouthful of paper
made it clear that you wouldn’t be going back.

you have to understand,
that no one puts their children in a boat
unless the water is safer than the land
no one burns their palms
under trains
beneath carriages
no one spends days and nights in the stomach of a truck
feeding on newspaper unless the miles travelled
means something more than journey.
no one crawls under fences
no one wants to be beaten
pitied

no one chooses refugee camps
or strip searches where your
body is left aching
or prison,
because prison is safer
than a city of fire
and one prison guard
in the night
is better than a truckload
of men who look like your father
no one could take it
no one could stomach it
no one skin would be tough enough

the
go home blacks
refugees
dirty immigrants
asylum seekers
sucking our country dry
niggers with their hands out
they smell strange
savage
messed up their country and now they want
to mess ours up
how do the words
the dirty looks
roll off your backs
maybe because the blow is softer
than a limb torn off

or the words are more tender
than fourteen men between
your legs
or the insults are easier
to swallow
than rubble
than bone
than your child body
in pieces.
i want to go home,
but home is the mouth of a shark
home is the barrel of the gun
and no one would leave home
unless home chased you to the shore
unless home told you
to quicken your legs
leave your clothes behind
crawl through the desert
wade through the oceans
drown
save
be hunger
beg
forget pride
your survival is more important

no one leaves home until home is a sweaty voice in your ear
saying-
leave,
run away from me now
i dont know what i’ve become
but i know that anywhere
is safer than here

Main photograph by Daniet Etter/New York Times/Redux /eyevine. Laith Majid cries tears of joy and relief that he and his children have made it to Europe.


Sharing this stunning piece because it deserves to be read, heard and felt. So much love for her words. ❤

Warsan Shire is a Kenyan-born Somali poet, writer and educator based in London. Born in 1988, Warsan has read her work extensively all over Britain and internationally – including recent readings in South Africa, Italy, Germany, Canada, North America and Kenya

The Prisoner of Chillon

Daniels, William, 1813-1880; The Prisoner of Chillon

The Prisoner of Chillon
By LORD BYRON (GEORGE GORDON)

   My hair is grey, but not with years,
          Nor grew it white
          In a single night,
As men’s have grown from sudden fears:
My limbs are bow’d, though not with toil,
       But rusted with a vile repose,
For they have been a dungeon’s spoil,
       And mine has been the fate of those
To whom the goodly earth and air
Are bann’d, and barr’d—forbidden fare;
But this was for my father’s faith
I suffer’d chains and courted death;
That father perish’d at the stake
For tenets he would not forsake;
And for the same his lineal race
In darkness found a dwelling place;
We were seven—who now are one,
       Six in youth, and one in age,
Finish’d as they had begun,
       Proud of Persecution’s rage;
One in fire, and two in field,
Their belief with blood have seal’d,
Dying as their father died,
For the God their foes denied;—
Three were in a dungeon cast,
Of whom this wreck is left the last. Continue reading “The Prisoner of Chillon”

Angel Down

banksy-graffiti-street-art-girl-with-a-bomb

On a rubble and blackened wall
A little silhouette moans
Once living and running
Chasing kites and dreams
Till wrath from the sky befalls
Fighter planes, not shooting stars
Harbinger of doom
Angel down on crimson dirt
Mortar bombs dug her grave

© 2016 Maria. All Rights Reserved.

Graffiti by Banksy via Art and Political Warfare


Written for November Notes hosted by two lovely and awesome writers, my dearie Rosema of A Reading Writer and Sarah of Heartstring Eulogies. Come, join the musical fun!😀

Music Prompt for Day 9: Cupid Carries a Gun by Marilyn Manson. Today’s prompt is quite tricky since I don’t normally listen to this particular kind of music. Got nothing in mind but the seemingly endless airstrike in the Middle East. Sigh. Also, the title’s inspired by Lady Gaga’s single, Angel Down. I hope everyone is doing well. Fire love instead of bullet. 🙏🏼💝✌🏿️

november-notes-4

War on Drugs

 

icon-grill-ted-strutz

War on Drugs
Realistic Fiction

“How are we doing?” Police inspector Stone inquired, pouring another glass from his bottle of Jack Daniels.

“Seven-hundred deaths, eight-thousand surrenders, sir.” Bates answered aptly.

Disgusted, Stone felt the liquor boiling from his insides. “That’s a lot of mouths to feed. We’ve had enough of these pushers and addicts. This is war on drugs, kid. I want you men to purge.”

“What about due process, sir?”

“Call it resisting arrest or self-defense, I don’t care. Just get those body bags out—fast.”

*BATES’ PHONE RINGS*

With a lump in his throat, he voiced, “Sir… It’s your son. He’s…  He’s dead.”

Word Count: 100

© 2016 Maria. All Rights Reserved.


In response to this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt. Friday Fictioneers is a weekly writing challenge hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields where a photo is used as a prompt for a hundred-word piece of fiction. The photo prompt this week is a courtesy of Ted Strutz. Thank you!

I was watching Senator De Lima’s privilege speech last night and regardless of she has done or has failed to do against the proliferation of drugs as a former justice secretary, I stand by her side when it comes to extrajudicial killings. This do-it-yourself justice is inhumane, an impunity that must come to an end.

“Drugs destroy lives, but we need not destroy lives to destroy drugs.” -Leila de Lima

 

Enjoy more stories here:

The Day

friday-fictioneers-grey-day-with-pigeons-roger-bultot-1
© Roger Bultot

The Day
Satirical Fiction

I stared out the window, little birds are clustered on live wires across the empty street. The world outside was ominously still— no cars and not a hint of soul.

Where is everyone? I wondered.

Then I realized, today is the day. The defining moment wherein a new governing body will be established. A new head of the state. A new ruler. A new legacy.

I wonder who’ll win the election. Whose dirty tricks worked? Whose sugar-coated words thrived?

A deafening firing disrupted my reverie but none of the birds came spiraling down.

Then I realized, today is the day.

Word Count: 100

© 2016 Maria. All Rights Reserved.


In response to this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt. Friday Fictioneers is a weekly writing challenge hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields where a photo is used as a prompt for a hundred-word piece of fiction. Thank you!

PH is three days away from its national election and the country is in clamor. This game of thrones has led families and friends fight among each other, insisting and brawling that one candidate is better than the other. I found this series, Imagined President, from Rappler interesting and thought-provoking. But who really is the lesser evil? I wish I knew.

There is just one thing I hope on May 9. I hope it won’t be a bloody end.

Enjoy more stories here:

 

The Cruelty of May

startoon
© www.philstar.com

May—a month of endless delight and fun
Of flowers, smiles, and sun-kissed skins
But every after six years
Election crawls, I dread
The dawn of chaos
Turmoil began
We endure
Every
May

Loads of promises from cunning tongues
Tales of lies, politicians sang
When will this treachery end?
An unending cycle—
A game of power,
Greed and deceit
We endure
Every
May

Poetry Form: Nonet


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Day 4: In his poem “The Wasteland,” T.S. Eliot famously declared that “April is the cruelest month.” But is it? I’d have thought February. Today I challenge you to write a poem in which you explore what you think is the cruelest month, and why. Perhaps it’s September, because kids have to go back to school. Or January, because the holidays are over and now you’re up to your neck in snow. Or maybe it’s a month most people wouldn’t think of (like April), but which you think of because of something that’s happened in your life. Happy (or, if not happy, not-too-cruel) writing!

May is one of the merriest months. Here in the Philippines, May means SUMMER and what could go wrong with summer? Also, most fiesta are held on the month of May so you will never run out of FOOD (as long as you know where to go). BUT every after six years, May implies the Philippine National Election. Promises. Lies. Chaos. Death. 😦

Read more 2016 NaPoWriMo entries here!

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