Throw or Be Thrown : How To Throw Rubbish into a Bin

Rubbish come in all sizes and shapes as do their former owners. It can be quite daunting for a big high school child to throw paper into the bin, especially given the circumstance that the teacher is in full swing of delivering the message home.  The scenario plays along the lines of “ the teacher gives student material to paste into their book, the student accomplishes the task with fervent energy and then teacher forgets to allow for a class adjournment to throw the waste into the waste paper basket … Most students manage fairly well to hold in the mounting pressure to toss the paper into the bin while the teacher is talking. The pressure mounts to a climax until all the students are on the edge of their chairs, knuckles white from gripping the table in order to restrain themselves and eyes glistening not form the teacher’s powerful message but from the agonizing paces of the clock behind the teacher.

To avoid the torture brought about by the teacher’s mere slip of the mind can be quite simple, especially for a big fellow. Firstly, one needs to identify the victim that needs to be liberated from your desk and into the bin where they belong. Once the paper is identified, the most important, crucial, life-threatening step is initiated. The step that stands between you being thrown out of the class or the paper being successfully thrown into the bin is determining the size of the paper to be thrown away. For big fellows this not something to worry about as large volumes of paper can be smothered in between their thighs, suffocated within their barrel thick hand and occasionally crunched in their mouth without the teacher hearing more than a muffled sound.

For miniscule people however, this step must under no circumstances be taken lightly as these people run the risk of being publicly shamed when the teacher kicks them out of her classroom for “disrupting” the class. Such people must always have a jacket or two at their disposal.  These items of clothing, along with scarves in winter, server the same function as silencers in hand held guns.

For a perfect throw you must make sure that the crunched up paper mirrors a sphere with as many jaggered edges as possible. The razor edges slice though the air allowing the ball of paper to move at light speed towards the bin.

When the grand finale has arrived and the teacher is blaring out the most important statement of the lesson such that she is lost in the trance of her message, the throw can begin.

Arc your back, take in as few breaths as possible and no matter what you do, do not blink as it could rapture the teacher’s hypnotic state.  As the paper is sprung from your hands, simultaneously produce a loud preposterous sneeze or cough so as to draw attention from the prisoner fleeing your hand. The teacher will either glare at you for barbaric-seeming behavior or may offer a sarcastic pleasantry. Either way once the paper is freed from your desk your misery shall not return lest more work needs pasting in your book …




To text or … not.

Fingers twitching, I hold my phone
He is but a touch away,

Yet such will the distance be in the tone

Of his voice, itching for my presence in a way.

In way, I wish I could believe.

This feeling ,like my heartbeat, is all too familiar.

It’s a play performance where, in a swish, a moment we receive.

The ceiling stands still and we become a memorabilia.

But do I miss him?-his personality a raging fire

With his flaws, dismissable like a drop in the ocean.

Or is it to hiss at him that fuels my desire

To open all doors, allowing our hearts to be miscible in rhythmic motion.

My fingers tire of their charade 

of bouncing and tossing from one key to the next.

The message they wire scream at me like a parade!

It goes without announcing or fussing that I still wished him to remain an ex.


life, profession, prose, teacher

The World’s Heartbeat

Most of us- those who are deliberating on a career or have already chosen a career- blacklist being a
Teacher like it is a crime to shovel priceless knowledge into the chambers of the human brain. And

those of us who are teachers suffer at the lashing tongues of those who belittle this profession.

Teachers almost always have to answer the vile question “why did you become a teacher?” that is

spat like the venom from a Black Mamba from innocent mouths of pupils.

Sure, doctors save many lives every day and farmers feed people by the millions. Without the doctor

I would have probably died from Malaria. Without the farmers, you would have most likely been

murdered by Starvation. Furthermore without bankers, who knows if we would even have a cent to

our names?

At the end of the day when the world is healthily snug in their blankets with a full stomach as money

accumulates in the bank, it only makes sense to wonder. To wonder who taught the doctor how to

save and the farmer how to farm and the banker how to count and save? Only too soon, like a wave

of fresh air rushing in on a windy morning, do we realise that it was the teacher. To count the banker

owes his kindergarten school teachers who were the first to make him sing the numbers one to one

hundred- even if he learnt his numbers faster than everyone else. To cure the doctors owe their

noble prizes to their high school teacher beckoning them to study for that biology test comprising of

cell structure- a topic as dreadful as death itself. Last but not least, the farmer owes all his applause

to all his teachers for he learnt to count population, save nutrients across acres and to cure a nation,

a world of Starvation.

In essence teachers are to the world its heart. Just like humans are non-existent without the

pounding heart, the world is non-existent without teaching teachers.

poem, rhyme

To who an apprentice to be? 

Before I had my rags removed,
I molded a man after my own

Image, as I moved 

Through the tiny stage of town.

His name was Buckley the Baker.

The sweets he made melted hearts of stone;

They turned wars in the streets into wars for the Maker,

And churned minds away from the phone.

He had a mushy beard, that

made him resemble Santa Clause. 

But I was mad I at him about what I heard

during one dark pause.

Head down, 

looking like an upside down clown

After the baker asked with his nose turned up, head shaking

“Who is that boy interested in baking?”


life, yarn

Life – when the yarn ends.

We are all born as a ball of yarn whose only detail is the brand- your name personality, what makes

you who you are. The tapestry of the sky is ours for the taking and ours for the making. Or maybe we

are the type of people who are neither overtly intricate nor grand and we much rather prefer

making the small things such as trinkets and promise rings. Maybe yet still we are inclined to string

our yarn along and see where it takes us.

Whatever we decide to do with our yarn is entirely a personal decision. This decision however must

not be deliberated upon lightly as not one soul knows the length of their yarn. Once it ends. There is

no undoing the garment at the seams.

Some of us are like the yarn unwound by a kitten. We have elaborate plans that twist and turn in all

directions. We help people here, make others happy there and listen to someone else somewhere.

For a moment life is good and like an excited kitten with yarn we drive forward, sure that we are

making a difference- and even if we are not we’ve got the drive and we are happy. Then there comes

a point when we face one failure too many, when the people we helped neglect saying “thank you”

and the ones we listened to won’t hear us out. The sun does not go to sleep in our world but stands

high in the sky reminding us of our past glory days. The steam we had with in us becomes water and

we move more slowly and deliberate like an overfilled wine glass. Our energy runs out as the kitten

tires of the yarn and walks away. What then do we do? Do we sit wallowing, drowning, suffocating

in misery until the owner of the yarn comes to realise the mess the kitten has achieved and severs

off the damaged piece of yarn? In the end all that would have amounted was a half chased dream, a

half built house or maybe even a half made sweater that does no justice to its owner.

On the contrary when the hard times hit and we have no one else but the heart in our chests

pounding for us against all odds that is when we should knit even harder. We should knit our

troubles into our yarn masterpiece. Turning a different direction, changing the pattern or even the

purpose of your yarn is neither a sin nor a problem. It only goes to show how creative an artist we

are when we’re done with our piece of yarn. Thomas Edison changed his patterns 99 times before

his piece of yarn said, “light bulb” in the right style, font and colour.

Leonardo da Vinci’s yarn probably resembled the Last Supper painting. When we look at his final at

his yarn masterpiece we smile and marvel in its beauty, majesty and grandeur. Michael Jackson’s

piece of yarn staged a singer- one who will never be forgotten. For a child already with the angels

their yarn says ballerina or judo master. For others it may say “great mother”, “loving teacher”,

“welcoming workmate” or “helpful classmate”. When the yarn ends what will yours say? Will it be

the severed piece of yarn from a displeased owner or that of a finished sweater glorifying its owner?