Superhero Chronicles 2.0

The lair.An integral part of every superhuman. A place to return to after long and cold nights fighting the cancer that eats our fair city. A place to replenish one's energy and be reborn unto the unsuspecting world. A stronghold. A fort. A base. A bedroom.Call it what you may,I call it a lair.
I lay sprawled on my bed, my cell phone beside me like a cheap harlot in red. It is my gateway to information. The very same way the other supers tap in and listen to police scanners and radios; my phone lets me know what is happening out in the town. Damsels in distress. Diabolical parties to be attended. Poisonous liquors to be consumed and sinister dry guys to be put in their place. Its a dirty job,but someone has to do it.
I have to prepare my costume for the day ahead of me tomorrow. I have no one uniform. Numerous garments line my vault (or wardrobe if you may). I don't wear tights or wear underwear on the outside. That's just silly.I take my work seriously. Soon, I will retire to my chambers and begin my day anew. Evil doers beware, I'm leaving my lair.
Benny blow.Not your average superhero.

The Death of Benny Blow

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It rained.It rained calm and steadily for days on end.It was as if the sky also wept.The earth was drenched with the sad tears of the ether.And sorrow rode softly on the moist cold wind,along with the withered leaves of the oak tree.Sorrw spreading to all that knew him.
Apart from the sound of the rainfall,the grave site was virtualy silent.The sound of the rain drops was like that of oil frying in a distant pan.There where no funeral songs.No old ladies wailing with uncontrolable emotion and falling over eachother at the sight of the coffin.Though that could have been due to the fact that not many grannies had known him.Those that could not help themselves only wept silently,the tears rushing over the lower eyelid like a waterfall and streaming down their cheeks.Sobs could be heard even amongst the grown men.
From where i stood,i could see most that where gathered there.Ironically,the grave was right beside a weeping willow.Leopards hill memorial park was known for its green grass and serene surroundings,its lawns always carefully tended.But on this day,even the grass had died.Next to me stood Lui and Dabs,both good friends of the deceased and I.They puffed away at their ciagarettes and traded stories of how the deceased would do this or how he would say that.Dabs didnt usually smoke.But certain events leave one craving for the harsh but soothing love of a nicotine stick.Mukunta stood to my right and had her arms folded.She wore a large black hat that had a vail draped over a pair of expensive designer shades.She hadnt said much about him that day.I saw a tear roll down her cheek as the coffin was lowered.I clenched our umbrella tighter and put my free arm around her shoulder.David,Henry and two other men had played paul bearer.Nobody else had been brave enought to take it upon them to do it.Their shoes had gotten muddy from carrying the coffin and putting it into place.
The gathering of people was larger than expected.All present were draped in black fabric,the occational white here and there.Black suits,black skirts and scarves.Black shoes,black pumps and black shades.Ineed it was a dark and black day.
I looked towards the gray sky.The sun had not reared its bright head recently.Perhaps it too mourned the death of Benny Blow.

My other voice.

"I have a lot to speak but dont speak alot.

There are numerous ways to break this barrier,

I chose one,

My pen and paper.

Together they are my voice.

I am a farmer and they are my land and plough.

I pour out my thoughts in ink

And let them flow into the river that is my paper.

Mounted on a horse flowing with ink in it's veins,

I ride vast meadows of white coloured pages.

My pen is like a sword

With it,I command a massive army of lyrics.

With my pen and paper,

I can convince even the poorest of souls that he is rich.

I speak and my paper listens.

To a congregation of ruled paper,

I preach a sermon of my thoughts.

Holding a pen in my hand,

I am Solomon,presiding over a paper Israel..

Generations of people have used this voice.

Declarations of independence,agreements and contracts have been signed

With these simple tools.

When I speak with my other voice,

Only my paper listens."

I wrote this when I was in grade ten.I think it was my first venture into poetry and writing.Its only fitting that I put it up as my first blog post.

It was for a writing contest at school.It did'nt get chosen, but I personally I think it was good for a tenth grader :).

I may have edited parts of it along the way.I think the last five lines were'nt originally in it.I don't  even know if Solomon ruled Israel,or if it was even called Israel at the time