You ask me what is freedom,
setting my thoughts in motion,
taxing my over-wraught brain;
filling it with broken ideas.
Free to roam, free to leave, free the soul,
Free love, free with my affections,
wild and free, free as a bird, freefall,
freedom of thought, freedom of speech,
a free-for-all fight
a free country.
Freedom comes at a price.
After years of imprisonment they freed Nelson Mandela.
He freely undertook the duties of a hero and diplomat,
working tirelessly for the concept of freedom.
He died quietly,
and now his spirit soars free.
Written for Writing 101 Poetry – Day 5:
It’s already Friday for some of you; let’s head into the weekend with the wise words of @impossiblebebong, whose Day 5 prompt is on the theme of Freedom.
©Jane Paterson Basil
He said goodnight to the driver, and leapt from the bus, fingers clutching his greasy chips. In his haste
for the savour of salt on his tongue
he ran into the road,
blind to the light
of the car's headlights
and moving too fast to stop as I shouted a
terrified warning. The breaks screeched, but the car
didn't stand a chance of halting.
In my screaming brain
the dire crack
of head-on impact.
my son was bounced into the air,
flipped by the nose of the bonnet;
his chips scattering, cascading.
I saw him hurtling head first towards the ground
and my brain raced.
I saw his head shatter on the tarmac,
the splash of blood
and the scarlet puddle that swelled
around his lifeless self.
My anguish was too great to contain
so, from a distance,
I watched my feeble frame
crouch beside my child,
lift his broken head onto my lap,
hearing keening sobs erupt from within me.
a siren wailed.
They took my dead son away.
as I watched the tail lights recede
a sudden movement clicked me back to reality
his death had been no more
than a vision of the expected future
and he was still falling, but;
in a split-second miracle
he had contorted in the air,
raising his shoulders and his head,
giving him a safe delivery.
He wasn't dead or even hurt.
As his incredulous audience marvelled
I hugged him close, crying out my relief.
Over and again, the poor car-driver said
“he was right in front of me. I braked but
there was nothing I could do!” I uttered
words of comfort and agreement, but
I knew only time would heal his
unfounded shame. While Paul
struggled to free himself
from my shaking embrace
I clung to him tight,
hearing a muffled
“I was really longing to eat my chips.”
Written for Writing 101 Poetry – Day 4
This really happened. Paul was thirteen years old, and it was his second close brush with death, but years later, more were to follow…
©Jane Paterson Basil