loss

Wreckage Report (Sextant Deconstructed)


 

Wreckage Report (Sextant Deconstructed)

 

 

Who charts this

wr

eck?

(My inner compass spins, a frantic needle, lost to any guiding star.)

This vessel, I, where sorrow overbrims,

a foundering

vertigo,

both intimate

and

far.

The world? Unbalanced—

(skewed, storm-scarred, its charts unjust)

Yet, I endure—I breathe—though hope is dust adrift.

Indifferent eyes. The chill.

A

sea

of

disbelief

where documented pleas

(decades unreckoned, Millie’s warmth now still, a solace memory lost among the shoals and trees

of a forgotten year, no landfall found)

find no safe harbour. No shore. No ease.

All cherished things—

(mere flotsam).

I walk on paths

so

shattered,

so unplumbed,

none can chart my pain,

each step a trial by f i r e, a burning, constant flame.

The powerful? They

wat

ch.

(Their hands are folded, calm from their high deck).

Their coffers

swell.

(I bear the crushing blame, the water's claim).

Long days I fight this ceaseless, grinding weight—

these shackles forged of institutional sh a m e.

I seek out havens.

(Compassion’s gentle, guiding light,

a beacon hoped for in this endless night)

For corners where the truth

might dare to speak its name.

Instead: these hollow forms, these systems b u i l t

on breaking spirits, fanning despair’s

fl

a

me.

My evidence ignored, unread, unseen—

a logbook lost, while hunger gnaws.

(A fading, desperate claim).

If those who rule—

(and turn their gaze aside from this

capsizing

fate)—

Why not complete this ruin suffering laid bare?

A cleaner end.

(Than silence where they hide, abandoning the sl ate).

The noose of their neglect, it tightens... If you look away,

at least let honesty

attend my last des p a i r.

So let me lie.

(Where truth, at last, prevails, beyond the ocean's swell).

Earth below; above, the watching skies.

No more false comfort, no more whispered tales—

Just peace.

When this exhausted essence flies,

no longer tossed by wave or cruellest play.

When one sharp, silent

mer

cy

would light a clearer, final way.

(no star)

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Navigating the Wreckage: Three Experiments in Fractured Form|

 

 

The poems that follow represent a deliberate descent into the architecture of breakdown, not merely as subject matter, but as methodology. Where "Static & Starfire" traced the contours of crisis through recognisable poetic forms, these three pieces venture into territories where language itself begins to buckle under the weight of what it attempts to carry.

 

 

In "Echoes in Ice," I've allowed repetition and ellipsis to mirror the crystallisation and shattering of thought under extreme duress. Words become brittle, breaking off mid-sentence like conversations interrupted by the sound of cracking. The poem's structure mimics the way consciousness fractures when pushed beyond its limits—each fragment both separate and part of a larger, increasingly unstable whole.

 

 

"Soliloquy at the Breaking Point" experiments with the parenthetical voice—that secondary consciousness that comments, questions, and doubts whilst the primary voice attempts to articulate its final testimonies. These aren't merely asides; they're the competing frequencies of a mind at war with itself, the static that interferes with transmission even as it reveals the sender's deepest uncertainties.

 

 

Finally, "Wreckage Report" pushes typography itself to the breaking point. Words split and scatter across the page like debris from a foundering vessel. The very act of reading becomes a salvage operation, requiring the reader to piece together meaning from the fragments. When traditional language fails to map such territories of despair, perhaps only broken language can chart the coordinates of the wreck.

 

 

These are not comfortable poems. They demand patience, a willingness to sit with incompleteness, and an acceptance that some truths can only be approached through their own undoing. They exist in the liminal space between communication and silence, where meaning emerges not despite the fractures, but through them.

 

 

I offer them as cartographic experiments—attempts to map regions of human experience that resist conventional charting. Like all experimental work, they may fail more often than they succeed. But in their failure, perhaps, lies their truest accuracy.



In this final piece, typography becomes meaning. As the speaker's navigation tools fail, so too does the structure of language itself, scattering across the page like debris from a wreck.

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Soliloquy at the Breaking Point

Soliloquy at the Breaking Point

 

In chambers echoing—my fractured soul—

where shadows dance, unseen scars take their toll...

I etch these words. A final, fragile—

(Can they hear?)

(Will they understand this cry?)

To those who held my heart... before... this long goodbye.

Each letter, see it bleeds; a piece laid bare,

this testament to all I couldn't quite... bear.

students:

seekers, flame.

For you, my students—seekers of truth, bright flame—

I leave these shards of wisdom—

(hard-won . . . whispered . . . shame?)

Remember... every lesson, every shared, soft sigh,

the quiet strength we forged—through tears that never fully dry.

Let courage be your compass—knowledge... shield it well—

Against the world's harsh stage, where cruelties often dwell,

and shadows gather deep.

And for my creatures... faithful, constant hearts, dear friends,

whose artless love sustained... through all my darkest parts, my bitter ends,

Creatures . . .

faithful hearts,

I pen instructions—woven with my love—so true—

To keep you safe... protected...

(Oh, what more . . . what more can one broken soul do?)

It breaks me—utterly—to imagine your soft cries... your questing gaze,

bereft of tender touch... those gentle, purring lullabies through lonely days.

I must pray... I must hope... that other hands will appear, benign and kind,

To give you all the love... the constant warmth... you were always meant to find.

For I am ghost... already... of who I was...

doors shut—

each road exhausted... what is there left...

nothing more.

This homelessness—a spectre, fate too grim to face for you, my gentle ones,

No life, no peace... no sunlit window... no chance...

beneath indifferent suns.

And so, with aching soul—my will... it shatters, trembles, still—

The only end... I'm left with... the bitter cup I choose to fill.

A cruel kindness, then—cloaked in darkest, deepest despair...

To free myself... from burdens I no longer... can bear...

(A mercy . . . or surrender . . . to the air?)

Yet, even as I teeter... on the brink... a thread of hope... a fragile link...

I see you... in my fading dreams...

homes of endless, gentle spring...

where love... will be your shelter... and your steady, joyful wing...

This fleeting vision... it soothes this weary... fading heart...

A fragile balm... to ease the endless sting of my depart...

Though I must fade—dissolve—into the coming, silent night...

My love endures...

(a flickering . . . distant . . . burning light?)

So let these whispered words... this haunted, broken, faltering cry...

Stand as a promise... that will never... never truly die...

In every trembling line... a piece of me... you'll find, somehow,

will watch... will guide... the souls you're meant to be... starting now.

And as I slip... into the vast... unknown...

I pray you'll find the peace... a peace I've never, ever known...

For in the tapestry of love we've spun... with threads so fine,

Our souls will hold... entwined...

(Even when . . . this life . . . no longer . . . mine?)

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Navigating the Wreckage: Three Experiments in Fractured Form

The poems that follow represent a deliberate descent into the architecture of breakdown, not merely as subject matter, but as methodology. Where "Static & Starfire" traced the contours of crisis through recognisable poetic forms, these three pieces venture into territories where language itself begins to buckle under the weight of what it attempts to carry.

 

In "Echoes in Ice," I've allowed repetition and ellipsis to mirror the crystallisation and shattering of thought under extreme duress. Words become brittle, breaking off mid-sentence like conversations interrupted by the sound of cracking. The poem's structure mimics the way consciousness fractures when pushed beyond its limits—each fragment both separate and part of a larger, increasingly unstable whole.

 

"Soliloquy at the Breaking Point" experiments with the parenthetical voice—that secondary consciousness that comments, questions, and doubts whilst the primary voice attempts to articulate its final testimonies. These aren't merely asides; they're the competing frequencies of a mind at war with itself, the static that interferes with transmission even as it reveals the sender's deepest uncertainties.

 

Finally, "Wreckage Report" pushes typography itself to the breaking point. Words split and scatter across the page like debris from a foundering vessel. The very act of reading becomes a salvage operation, requiring the reader to piece together meaning from the fragments. When traditional language fails to map such territories of despair, perhaps only broken language can chart the coordinates of the wreck.

 

These are not comfortable poems. They demand patience, a willingness to sit with incompleteness, and an acceptance that some truths can only be approached through their own undoing. They exist in the liminal space between communication and silence, where meaning emerges not despite the fractures, but through them.

I offer them as cartographic experiments—attempts to map regions of human experience that resist conventional charting. Like all experimental work, they may fail more often than they succeed. But in their failure, perhaps, lies their truest accuracy.

Here, the parenthetical voice becomes as important as the primary text. These competing frequencies—what we say and what we think whilst saying it—create a contrapuntal dialogue with the self.

Echoes in the ise

Echoes in Ice

 

I am the spectre . . . unwritten ends, now brittle,

A vessel . . . cruel winds . . . ice-shattered . . .

Each breath a battle . . . a final trial . . .

I pen these words, one last . . . fractured denial.

cruel winds . . .

shattered . . .

denial.

To those I’ve guided . . . nurtured . . . may you heal,

Whose minds I’ve . . . sparked, dreams I hoped to reveal,

I leave these shards . . . wisdom . . . hard-won, glacial proof,

. . . strength forged in fires . . . an unspoken, chilling truth.

For creatures . . .

shared my heart,

love . . .

tear-stained part,

And for the creatures . . . who shared my heart’s brief thaw,

Whose love sustained . . . each tear-stained, fragile part,

I craft a plan . . . with trembling hand . . . numb soul,

To keep you safe . . . protected . . . healed and whole.

plan . . .

safe . . .

whole.

It rends my spirit . . . the thought of your soft cries,

Bereft of touch . . . my whispered lullabies.

But I must hope . . . that fate might intervene,

To bless you with love . . . always felt, always seen.

For I am lost . . . a wanderer in this biting night,

Each path erased by rime . . . each door barred tight.

The spectre of the streets . . . a fate too cruel, too stark,

No home for you . . . no chance . . . no warming spark, life renewed.

Spectre . . .

night,

paths erased . . .

no home . . .

no chance . . .

And so, with aching . . . tear-frosted face,

I choose the only end . . . to embrace.

A twisted mercy . . . sorrow's icy shawl,

To free myself . . . these burdens, once and for all.

twisted mercy . . .

sorrow's shawl.

Yet even as I drift . . . towards the brink,

A fragile hope persists . . . a shimmering, frosted link.

In dreams, I see you thrive . . . in homes of gentle light,

Where love will be . . . a guardian . . . to your sight.

Drift . . .

dreams . . .

light.

This fleeting vision . . . for my shattered core,

A salve to ease . . . the ache of nevermore.

Though I must fade . . . into oblivion's embrace,

My love will be . . . a shield . . . your saving grace.

Shattered . . .

salve . . .

nevermore.

So let these words . . . this haunted, fractured requiem,

Stand as a promise . . . whispered on a frozen limb.

In every line . . . a piece of me . . . still bright,

To guide you always . . . through each encroaching, darkest night.

And as I slip . . . to the great unknown, so vast,

I pray you'll find . . . a peace I've never known, to last.

For in the fabric . . . of love we've surely sewn,

Our souls . . . entwined, forever . . . though you face the world . . . on your own.

I am . . .

unwritten . . .

gone.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Navigating the Wreckage: Three Experiments in Fractured Form


The poems that follow represent a deliberate descent into the architecture of breakdown, not merely as subject matter, but as methodology. Where "Static & Starfire" traced the contours of crisis through recognisable poetic forms, these three pieces venture into territories where language itself begins to buckle under the weight of what it attempts to carry.

 

In "Echoes in Ice," I've allowed repetition and ellipsis to mirror the crystallisation and shattering of thought under extreme duress. Words become brittle, breaking off mid-sentence like conversations interrupted by the sound of cracking. The poem's structure mimics the way consciousness fractures when pushed beyond its limits—each fragment both separate and part of a larger, increasingly unstable whole.

 

"Soliloquy at the Breaking Point" experiments with the parenthetical voice—that secondary consciousness that comments, questions, and doubts whilst the primary voice attempts to articulate its final testimonies. These aren't merely asides; they're the competing frequencies of a mind at war with itself, the static that interferes with transmission even as it reveals the sender's deepest uncertainties.

 

Finally, "Wreckage Report" pushes typography itself to the breaking point. Words split and scatter across the page like debris from a foundering vessel. The very act of reading becomes a salvage operation, requiring the reader to piece together meaning from the fragments. When traditional language fails to map such territories of despair, perhaps only broken language can chart the coordinates of the wreck.

 

These are not comfortable poems. They demand patience, a willingness to sit with incompleteness, and an acceptance that some truths can only be approached through their own undoing. They exist in the liminal space between communication and silence, where meaning emerges not despite the fractures, but through them.

I offer them as cartographic experiments—attempts to map regions of human experience that resist conventional charting. Like all experimental work, they may fail more often than they succeed. But in their failure, perhaps, lies their truest accuracy.

 

 

 

This opening piece uses repetition and fragmentation to mirror the crystallisation of thought under pressure. The ellipses aren't omissions—they're the spaces where language itself begins to freeze.

8. Ink Unspooled at the Threshold

This piece acts as a poignant nexus for many of the collection's themes. Through sectioned reflections, it revisits the fractured self, the indifferent world, and the heartfelt farewells, ultimately questioning what legacy remains when a life is unspooled. The Horatian epigraph, "Non omnis moriar," underscores the enduring hope for a legacy through art.

 The ink of our stories continues flowing even as we approach life’s most difficult crossroads. Photo by CHUTTERSNAP on Unsplash

 



Ink Unspooled at the Threshold


“Non omnis moriar.”

– Horace

 

Opening: Fractured Self

 

Who’s left, when the mirror spits back static-

A stutter of faces, a flicker, a fizz-

I am the echo in the stairwell,

A moth in the socket,

Spinning, spinning,

My mind a carousel of keys,

Jangling, clanging,

No lock to fit.

 

 

 

World’s Indifference

 

Listen-

The world grinds on,

A cold machine,

Its gears gnash,

Its eyes glass-green.

I’ve shouted into inboxes,

Tapping, tapping,

My pleas ricochet,

A hail on tin,

No answer in the static,

Only the hush of “no,”

And the hush is a hammer.

 

 

 

Farewell to Students

 

To you, my bright ones-

You, with your notebooks and nervous laughter,

You, who grew in the dark,

I leave the marrow of my meaning:

Let knowledge outpace the wolves.

Let your questions crack the shell

Of every easy answer.

Remember:

The world is not just,

But you can be.

Let your hope be a howl,

Let your laughter be a shield.

 

 

 

Farewell to Animals


Soft noses, feathered hush,

Paws in the hallway,

Heartbeat hush-

I’ve left the list, the food, the names,

The number for the vet,

A blanket folded,

A window cracked for sun.

Forgive me,

Forgive me-

Oh please - forgive me-

I have run out of doors.

 

 

 

Desperation and Decision

 

I have begged, I have borrowed,

I have bartered my sleep,

I have mapped every alley,

I have counted the sheep-

But the night keeps on gnashing,

And the dawn never breaks.

I am spent, I am scattered,

I am the last note the violin makes

Before the string snaps.

 

 

 

The Choice

 

So-

Snap.

The clock ticks,

The ink drips,

A hush falls,

A hush,

A hush.



 

Hope for Survivors

 

But I dream-

You, curled in a shaft of light,

You, laughing, learning,

You, safe in the hush of a home.

Let my leaving be a door,

Not a wall.

Let my words be a bridge,

Not a stone.

In the hush,

May you hear my hope.

 

 

 

Legacy

 

Ink unspooled,

Voice unspun.

I am the whisper in the rafters,

The pawprint in the dust,

The lesson half-remembered,

The love that lingers,

Even when the door shuts.

 

 

 

Closing: Release

 

So let these lines be lanterns-

Flicker, flutter,

Guide you through the gutter-murk,

Let them stutter,

Let them sing-

I am gone,

But in the hush,

A bell rings.

 

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

 

This piece acts as a poignant nexus for many of the collection’s themes. Through sectioned reflections, it revisits the fractured self, the indifferent world, and the heartfelt farewells, ultimately questioning what legacy remains when a life is unspooled. The Horatian epigraph, “Non omnis moriar,” underscores the enduring hope for a legacy through art.



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3. Tender Echoes in Ink - revised

Atmospheric image of scattered letters, pens, and abandoned writing materials on a cold floor in a decaying room evokes themes of despair, loss, final goodbyes, poverty, and desolation.

The remnants of a life: scattered papers and the last letter written in a dim, cold room where 

hope has faded. The final echo in an empty space. Image by Midjourney v6.



3. Tender Echoes in Ink - revised


 

“Non omnis moriar.”

– Horace

 

 

I am-

but who deciphers

the static in my marrow,

the flicker of a filament

spitting sparks

in the socket of my skull?

I am the vessel,

cracked and brimming,

where anguish sloshes,

tide against glass.

 

 

This world-

a crooked scale,

its fulcrum rusted,

its verdicts cold as coins

dropped in a well.

I tumble through

the hush of halls,

my pleas ricocheting

off marble, off memory,

off the backs of those

who never turn.

 

 

All I cherished-

ghosts in the fog,

fur and feather,

warmth and weight.

I write goodbyes

with knuckles white,

each syllable a shackle,

each phrase a pebble

dropped in the well of my chest.

 

 

For those I taught-

let your questions

crack the shell

of every easy answer.

Let hope be a howl,

let your laughter

shield you from the wolves.

 

 

For those I fed-

I’ve left the list,

the blanket,

the sunlit window.

Forgive me-

I have run out of doors.

 

 

I have begged,

bartered sleep,

mapped alleys,

counted sheep.

But the night keeps gnashing,

the dawn never breaks.

I am the last note

the violin makes

before the string snaps-

snap-

a hush,

a hush.

 

 

But I dream-

you, curled in a shaft of light,

you, safe in the hush of a home.

Let my leaving be a door,

not a wall.

Let my words be a bridge,

not a stone.

In the hush,

may you hear my hope.

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

 

 

Here, the core anguish of the initial “Tender Echoes” is reimagined. Stripped to its imagistic essence and rendered in a fragmented style, this revised version offers a more raw and visceral encounter with the speaker’s despair and their final, trembling acts of love. Note the shift in form and its profound impact on the emotional delivery.

 

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1. Tender Echoes in Ink

Atmospheric image for the poem 'Tender Echoes in Ink': A hand carefully writes with a quill and ink, capturing a moment of poignant reflection

 

"I pen farewells with hands that tremble, ache, / Each word a weight, each phrase a shackled sigh." Image by Midjourney v7



 

I am! Yet who discerns the self I bear?

My essence flickers, dimming like a star.

I am the vessel where my anguish dwells,

A mind in constant spin, both near and far.

 

 

 

This unjust world, its balance torn and lost—

Yet still I am—I live—though tempest-tossed.

Into the storm of cold, dismissive eyes,

Into the swirling sea of disbelief,

Where years of earnest, documented cries

Find no safe harbour, no shore, no relief.

 

 

 

All that I cherished fades into the mist,

My faithful friends, my comfort near-dismissed.

I pen farewells with hands that tremble, ache,

Each word a weight, each phrase a shackled sigh.

For those I've guided, nurtured, strived to wake,

Instructions flow like tears that never dry.

 

 

 

The care, the love, the dreams we've woven here—

Unravelled by the threads of fate, severe.

And for the gentle beasts who've shared my heart,

Whose fur and feathers soothed my weary soul,

I trace provisions for when I depart,

Each line an arrow through my being's whole.

 

 

 

The thought of parting rends with searing pain,

Yet homelessness would be a crueller bane.

I've fought, I've pleaded, scraped for any aid,

Exhausted every path, each avenue.

But now the hour comes, the choice is made,

To end this dance, to bid this life adieu.
The shame, the guilt, they claw with vicious talons,

Yet suffering's spectre looms in stark equivalence.

 

 

 

There's solace in imagining their joy,

In homes where love will be their steadfast guide.

Though I'll be gone, my spirit will deploy,

To guard and bless them, ever by their side.

And in that thought, a fragile peace unfurls,

To ease the ache within my shattered world.

 

 

 

So ink becomes my voice, my legacy,

The tether that connects me to their light.

Each caring phrase, a token of what's lost,

Each fond remembrance, armour for their fight.

I'll slip away, a whisper on the breeze,

But in these letters, part of me still breathes.

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

 


In its original form, this opening piece lays bare the speaker’s profound anguish and sense of fading in an unjust world. It establishes the core themes of farewell and the desperate search for solace for loved ones amidst personal crisis. 

 

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Echoes of Deception, Threads of Hope

Folder: 
Poems

 Echoes of Deception, Threads of Hope

 

 

In shadows of fear, a whisper takes hold,

A sinister seed, a conspiracy untold.

Whispers of a virus, man-made and vile,

Profit the motive, trust exiled.

 

 

Amidst echoes of doubt and deceit's dark dance,

A personal battle, a silent stance.

Isolation's sting, stigma's crushing weight,

The heaviness of uncertainty's relentless gait.

 

 

Michel Simonin's struggle, a fight to be heard,

Against AIDS' cruel stigma, his voice undeterred.

In letters and television, his story unfurled,

Defying the silence, refusing to be deterred.

 

 

Through tears of resilience, a choice bravely made,

To shatter the silence, to not be swayed.

Unveiling the humanity behind the disease,

Reclaiming identity, refusing to appease.

 

 

Yet in depths of sorrow's unending night,

Science illuminates, a beacon of light.

WGS and NGS unravel the viral code,

Evolution's truth, HIV's primal abode.

 

 

In sequencing's intricate art, a tale unfolds,

Of chimpanzee origins, zoonotic thresholds. Palindromes dance in the RNA's sway,

Nature's complex beauty, now on display.

 

 

Yet echoes of deception still linger and spread,

Shattering lives, filling hearts with dread.

The vulnerable bear the heaviest toll,

In fabrication's web, their innocence stole.

 

 

In this intimate war, we must take a stand,

Embracing our scars, extending a hand.

Empathy our salve, compassion our guide,

In unity and truth, our spirits reside.

 

 

From pain's crucible, we'll rise transformed,

Scars into strength, wisdom reborn.

In the symphony of survival, harmony will reign,

As we honour the journey, through sun and rain.

 

 

With science as our compass, truth as our light,

We'll navigate the landscapes of the heart's might.

Reclaiming our stories, our voices bold,

In courage and resilience, our lives we'll mould.

 

 

In the tapestry of existence, we'll find our place,

Stitching together healing, with tender grace.

Each breath a rebellion, each moment a choice,

To survive and thrive, with authentic voice.

 

 

In the echoes of resilience, hope whispers anew,

Threads of connection, strength to see us through. 

Through shadows and light, we'll weave our way,

Embracing our truth, come what may.

 

 

In the alchemy of survival, transformation blooms, 

Vulnerability becomes armour, silence finds its tune.

From shattered fragments, a mosaic we'll raise,

A testament to the unbreakable human spirit's blaze.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

 Although already mentioned in bio, I am a scientist, a microbiologist (traditional and current bioinformatics whole genome sequencing variety). I also admit I received payment from Zoetis, a pharmacy company, which equated to AUS 30c/hour. 

 

World AIDS Day on December 1st is a time for reflection, remembrance, and raising awareness about the ongoing fight against HIV/AIDS. I had hoped to share this poem in time for the occasion, but the weight of the topic and the desire to do it justice meant I simply ran out of time, spoons, and headspace to complete it. I had resigned myself to waiting until next year to perfect the piece.

 

 

However, a recent comment I encountered gave me pause. It related to the pernicious conspiracy theory that HIV is a man-made virus, a falsehood popularised by "cultropreneurials" and denialists whose views are often rooted in classism, racism, sexism, homophobia, and other forms of prejudice. 

 

This dangerous misinformation continues to spread, causing actual harm to individuals and communities affected by HIV/AIDS.

 

 

In light of this, I felt compelled to share the poem now, even in its imperfect state, as a small act of resistance against the echoes of deception that still reverberate. 

 

 

The poem "Echoes of Deception, Threads of Hope" attempts to grapple with the complex history and ongoing reality of the HIV/AIDS epidemic.

 

It begins by acknowledging the whispers of conspiracy, the sinister seeds of doubt sown by those profiting from fear and mistrust. 

 

The poem then delves into the personal battles fought by those living with HIV/AIDS and the crushing weight of stigma, isolation, and uncertainty they face.

 

 

The story of Michel Simonin, a French activist who fought tirelessly to break the silence around AIDS in the 1980s, is a thread of resilience woven throughout the poem. His courage in the face of cruel stigma and his refusal to be silenced are a testament to the unbreakable human spirit.

 

 

As the poem unfolds, it turns to the illuminating power of science, unravelling the viral code through advanced sequencing techniques like WGS and NGS. The beauty and complexity of evolution are juxtaposed against the echoes of deception that continue to shatter lives.

 

 

The poem is a call to action, an invitation to stand together in this intimate war, armed with empathy, compassion, and truth. It speaks to the transformative power of resilience, the alchemy of turning scars into strength, pain into wisdom.

 

 

Ultimately, "Echoes of Deception, Threads of Hope" is a tribute to the tapestry of human existence, the threads of connection that bind us together in the face of unimaginable challenges. It is a reminder that each breath, each moment, is a choice - to survive, to thrive, to raise our voices in an authentic chorus of hope.

 

 

As we navigate the complex landscape of the HIV/AIDS epidemic, may we hold fast to the compass of science, the light of truth, and the power of our shared humanity. Let this poem be a small thread in the larger tapestry of our ongoing struggle, a testament to the unbreakable spirit that resides within us all.

Echoes of Deception, Threads of Hope

Folder: 
Poems

 Echoes of Deception, Threads of Hope

 

 

In shadows of fear, a whisper takes hold,

A sinister seed, a conspiracy untold.

Whispers of a virus, man-made and vile,

Profit the motive, trust exiled.

 

 

Amidst echoes of doubt and deceit's dark dance,

A personal battle, a silent stance.

Isolation's sting, stigma's crushing weight,

The heaviness of uncertainty's relentless gait.

 

 

Michel Simonin's struggle, a fight to be heard,

Against AIDS' cruel stigma, his voice undeterred.

In letters and television, his story unfurled,

Defying the silence, refusing to be deterred.

 

 

Through tears of resilience, a choice bravely made,

To shatter the silence, to not be swayed.

Unveiling the humanity behind the disease,

Reclaiming identity, refusing to appease.

 

 

Yet in depths of sorrow's unending night,

Science illuminates, a beacon of light.

WGS and NGS unravel the viral code,

Evolution's truth, HIV's primal abode.

 

 

In sequencing's intricate art, a tale unfolds,

Of chimpanzee origins, zoonotic thresholds.
Palindromes dance in the RNA's sway,

Nature's complex beauty, now on display.

 

 

Yet echoes of deception still linger and spread,

Shattering lives, filling hearts with dread.

The vulnerable bear the heaviest toll,

In fabrication's web, their innocence stole.

 

 

In this intimate war, we must take a stand,

Embracing our scars, extending a hand.

Empathy our salve, compassion our guide,

In unity and truth, our spirits reside.

 

 

From pain's crucible, we'll rise transformed,

Scars into strength, wisdom reborn.

In the symphony of survival, harmony will reign,

As we honour the journey, through sun and rain.

 

 

With science as our compass, truth as our light,

We'll navigate the landscapes of the heart's might.

Reclaiming our stories, our voices bold,

In courage and resilience, our lives we'll mould.

 

 

In the tapestry of existence, we'll find our place,

Stitching together healing, with tender grace.

Each breath a rebellion, each moment a choice,

To survive and thrive, with authentic voice.

 

 

In the echoes of resilience, hope whispers anew,

Threads of connection, strength to see us through. 

Through shadows and light, we'll weave our way,

Embracing our truth, come what may.

 

 

In the alchemy of survival, transformation blooms, 

Vulnerability becomes armour, silence finds its tune.

From shattered fragments, a mosaic we'll raise,

A testament to the unbreakable human spirit's blaze.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

 Although my bio mentions that I am a scientist and a microbiologist (of the traditional and current bioinformatics whole genome sequencing variety), I also admit I received payment from Zoetis, a pharmacy company, for AUS 30c/hour. 

 

World AIDS  Day on December 1st is a time for reflection, remembrance, and awareness raising about the ongoing fight against HIV/AIDS. I had hoped to share this poem in time for the occasion, but the weight of the topic and the desire to do it justice meant I ran out of time, spoons, and headspace to complete it. I had resigned myself to waiting until next year to perfect the piece.

 

 

However, a recent comment I encountered gave me pause. It related to the pernicious conspiracy theory that HIV is a man-made virus, a falsehood popularised by "cultropreneurials" and denialists whose views are often rooted in classism, racism, sexism, homophobia, and other forms of prejudice. 

 

This dangerous misinformation continues to spread, causing actual harm to individuals and communities affected by HIV/AIDS.

 

 

In light of this, I felt compelled to share the poem now, even in its imperfect state, as a small act of resistance against the echoes of deception that still reverberate. 

 

 

The poem "Echoes of Deception, Threads of Hope" attempts to grapple with the complex history and ongoing reality of the HIV/AIDS epidemic.

 

It begins by acknowledging the whispers of conspiracy, the sinister seeds of doubt sown by those profiting from fear and mistrust. 

 

The poem then delves into the personal battles fought by those living with HIV/AIDS and the crushing weight of stigma, isolation, and uncertainty they face.

 

 

The story of Michel Simonin, a French activist who tirelessly fought to break the silence around AIDS in the 1980s, is a thread of resilience woven throughout the poem. His courage in the face of cruel stigma and his refusal to be silenced are testaments to the unbreakable human spirit.

 

 

As the poem unfolds, it turns to the illuminating power of science, unravelling the viral code through advanced sequencing techniques like WGS and NGS. The beauty and complexity of evolution are juxtaposed against the echoes of deception that continue to shatter lives.

 

 

The poem is a call to action, an invitation to stand together in this intimate war, armed with empathy, compassion, and truth. It speaks to the transformative power of resilience, the alchemy of turning scars into strength, pain into wisdom.

 

 

Ultimately, "Echoes of Deception, Threads of Hope" is a tribute to the tapestry of human existence, the threads of connection that bind us together in the face of unimaginable challenges. It reminds us that each breath, each moment, is a choice—to survive, to thrive, to raise our voices in an authentic chorus of hope.

 

 

As we navigate the complex landscape of the HIV/AIDS epidemic, may we hold fast to the compass of science, the light of truth, and the power of our shared humanity. Let this poem be a small thread in the larger tapestry of our ongoing struggle, a testament to the unbreakable spirit that resides within us all.

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Discordant Symphony




Discordant Note

Scratching, floating

Hanging in the air

 

 

Pressure ebbs and flows 

Headpiece filled with straw

 

 

A twisted melody lingers

Confusion and rage entwined 

Resentment's bitter sting

Wrestles with sorrow's whine

 

 

Innocence stolen, trust shattered

By hands meant to protect

 

 

The child within still bleeds

Silently searching, begging for respect 

 

 

Justice denied, our secrets buried

Master manipulator 

A monster cloaked in lies

 

 

Crimes still hidden 

Despite Death's hand

Too late for tortured cries

 

 

Feet of clay now returned to dust

From whence they darkly came

Leaving behind a tangled mess

Of trauma, grief and shame 

 

 

The urge to desecrate, destroy

Wage war upon their grave

Wrestling with guilt, pity and relief 

Yes, he is no more

But I am not yet saved

 

 

This victory feels hollow 

An unearned, empty gift

When wounds still pulse and throb

No closure, the burdens unshift 

 

 

 

I imagine looking for the tombstone,

Fists and soul clenched tight,

Anger, disgust, and rage.

 

 

Shadows cast doubt over my morals,

Compass dysfunctional, truth estranged.

Like Basque tongues tangled with Ainu clicks,

A labyrinth of questions ethics inflicts.

 

 

No tears of mourning shed

No idea the monster was laid to rest

Three years later, a happy accident

Release a demon locked deep in my chest

 

 

How to reconcile the little child

Who needed love and care

With the person now made to carry

This discordant note hanging in the air

 

 

In the depths of this discordance 

Frustration and confusion still rise

Dare I confront the shadows

Curse their peaceful demise?

 

 

Every anguished scream swallowed 

Each day, coerced, suffocated in silence

Transmuting years of buried aches

Why not release in rightful fierce violence?

 

 

Through serpentine paths of healing

Piece by shattered piece remade,

Scars shimmering with untold stories 

Of battles braved and traumas mourned

 

 

In owning all that was endured

By innocent hands and shattered trust

Languidly learning to cradle, soothe

My inner child waiting, weeping in the dust

 

 

Each breath is an act of bravery

Every step is defiant, resolute 

Reclaiming fractured narratives

No longer voiceless or mute

Through my poetry, I find release

May its rhythm grant me peace.

 

 

This journey from victim to victor

Is paved with shards of broken self

Reassembled by courageous hands

Into mosaics of pain and health 

 

 

A symphony of survival

Echoes in the spaces in between

I cannot rewrite my cruel history 

I yearn like others to live and dream

 

 

Beyond the reach of phantom hands

That sought to break and steal and mar

I rise in revolutionary softness

Tempered by battles, reminded by scars

 

 

The discordant note, a stubborn seed, 

Resists the soil, its tyranny decreed, 

Yet woven slow, within the larger frame, 

An ostinato may conquer its shame, 

Finds solace in the weave, a timeless plea, 

Echoing Eliot, Stravinsky rewrites history. 



Author's Notes/Comments: 

I found out this morning (yesterday now), some 13–14 odd hours ago – whilst mindlessly googling, that a person who manipulated and molested me as a child had passed away (almost three years ago).

 

The obituary stated that they died “Peacefully” whilst being cared for by [redacted]. The conflicting emotions are intense – that they can still torture from the grave – exhausting.

 

While dealing with this flood of emotion and wrestling with my conscience, I came across a poem fragment on my phone that I started to write a few years back. The result of what it has morphed into can be found below.

 

I know this poem is far from complete, but I needed to get it out therapeutically. So, if you wish to comment, you are welcome to critique - however, strictly with empathy and compassion.