Goal 16

Yesterday my 13 year old shared her homework piece with me. They were asked to choose one of the 17 UN goals and explain why they chose it. They were free to choose any medium of explanation. She chose poetry.

I read and felt proud enough to share it. I’m glad my 13 year old can think of such matters even as she lets her nails dry ❤️

Do read her summary at the end to understand how she thought it through ☺️

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1iw0pLc4ZJPgH7JKH8z5OqkwtkeIDbjaxlicfgXJtlrI

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Pop!

I feel it rise in me

Like a baby ready to pop!

This swirling rush of words,

Gushing forth to drop.

They twirl, they twist, they bump

Looking for the route.

Elated they jump,

Spying the exit with a hoot!

And so here they are,

Not a deep soul searching one;

Just like life is less solemn,

If you can only see the fun.

Is it just me?

That inexplicable melancholy when all is well,

like a hole will now open and swallow me.

An inexplicable feeling of sinking into a quicksand

helpless; soon to be lifeless..

Some inexplicable heaviness of the heart,

like someone or something were interfering with the beats.

The inexplicable knowledge that it is all but an illusion.

Always was, always will be.

An illusion that makes me wonder how did it all suddenly end

inexplicably..

Will the melancholy make way for soft, sweet memories

or will it give rise to the hope for a tomorrow?

but then tomorrow is an illusion and fades into today,

always inexplicably.

I guess inexplicable will be this moment and these words

sombre when all is well

yet the feet sink into the quicksand, helpless..

Inexplicable it is all or is it just me?

Art

I find peace in the sound of the rain, or the gurgling of a baby next door.

My soul smiles tranquilly

When there is no uproar.

My life is all about small moments,

That make it a big deal.

A rain soaked, Squealing child, has so much appeal.

For tiny slivers that shine through the cracks in my heart;

They teach me that life is not about the art of living.

For living life is an art ❤️

Clay

Hate before love, doubt before faith,
is this what we are coming to?
A purge anarchy,
A cleansing and purification,
so the good can prevail?
In the aftermath of the evil
that overshadows everything today;
Is there going to be the light of day?
Surely there is a method to this madness
That we fail to see.
Or is it just an algorithm
gone horribly wrong?
An indelible virus surging strong?
Crashing everything that comes its way,
Till there is nothing left to crash.
Will the machinery be repairable then?
New codes written, Old ones resurrected?
Will the world see love once more?
Surely if we have been made in the
mould of our creator/s
Then they will return one day
with a fix for the virus that runs amok today.
Or maybe, this is the fix?
Letting the virus purge the codes that are gullible,
so the machinery can run stronger
on the ones that were infallible.
Maybe this purge, this surge of hate
Is the only way to kill it off.
The poison of the snake that bit
injected as the antidote,
so the body can return to its healthy state.
maybe this hatred filled, putrid filth
must be let to decay
so that the new dawn can be fertilized
stronger, greener, brighter;
When love returns, and the creator/s
feels proud once again
of the moulded clay.

Buttered corn

Indulge yourself sometimes,
Life is not a punishment.
Don’t turn it into a sentence
To be borne:
Eat the cake,
add that cream to your coffee
Deep fry those fritters
Or how bout some decadent buttered corn?
Skip the odd class or two!
Make a few errors in judgement,
Get your heart broken to shattered fragments;
At least check out what is porn.
If you don’t punish yourself,
chances are, you won’t need to judge others’ actions too
So break those shackles inside your head
Shackles aren’t meant to be worn.
Laugh, laugh at your self,
Laugh with, not at, others.
Let the laughter burst forth and overflow
Let laughter replace the scorn.
For when you close your eyes one day..
Never to see the light again,
It will be nicer to leave people crying
Because a storehouse of joy is gone.
Besides of course your own peace;
That at least you know what is porn.
I mean corn, the taste of buttered corn!