Archive for February, 2016

lime … … …

lime … … …

tangy, with a dash of a catch, this life, these bare feet on cosmic beaches, seeking something – elusively rare – that first rush of something, when love flutters by,



tinged with a bitterness of all that,

all that yet to unfold,

a sourness perhaps, who-knows-maybe, an organic, green, fragrant, splash of effervescent lime,

to counteract the woefully horrifying, uncouth even effects of pulsing, teasing, corrosive time,

worse only is the attempted scribble to make sense of all that, in a pompous haste of rhyme … … …

the scabbard of time … … …


courtesy google

times, like idle rhymes, flow,
inuring consciences, feeding on apathy, to grow,

time, the scything blade, slices through ramparts, leaving the scabbard bloody red, retreating as it departs,

time, peels off the veneer, refinement laid bare, the grotesque masquerade, in which we all our parts must share, the sorry charade … … …

symphonic silences … … …

symphonic silences … … …

it felt, as it should feel.

it felt a calm, the rarest kind, one that cannot be left behind.

those symphonic silences, that time, are all that i savour, in each scribble, in every rhyme … … …

sentinels … … …


Wisdom of Confucius

thoughts whizz past, embers meant never to last,

leaving memories behind, grappling fears in spaces of the blind,

memories, with all their nostalgic tugging,

stand blurred, hazy sentinels against excessive lugging,

sentinels, silently harbouring, threads of you, and of me,

sentinels, hewn into our being, protecting  the persistence of memory … … …

haggard hope … … …


Billie Holiday by Banksy

trudging along, vanquished attempts at being strong,

stumbling through, the fogged gaze of the untrue,

falling down, picking up pieces of my broken frown,

standing up, in the sleety rains, clinging onto hope’s slippery reins,

today, tomorrow, as warm blood flows through these veins,

haggard hope, a constant, remains …
… …

the turquoise turret … … …

bubblegum clouds drizzle cotton-candy floss, blurring my view,

liquorice asphalt twists, a slow burn, igniting memories of she, ashenly charred, akin to her tresses auburn,

as i pompously peer from atop my turquoise turret, all that lies between i and she, are my walls secured, my defences, obscured … … …

cellophane dreams … … …

cellophane dreams … …


sandpapered raw,
emotions, sentiments, wounds cutting to the core,

afloat in cellophane dreams, fantastical flights, asphyxiating me in these hollow nights,

sealed on dotted lines, signed away, the simple freedom of hoping for a gentler way,

when cellophane dreams are stacked with a shovel, thrust down souls inured, left emaciated in the dirt to grovel,

lost in the blur of today’s lies, tempus fugit, they say, shedding some pain as time continually flies,

to a nearby space, trapped within my bruised face,

i am human,

i am also, a part of your human (race) … … …

crimson rains … …

blood-red tears trickle down a million cheeks,
a drought of apathy reeks,

the summer palls, inhumanity appalls,

as wounded earth soaks up crimson rain … …

cinnamon clouds … … …

cinnamon clouds … … …

cinnamon clouds, shrouds,
cardamom skies, as moist eyes,

shed tears along this  cobblestone pathway, where vanilla dreams lay,

strewn, broken, wounded by harsh words spoken,

leading me to this day, today … … …


Old Sof’town*


In old Sof’town,
the jazz struck chords,

the jazz lived, it exploded,
out of the cramped homes,
rolling along the streets,
of old Kofifi,

in tune to countless blazing heartbeats.

In old Sof’town,
Bra’ Hugh breathed music, Sis’ Dolly too,
and Bra’ Wally penned poems that still ring true.

In old Sof’town,
Father Trevor preached
equality and justice,
for all, black and white and brown,

and all shades, every hue,
even as oppression battered the people,
black & blue.

In old Sof’town,
the fires of resistance raged,

‘we will not move’ was the refrain,

even as the fascists tore down Sof’town,
with volleys of leaden rain.

In old Sof’town,
the people were herded,
like cattle,
sent to Meadowlands,
far away and cold and bleak,
as the seeds of resistance,
sprouted and flourished,
for the coming battle.

In old Sof’town,
the bulldozers razed homes,
splitting the flesh of a community apart,
only to raise a monument of shame,
and ‘Triomf’ was its ghastly name.


In Jozi today,
we remember those days,
and those nights of pain,
that stung our souls.
like bleak winter rain.

Yes, we remember old Sof’town,
as we struggle onward,
to reclaim our deepest heritage,
and build anew,
a country of all hues and shades,
of black and of white and of brown.

And yes, we will always remember,

and yes, we will never forget,

the price that was paid,
by the valiant sons and daughters,
of old Sof’town,

those vibrant African shades and hues,

of black,
of white,
of brown.

* Sophiatown was also called ‘Sof’town’ and ‘Kofifi’



raspberry leaves … … …



raspberry leaves whirl, as flavours of life,
yawning, begin to unfurl …

dusk falls, day palls,

each moment randomly twirls,

each minute unveiling fresh swirls


monday reading beckoning


talkin’ day-to-day walkin’ along blues … … …


nothin' like a train

scraping for scraps in the dirt,
sweat soaking my tattered shirt,

walking each day in and out,
never knowing what this life is really about,

paying the bills,
earning a wage,
battered blue by callous rage,

trapped in a rusty cage,
yearning to fly free,
like birds kicking the branches of a tree,

away, far away from the slavery of wage,
locked up, trapped,
trudging through it all, each and every day,

you see, i’m a-talkin’ day-to-day walking along blues,

bruised soles, from slip slidin’ in thousand dollar shoes,

trying to not look closely at,
the gilded prisons, the cars and this and that,

where feelings are numbed,
as loose joints are bummed,
and consciences are systemically dumbed,

cos’ they tell us to finish school, get a degree, cos’ you don’t wanna be a fool,

they tell us buy a car, rent a house,
adorn your bodies in silken shirts and a fashionable blouse,

while dying a little each day out and in,
cauterising feelings within,

well, i’m old enough now to not drink the kool-aid,
of consumerist addiction,
all of it just a flimsy band-aid,

to stem the humanity from a-flowin’,
cos’ as you know you can’t help no one,
till you yourself are someone,

so when will it all come crashing down,
tearing the cardboard smiles, exposing the plastic frowns,

i ain’t got a clue,
and i sure hope you do,

cos’ with you it ain’t never been ’bout the blue label we drink or the fillet-mignon we chew,

‘cos with you it’s always been about me being me, and you being you,

nothing fancy, nothing smooth,

‘cos with us, within us, it’s always been ’bout being true … … …


Cycads ...

shedding, detritus of day, of night,

moulting, masks veiling hope, light,

afloat, surfing silver-lined clouds, fleeing barren crowds,

together, two hearts, one soul:

complete, rendered whole … … …

fingers raw, bruised and sore,
masks stripped, truth tearing at the core,

feelings forgotten, discarded and rotten,
emptiness scratching at the bottom,

moments fungal, trapped in this desolate jungle,
scalding pride to ashes cold and humble,

dreams trashed, memories adrift, lashed,
wheels of lives callously slashed …

still, yet, always,

hope persists, through life’s turns and twists,
hope never dies,
hope resists … … …


alone, not lonely ... ... ...

May your smile never fade,
may you always be as you are now,

warm and kind,

true and filled with the generosity of spirit that defines you,

may your dreams soar into the boundless open skies,

and may the benevolent fingertips of time and of fate,

brush away any tears that should fall from your gentlest eyes.

May you forever stand tall,
may your head always be held high,

with stoic dignity.

May your past experiences be the stepping-stones that mark your path ahead,

may your heart be your guide,

your blazing beacon of wildly enthusiastic hope,

may your wishes be simple,
and may they come to be,

filling your life and your moments,

with joyous bliss,

where you truly feel free.

Free of the weight of yesterday,
free of gnawing doubt,

and may your being be infused,
with the softest serendipity,

so that you may spread your arms,

and to the heavens shout,

I am free,

I am me,

at long last,
I am standing tall,
never again to bow,
or to fall on bended knee.

This is a wish both simple yet elusive,

a wish that only you can make true,

by simply being,

the kind,

gentle person,
that is you … … …


high at 34 thousand feet


weekend reading





my wishes are simple,
desires few,
gazing upon a leaf,
nourished by dew.

my wishes are simple,
dreams hardly grand,
hearing birdsong in this desert,
together, hand in hand.

my wishes are simple,
my heart calm,
resting with you ‘neath this palm,

years rattling bones,
wrinkling skin,
greying our hair,
ever so thin … … …


my bipolar haze … …

watching the stars fall,
scorching these nights,
the manic days,


yet she remains,
a constant,
an anchor,

in my bipolar haze …

Why does the sun dry up so many scattered tears
Slipping down the coarse cheek of a million hushed fears
Where no one is scalded though the searing fog clears
While prayers are mutely spoken even as the end nears

We shatter and scrape on demented knees
Blindly begging for mercy as it silently flees
Searching listlessly for salvation drowned in the breeze
That spits at the soft rose suffocated by a wheeze

I know now what I need never have known
Of hope that was trampled before it had flown
Into a wasted sky filled with hate that could drown
The giggling of the crowd and the crying of the clown

A hope so fragile its wings were of brittle glass
Ripping the veneer off the sewers of class
Twisting the fabric of the weighed and costed mass
Who numbly waited hoping that it too may pass

For when shards of that hope in all hearts scurries away
To a darkness where crowded night is emptied off the heaving tray
’Tis then when sewn eyes behold that doleful day
When all shall tear at each other while on demented knees we still pray

For a lifting of the veil of that wilful deceit
That’s wrapped up in a flag swollen with conceit
While the limbs splinter in the claw of a winner’s defeat
Yet still the drums roll for the ill-fated souls chose never to retreat

From that drenched battleground where blood flows through a sieve
And love’s lost song plaintively begs for a reprieve
From eternal loss which into raw emotion does cleave
Only to slip through the fingers and like grains of sand leave

( for Bob Dylan )

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