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DoodleScribbles

Scribblings and scrawls of a hopeless romantic soul

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war

i try to bury the pain and blink

i try to bury the pain and blink.
with eyes moving from tab after tab, ears focused on the mechanical tapping of keyboards, i try to forget their names.

The first tab led me to 9gag. A GIF of a “normal night” in an english pub flashed before my eyes. Drunken men fighting each other, brawling for fun. It was supposed to make me laugh— but it didn’t. The images of bodies thrown on burning houses played at the back of my mind. Blood flows to the river banks as the women of Rohingya shout in pain.

blink.

I clicked the second tab that led me to Bored Panda. A list of surprisingly simultaneous historical events that will change the way you think of history caught my eye. I couldn’t get past after the odds of Prisoners Arriving At Auschwitz Just Days After Mcdonald’s Was Founded were mentioned. I felt my stomach flipped at the thought of death camp. My mind traveled back to Syria. What are the odds of living for the displaced refugees? Then to indonesia, will they be handed their rights?

blink.

On a desparate attempt to shun the looming gloom in my head, I tried the last tab. The literature page, my second virtual haven next to my blog. The poetry section listed Edgar Allan Poe’s A Dream Within a Dream on the top. His words pierced me with added force and I plunged into the depths of helplessness head first. Is this life just one big false awakening? Are the endless murders and tortures just part of a nightmare?

i try to bury the pain and blink.
closing the tabs, unplugging the chords, i stared at the black screen
hoping to forget their names.


I wrote this a month ago, on one afternoon I immersed myself in the world news. I did not pusblish it because I was disheartend with what was happening. Still is. But back then the pain was too raw for me to share it in this blog. The cynic and existentialist in me has taken over my head, asking questions that could not be answered. Or perhaps I just do not accept.

Justice, basic rights, peace.

Will the refugees ever get a chance to live with these? Or are we only good at sulking back to our chairs?

Arms

banksy

in a perfect world
arms are safe haven—
body parts
wrapped around your waist

they are not pieces of steel
sending you to hell
or to heaven
at point-blank range

in a perfect world…

arms bring bodies closer
not bodies enclosed in boxes
MS


In response to dVerse’s Quadrille #62: Thinkin’ Inside the Box  hosted by De Jackson.

For some reason, today’s prompt reminded me of the rampant killings in my country and the world as a whole. 😦 The image above, Soldier Flower Gun Boy, is another guerilla graffitti from Banksy that has stirred the minds of many with its irony and juxtaposition. The image speaks for itself.

Head over here to join the prompt!

dverse

Their blanket is the sky

alone, alternative, bird, children, fly, game, grunge, hands, imagination, kids, light, mistery, photo, photograpy, pigeon, play, shadow, shot, silhouette, soft, strange, window

Their blanket is the sky.

He listens to their  voices, whispering and laughing as they play with the shadows beneath the waxing moon. A girl, about four, stretches her hands. Her thumbs interlock to form a butterfly’s body, her fingers extend to form its wings. Arms high in the thin air, the shadow begins to flap. She is Haya and her brother, Alan, joins the fun.

“Yanam,” he shouts from a distance and the two dancing butterflies stopped. Colored mats cover the pavement. Linen bed sheets create a makeshift room in the dim space that is now a home. The children race towards their father, laugh as if they haven’t jumped over dead bodies during the day. As if they weren’t chased away and reduced to sleeping in the streets.

Their blanket is the sky.

In a parallel universe the night is undoubtedly romantic. In another world the moon and the stars are poetic. But this is reality. The asphalt still smell of blood. Life is still a ticking bomb. And his wife is still dead.

His lips curved into a weak smile at the thought of his wife. For the first time he was glad she picked their children’s names. Haya means “life” and Alan means “rock.” The woman must have seen it coming.

“Yanam,” he repeats and they all went to sleep.


For the months that I haven’t been blogging, I find myself immersed in the world news. Most specifically with the pains and pathos of Africa and the Middle East. What these people are going through is painful in its reality. It is disheartening in its truth.

I wrote this piece few weeks ago, inspired by an article about Syrian civilians fleeing Deraa. I was half-hearted then but decided now that I should go ahead and post it. Just as Banksy tries to make a voice with his art, this is my attempt with words.

Image source: Favim

Writers Quote Wednesday: Freedom

Favim 2226261

Last night, I finally finished reading Rabindranath Tagore’s The Home and the World. I’ve had this book for weeks but didn’t want to rush it to end. It was much more than a classic literary masterpiece to me. Each page was an awakening about the fragility of humanity. Each POV from the three central characters brought me to their shoes. I struggled with Nikhil in keeping his morals, I lost my way to sensationalism and terror with Bimala, and I breathed in Sandip’s clouded fanaticism.

This book resonated deeply, especially with what is happening to my country, the Philippines, and to the rest of the world. What is true freedom? How can we truly heal? Here’s an excerpt from the book that hits home:

“Is there any country, sir,” pursued the history student, “where submission to Government is not due to fear?” “The freedom that exists in any country,” I replied, “may be measured by the extent of this reign of fear. Where its threat is confined to those who would hurt or plunder, there the Government may claim to have freed man from the violence of man. But if fear is to regulate how people are to dress, where they shall trade, or what they must eat, then is man’s freedom of will utterly ignored, and manhood destroyed at the root.”

― Rabindranath TagoreThe Home and the World

And to anyone who hasn’t read it yet, I definitely recommend The Home and the World.  ❤ #makelovenotwar

The Hiding Place

The Hiding Place
A Realistic Fiction

Her favorite author once wrote, “Life has many ways of testing a person’s will, either by having nothing happen at all or by having everything happen all at once.” This day, she believes, happens to be one of those awful tests. And she is on the edge of failing.

Maya always strives to be a better person— to be a better version of herself at least. She wants to learn kindness and patience, and give humanity a chance. But one glance at the corner, a woman snickers at an old homeless man. Apathetic of his shaking empty hands. On a bus ride home, men talk about war and how this world is better off without Syria. Unthinking that those people, too, are victims. And to add to her outburst, someone just carelessly wrote all over the sketch she’s been working on for days!

With all the patience she could muster and all the kindness she could hold, Maya took a deep breath and hike to her hiding place. “Now this is what peace looks like.”

Word Count: 175


Here is for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers prompt. This week’s photo prompt is provided by Pamela S. Canepa. Thanks PJ for hosting another fun prompt. ❤

It’s been a month of hiatus and glad to be back (hopefully for good this time). So… someone just carelessly wrote all over the sketch that I’ve been working on in the office and I badly need a peaceful place like this. Sigh. How could some people be inconsiderate?

Enjoy more stories here:

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

Dear Balloon, Please

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Dear Balloon, Please

tell them
we need
no bloodshed—
another year
of lost dreams

soar the sky,
let them know
and hear our
mournful
cries

whisper
in their hearts
that we forgive them—
that we can start
anew

dear balloon,
make them feel
there is always
hope

© 2017 Maria. All Rights Reserved.


In response to dVerse’s Quadrille: Balloon hosted by De.

The Balloon Girl is one of the most iconic works of Banksy. The graffiti artist has created many variations for this but the one found on the wall of a stairway in the South Bank of London in 2002 is probably the most famous. In this work, a little girl is reaching for a red heart-shaped balloon and the words “there is always hope” are placed behind her.

Is she really reaching or releasing? Banksy does not answer this question. It must come from us.

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

Swing Thine Broken Dreams

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Swing Thine Broken Dreams

Sweet giggles filled the grimy air
Etched on a ravaged wall was a funfair
A glimpse of paradise and utter bliss
Amid the havoc and total mess
“Where do broken hearts go?”
The old song goes
Where do broken dreams go?”
Alas! Nobody knows.

© 2017 Maria. All Rights Reserved.


In response to dVerse’s Quadrille: Giggle hosted by De.

My friends here in blogosphere know how much I adore the works of Banksy. The man knows how to speak the truth that most of us turn a blind eye on. The image above is one of his four stirring graffiti stencils in Gaza that was released together with a short film. Today’s quadrille reminds me of this.

Head over here to join the fun:http://www.blenza.com/linkies/links.php?owner=dversepoets&postid=24Feb2017&meme=12540

dverse

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