Maresa’s Poems

Beauty

The secret that we all are taught,
Is the way to be, is just not us.
It’s just beyond what we can be,
This secret that destroys our young.

If we could be with faces scarred,
Loved and cherished at our school.
We would, I think, dissolve the lie,
That all should be as we assume.

To be how we perceive we ought,
Is to destroy the truth of being,
Those, who with their different faces,
Will challenge with their thoughtful ways.

(Maresa Mac Keith, February 2004)


Childhood

Playing in water
With sunshine on our backs.
Sledging in snow
Gloved hands and rosy cheeks.
Stories round the fire
Or cuddled up in bed.
Childhood, do I remember you
Or are you a figment of my imagination?

How many remember this?
Boy soldiers
Refugees of war
The institutionalised cripple.
Do they remember this time of harmony?
I doubt it.

Where do you hide you elusive childhood,
Where is your home,
Is your existence a reality,
Or do you hide in the top branches of life’s trees
For no-one to find?

Searching for meaning in the king’s nursery,
The royal child in his poverty of isolation.
Hidden in the laboratory of specialness,
The dumb mute,
An interesting specimen who nobody wants to play with.

Childhood, they search for you too.
Why do you hide,
Why are you so afraid to show yourself
You glorious wondrous being?

The splendour of wonder,
Of questioning,
Of water rippling,
Of shouts of laughter,
Of long days of companionship.
Never ending snoozes to wake up
When we want, for more happiness.

How long was that time?
The eluding of memory hides truthfulness.
Childhood, are you time or state?

(Maresa MacKeith, February 2003)


Fear

He watches, and you are scared.
Mute and flailing,
If he could talk he would tell.
So you silence him.

(Maresa Mac Keith, March 2004)


My School

The thought of starting was ecstatic,
I wanted to learn so much.
To me the building was magic,
With life in it’s crumbling husk.

The thought of being ordinary,
Filled me with a joy I can’t tell.
Still the thought of that building keeps memory,
For me of pure water; a well.

That same building for another is horrific,
Being told he was no good at all.
Or being bullied for some characteristic,
For which at home he was loved the more.

The girls with their makeup, were bored
Of wearing white shirts with a tie.
So theirs was relief to be shared,
They will go from that school with a sigh.

So for some it opened doors to learning,
And for others it seemed just like hell.
It is just the same old building,
Different memories there deep in its wall.

(Maresa Mac Keith, October 2003)


Perception

Who do you see sitting in that chair,
Drooling the sap from his belly?
A blob that costs the tax payer dear.

‘Why does he live?’ You ask.
‘I would ask to die if I were he.’
Do you question his thoughts?

You wonder in your heart,
If there’s a person in there.
One who watches, who thinks,
Who evaluates. Whose thinking
Might change the world.

A change you are so frightened of ?
There is no fear in losing your prison,
Of losing your right way.

Let your wall melt,
To merge with the one whose head lolls.
He can see to your core.
He sees a good but frightened child.

(Maresa Mac Keith, March 2004)


Why?

Kids who question who they are
Are usually those who don’t quite fit.
Why is this so?

The one whose face is scarred;
She has to question why.
She works hard
To make the sense
Of world opinion
About who should die.

Who is there left
Who thinks, and stays
As one who fits,
And never feels he’s wrong
To be the way he is?

(Maresa Mac Keith, February 2004)

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