My Favourite Hobby

Good Morning Parents,

Happy Sunday!  I hope everyone has recovered from their Thursday night “all-nighter” and is ready to face the work week come tomorrow.  This morning I have decided to do more of a personal post; let you guys get to know me a little better.

I guess most can remember the poem performed by the students of Reception Foster at last year’s Independence Celebrations.  “Barbados Is The Best” is just one of the pieces I have written during my career as a teacher. I cannot quite tell you when my love for writing began, but I believe it was when I began to use journaling as a self-reflection tool a few years ago.  Not only have I since realized the secret benefits of putting pen to paper, but writing has also ignited the fire within me which burns with desire to someday be a professional at my craft.

I write poetry, short stories and have even begun a novel.  The last is on hold until the summer holiday when I can devote the time required to get my thoughts onto paper. Many of my poems address social issues and for the majority I use comedy to get across my views.

Drama is another one of my hobbies ( which I don’t get a chance to enjoy as much as I did before) but often my writings are written with an accompanying dramatization in mind.

Since February is the month of love I have chosen to share the following poem with you.  I wrote this poem a few years ago, I can’t quite remember when, but I came across it when I was cleaning out my bookcase yesterday. This poem speaks to the issue of domestic violence and tells of a woman’s undying love for her abusive husband. This February, remember folks, love does not hit, neither does it hurt.

So without much further ado, here goes:

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Once Again

He hit me.

Yes, once again he hit me.

My face twisted, swollen,

My eyes black and blue.

Oh why; why can’t I see?

This love is not true.

He hit me,

Yes, once again he hit me.

With full force I fell flat,

Sprained my leg, dislocated my back.

Oh why; why can’t I see?

This man does not love me.

He hit me.

Yes, once again he hit me.

With all his might he did,

Fractured four or five of my ribs.

Oh why; why can’t I see?

This is not how love was meant to be.

He hit me.

Yes, once again he hit me.

Broken bones, purple bruises,

Always deserving of excuses.

Oh why; why can’t I see?

This man is my worst enemy.

He hit me.

Yes, once again he hit me.

The result: three weeks hospitalization,

My excuse: some much needed relaxation.

Oh why; why can’t I see?

Very soon I may be history.

He hit me.

Yes, once again he hit me.

Gun-but straight to my head

Me, fallen, wounded, dead

Oh why; why couldn’t I see?

This did not have to be the end of me.

Do any of you share my passion for writing?  Does anyone write poetry or short-stories?  If you do, feel free to share here on the blog for all to enjoy.

Getting back to my Sunday chores,

Miss Foster

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