<a href="http://Meddle“>

Judge not!
The good book says
Yet we are so quick to crucify others
Why do we bury our nose in distance?
Searching desperately for a good day to hunt souls
Stretching the fibers of living
Still we shout “depression kills”
Oh no! Our poking eyes and watery mouths are the source of the depression that kills
Don’t you see it’s hurting those who wallow in pain?
But no, we are busy building little niches of gossip
Forming circles of unrepentant souls in the name of friendship

If one decides to do whatever they want
And they feel it is the best for them
How does that concern anyone?
How does it concern the batting lips of the public?
Why do we make the business of others ours?
Or is it that our worlds are sisters?

Refuse to be affected by their talks
Or meddle with their fallacious stings
More that often, your life may look spongy
But it’s a lot better than the rags they call life
So to help their chaos, hurting others is their gain
Be affected by your happiness
That way, you’ll care less and be more of yourself…

Ruth Brodrick

Guess What My Obsessions Are?..



I have three strong obsessions;

One of them binds me strongly to him
it drags me to this world I can’t rule
and bites my ego to dust

The other mocks my girly pose
it draws me closer to being a shrew;
an insensitive parade of filters

Ah! The last one is a sister to vanity
it takes me to an ecstatic calling
and roots me down to a bed of regrets

…take a long breath and guess, what are my obsessions?

-Ruthspoetry 2016


<a href="http://Beach“>


She said;

in cold and windy warmth
I lay and mute time
on the beach, on my back
counting the stars
naming them after destiny
the ideology of peace prevails
as the water and sand mate
beneath the locks of my skin
to birth the soul with moist
sprouting the growth of a new mind
relieving the fever that burns within
the solace I seek is in stages
to heal, then to love

I said;

the solace we seek is within
to love ourselves till we heal
acknowledging our emotions
amending the vanity of shielded paths.
For me, life is a constant war
that we will always win
what matters is the timing…

©2016. Ruth Brodrick


<a href="http://Mad Libs“>

To love is to feel
But feeling is like air
It moves and gets lost
Hurts and grows cold

To love is to heal
But healing is supreme
Only clean hearts can achieve
So we’re left with open wounds

To love is to fear
But fear destroys the bond
The uncertainty brings mistrust
And soon the downfall of lovers

To love is to dance
Because dancing sparks the charm
And let little lovers grow
Truth is, love is the shoe we often ignore

Copyright© 2016. Ruth Brodrick



Kiss me till I’m breathless
Till my knees can’t stand no more
Let my world be swallowed by you
For the way you love me is new
Something I have never felt before.
I stand at the mercy of your touch
As my soul reaches the sky for you
Searching for the eyes that love me so well
And the soul that I am entwined to

I belong here, in this zone with you
Stay here with me my love
And let us build a world that will not fall
For our love is greater than the myths
Stronger than the angry waves
Let me bathe you with my love
For my world would be insane without you
My declaration remains unfiltered
As they are soulful words I speak
Let today bear me witness
For my love for you, is forever faithful

©2016. Ruth Brodrick



… See not that the world is black
As dark as the coal we burn
Demons arching within closed doors
Paranoia dominates in linen faces
The scent of peace is isolated in chaos
Where panicked voices cut through opacity
Torn souls say the mighty knights verse
Forever holding the broken septa
The drama says not the story
Nor does the storyteller bridge the gap
The silky face of innocence is calm
War never brings cool to burning chariot
The rested soul knows all the secrets
Telling tales of ambiguity and disillusionment
See through the act of a shrew
The words spoken are forever like dust
Scattered on earth like sands of the field
After all the vain choices
The soul of man still remains naked
Waiting for the call of redemption.

©2016. Ruth Brodrick


<a href="http://If I Could Turn Back Time“>

Can we ever be fine?
There are too many secrets that hunts us
Tearing our lives apart as we journey through
We endure each day like it will soon elude us
Only to endure the pain forever
What’s more painful than to be lost?
Lost in sadness and loneliness
Away from all things that should be
Carried in sheets of little big torments
The only way to survive is to remain silent
No one knows your secret, at least you’re safe
Safe from the rage and condemnation
But it never stops killing the soul
With each breathe, a prayer is sent for mercy

We can never be fine
One little secret leads to a bag of others…

Copyright2016. Ruth Brodrick.



awakening to the paradox
the denied passion lives on
jingling between confusion
yearning for freedom helplessly
the tempt is in your eyes
cast out the plaque to see

you run away from nothing
the chase remains invisible
with blurred perspectives
for it is within, in your head
your ruin started with the thoughts
caressing plots of frustration

summoning your fear to submission
vaguely accepting the unknown
you’re too weak to resist
falling too hard to get up
for your thoughts betrayed you
and left you hanging dead

with a short rope to the ceiling
and head adorning the earth
with one last glance, you eloped
then you realize, it’s just a mirage
nothing really happens impromptu
the genesis was when your thoughts lied…

Copyright 2015. Ruth Brodrick

P.S: I’ve been too busy to even stop by and do the usual blogging activities, but I think of everyone here, I miss you all. Can’t wait for the holidays.
I sincerely apologize for my absence. Hope to be back soon. Love you all…



She stayed glued to him
for a thousand years,
yearning for his heart beat
or the helpless breath of awake,
yet he denied her loyalty
and spat on the love she offered,
mocking the tales of Ivory Cast;
the epitome of a fine skinned woman
with the prudence of half an angel.

He said to her, I know thee as beautiful
dauntless like a sapphire, you truly are,
with eyes sparkling tenderness
and lips tearing down denial
but to me, you are nothing.
Weak men see the plastered deceit
but I see the falsity of thy love
and I hear the voices that roam say,
do not look too deep,at a beautiful woman
for her eyes carry the tempt
that will murder you to insanity”.

If beauty was my choice dear Ivory,
you will be my queen for all thy life,
but nay, beauty is the wrinkle of the skin
and character, the beauty of the face.
See now my dear, that you are nothing?
Your beauty is nothing but dust…

©2015. Ruth Brodrick



Did they not tell you I’m beautiful?
Too beautiful that none can compare?
Yes, I can’t be compared to another
Because I am me
A spectacular human made with sparkles
I glow under the thickness of the night
Do you know why I glow?
It’s simple, my beauty is inborn
It connects with my soul, I have a fine soul
The type of soul that is meek and calm
Then it reflects through my skin
Making you wonder why you can’t get enough of me.

I may not have the best set of eyes,
Or the sexiest of lips, nor pointed nose
My legs are too thin,
That even mini skirts reject it
I don’t have the best figure
To show under the body-cons
But guess what? It’s not what you think
I’m more beautiful than your judgements
I am me and not your opinion
My beauty is not limited to flaws
It wears the perfection that you do not see
I don’t blame you, you are blind
That is why you compare and judge
You lack common sense
To tell the different variants of beauty
Look closely now,
I am the beauty you never saw…

Copyright© 2015. Ruth Brodrick

<a href="http://Grand Slam“>



The slice of hatred is bitter
From little fevers to aches
Diminishing the act of beauty
My last nightmare was hatred
Too ugly and spooky to behold
Tormenting goodness in every way
I scratched hard rocks to keep on
To hate, is to have a heart of stone
And a heart of stone, is a great effort

But love, is effortless, easy and relieving
It soothes the rough edged poles of pain
Finding ways to heal and rebuild smiles
Love over self: that’s how it works
Selflessness and sacrifice, and love is born
Love is for always, The reason we live…

Copyright © 2015. Ruth Bridrick
<a href="http://Nightmares“>


  • image

🔸Belted beyond the face; lies beauty.

🔸Love in beauty defeats hate’s guts.

🔸Beauty is hampered in self-confidence.

🔸What is beauty, isn’t always perfection.

🔸Beauty is ugly when character fails.

🔸Riots of beauty began with men.

🔸True love: the beauty of living.

🔸Mortality mocks the beauty of humanity.

🔸The beauty of good women speaks.

🔸Unity in worlds: beauty is us.

My favorite quote about beauty is

“beauty is being the best possible version of yourself, inside and out”

This is an open writing challenge for all my guests and followers. It’s exciting and innovative. Can’t wait to see what y’all do with beauty in ten sentences..


<a href="I Walk the Line“>


…and I’d stay here
waiting and wanting
wishing the sky was you
and the stars were your eyes
I could smell you in the wind
and see your cocky smile in trees

oh! don’t be flattered, I’m only joking

psychotic; that’s what you made me
a love bird with no wings to fly
now I brood over pain in basilicas
anticipating the smiles that elope me
too far from the farthest sorcerer
the game of love, is what I dread the most
for if love ever had a sting so evil to bear
I was the unfortunate victim

of bars and rods, and bolts and hinges
I curse the day I set my eyes on that thing
the thing they call love, I call it nonsense
this is how I now sit to mourn and tell
how I became the widowed virgin of love

By Ruth Brodrick. Copyright 2015



Depth for the sky
Height for the grave
Buried within the deep
Dark filthy paths are revealed

Secrets betraying secrets
Echoes of laughter in a basilica
And dodging meekness wisely
Blurred sights filled with collage

Building a cat like spirit
Tricks and scandals came along
Flying with the broken pair
Hatred is pain in disguise

The aches of the beep is awakened
Damaging the pain of the smiler
Even with the grace of a giant
He still falls for the laps of a petite woman

Beat the moon’s drum
Conjure life to dance to a false rhythm
The spirit rules and betrays man to dust
Making life a proud fiction of waxing

<a href="Do or Die“>
By Ruth Brodrick
All Rights Reserved ©

A Letter To Santa From Little Mary

little mary

Hi Santa,

How are you this Christmas, puffed up and ho-ho-ho as usual I suppose. I have never seen you even though mummy says you’re real, you don’t reply my letters, don’t take my calls, and you do not even grant me my wishes. What kind of Santa are you?  You let mummy die of cancer, now I got no mummy. Daddy doesn’t believe in you, he says you’re just in my head as a myth, nothing more, nothing less, I don’t believe him and I don’t believe mummy instead. Daddy said I am sick, I think it is cancer too, I take too many drugs, too many therapy, I go to the hospital too often, even now, I am writing from the consultant’s table, and yet you do not show up. I know I will not live long enough, but please come, so I can laugh again, I cannot remember laughing since mummy went away.

This is Daddy, Mummy, and Me
me, daddy and mummy

Today, I will be 5, Doctor Anne said I will not reach 8, do you believe her? well I don’t, she doesn’t know what they call miracle, but I do. Miracle did not work on mummy, but it will work on me, because I have faith, faith like Moses had, Like Daniel had in the Lion’s den, Like Jesus had. I got a gift for you too, come and pick it up, and when you come, here is my wish for you to grant;

–  I want you to give daddy a new family, he will be alone very soon, give him a new mummy and a new me, no cancer of course, just love.

– I want Terry to have a new friend, you know he is weird, and nobody likes him but me, I think he is funny even if he smells like old garlic, but I like him, and he likes me.

– I want to go to heaven when I die, to see Baby Jesus, and King David, and Queen Esther, mummy reads their story to me every night, but she is not here with me anymore, but I know she is in heaven with them, so and mummy.

That will be all for now till next year, but when your coming, make sure daddy doesn’t see you, okay?

Have a merry Christmas Santa. I love you.

Your friend


This is a fiction letter in dedication to the little angel in that picture, her name is not Mary, I had to give her a name, somehow I wish I met her, so beautiful and full of life, her smiles are charming, I fell in love with her just staring at the picture, her beautiful eyes, too sad the fight ended early, also I dedicate this to all those who did not survive the cold hands of cancer. Love, Ruth.


A Sneak Peek


Well basically, now is the holiday season, and I’m enjoying the peace of staying away from medical books and school, until January, but still got my hands on some interesting novels like the colour purple by Alice Walker, it was recommended by a friend, just started reading it, am hoping to drink its water and thirst no more. I have other books by my side like  the all popular 50 Shades of grey by El James, I don’t know why I haven’t read this book until now, I guess the guilt of leaving my big medical books for this was at work. If anyone has read any of this books, I would like some reviews please, thank you…

By the way, this year, has been a hell of a year for me, as I did not pass my medical professional exams, and that was crazily depressing I tell you, and my price was that I had to repeat a class. I watched my folks move on to the next level, while I faced my predicament. Should I say I was happy for them, of course I was, but to be honest, I wished they could wear my shoes so they don’t feel I am not intelligent enough or I did not read hard like they did. I added a lot of weight in the process, as my cravings for junk increased, well, in the end, I took the exams again, and I passed finally. I wondered what I would have done if I did not pass, hmmm.

Now, I’m at home, dedicating my holidays to blogging and reading novels (any recommendation would be deeply appreciated by the way). As for the blogosphere, I explored its boundaries and met some very interesting people and I am most happy to have met them, but if I have to be honest, coping with blogging is crrraaaazzzzzyyyy. In less than 5mins, there are like 15 notifications of new posts from people I follow, and I have to view all and like, probably comment if I remember, because sometimes I get so carried away that I forget to like or comment while I reflect on the piece I just read, but I still try, this is what I signed up for, and what is worth doing, is worth doing well.

I love the spirit in the blogosphere, its loving, caring and supportive. People support me even I write well, and when I don’t, I like that too. And guess what, it’s so frustrating after I put up a new post, I keep refreshing my mails to check how many likes are up, comments, then bam! Maybe nothing at all, then I wish I did not posts that up, or it wasn’t just good enough, then slowly, the likes flow it, did I mention I like that part, haha! it’s the part I call surprise tour.

Oh, and another moment that gives me tachycardia is when I check my followers count and it is the same with the last time I checked, what? I always panic, life is harsh… Then I read some posts, and I go like damn!, how come I did not think of that, this stuff is good. I always get knocked off in times like that, but you know what, it always revives the spirit, by inspiring me to do something different from the usual.

My writings are usually not planned, like the daily prompt guys, I believe I am a vertical writer. The moment comes, and I begin to write. I usually write without having knowledge of where am going to, or what the theme would be, more or less the topic, I just write till the ink spills to the end, then I read up, and most of the times, I find it frustrating giving titles to my posts, it’s the most difficult part of my writing.

One big step or achievement I made this year, was the Brunel University Poetry Prize Competition, I took a bold step on that one. I have never submitted my poems for a major competition, so this was my first. Winners like Warshan Shire, and Liyou Lebsikal, both of which are incredibly awesome poets. I read their poems and I just go blank on my thoughts of being shortlisted, but I am hopeful, because I think from the support I get from y’all, says I am not as bad as I think I am. I was able to have a little chat with Violla Allo, she was shortlisted twice, another amazing poet and writer, I told her about my fears, and I will never forget her words;

” do not worry if you don’t get shortlisted. I have been writing for many years, and I firmly believe that, prize or shortlist or not, I will keep writing and believing in my work. I love poetry beyond measure. And I am happy to see you filled with the same love for words. Words are powerful allies and friends. I hope more people, all over this planet, will put down their weapons and pick up words and artistic endeavors. Art can heal the world. Art can heal Mother Africa. And it already does”

Beautiful and encouraging, isn’t it? In the end, the blogosphere boosted my confidence in my poetry, fiction and writings, so I thank the blogosphere deeply… So, I will stop here, so I don’t get so personal and say things I wish I never said.

It’s a beautiful Sunday, and I wish everyone a happy Sunday and happy holidays.


tinted is not black

You lied
told me grey had red in it
that the sun burnt you
that is why you are black

now I sit
counting my injured soul
galloping around the weary fury
with waves of grooved regrets
plastered with torment; my anchor
burn to dust, my lips fail in falsity

my eyes are pale, and have fallen shut
my grip is weakened and lays feeble
my identity; the thief stole her while you lied
suffer I the pain to mock my fate
the end will grow to tell the past
and reveal the tint you wear to hide
you dressed your intentions white
but they are black like songs to mourn

By Ruth Brodrick. All rights reserved ©, this poem should not be shared or used without the author’s permisssion..



Your sister hates me
she curses my curvy and short figure
she says I took her good features during creation
or that I came from the ocean floor of hell
now she gossips me with her broom-stick sisters
and stares at me with eyes of arrows

when I walk, I wiggle; my heavenly endowment
when she walks, she bends: too much hormones
when her suitors see me, they stare at me head to toe
but they only look at her lagoon face
even your mother wishes she had buttocks
so suitors can bring money
that she will use to train you in school

I see that I have become an idol for her fantasies
but it’s not my fault she resembles the riot of hell
but why is she jealous
she wears foundation and designs her face; I do not
she wears long beaded ear rings; my ears are not pierced
she wears short skirts; I wear long gowns
my natural beauty overshadows her playground face

when we walk down the road together
heads turn to me and she becomes my shadow
she hates me even more now
but I look at her and wish I was tall
or that I had her hormones
that feature; she stole from me during creation
and I hate her for that

By Ruth Brodrick. All rights reserved ©, this prose poem should not be used or shared without the author’s permission…


You’re such a stupid girl
Will you ever be pragmatic?
See how you’ve turned ugly
And yet you think he adores you
Is that why you came back?

You are with no sense
Yeti took your virginity
And slapped your face
He chased you away
And yet you came back

You look like a madwoman
Look at you, are you not an ignoramus
Your skin is crumpled from his hands
Your breasts have already fallen
And yet you came back

He pours soured wine on you
Then calls the dogs to lick it off you
Treats you no better than a whore
And calls you his wife; what?
And yet you came back

Your face has swept his robe
He pounds you in his laps
Your laps have no respect in public
For he tells your tale in the bar
And yet you came back

You sold your beauty for a fool
You know this, and you regret it
Yet you like it, the way he holds you
You don’t mind the pain, you love him
And that’s why you came back

By Ruth Brodrick. All rights reserved ©. This poem should not be shared or used without the author’s permission.