Archive for April, 2016

the autumn rose

serenity beckons,
a mirage of soft blues, flaming scarlets,

colours ablaze with placid compassion,

wishing for nothing much,
beholding the wilting rose, weakened by the autumn sun,

at rest, peaceful,

waiting alone for the coming of spring … … …

parallel lines

lost, broken,

in a foggy crevasse,

wedged between

sanity | madness | anguish.

i lose, break,
memories taunting,
waking thoughts,

stripping me

bare | naked | exposed.

i survive, barely breathing,

slipping deeper,
into nothingness,

feeling little

| shattered | numb.

i am incomplete, without you,

gnawed by

emptiness | desolation | pain.

i persist, each breath futile,

crushed, yet alive,

comforted knowing only,

that you breathe | you live | and  love.

sleepy willows reach, branches heaving,

weighed down, outstretched arms bearing the burdens,

yet ever welcoming,

to the solitary bird with tired wings, settling on a tipping branch,

seeking respite … … …

🐹    😊     🌻


monday not my day

air caresses the flute,

leaving not a trace
of itself.

a gentle melody,
lilting notes,
echo invisibly,

by passionate breath mingling with air,

unseen … … …

at times lost in the cauldron, at times raging against the fates, these moments we weave, we arrive and we leave, hearts splattered across the dining room floor, showing dignity the door, these moments of madness, sheer lunacy at its core, painted on smiles and words a festering sore,

left to moult, in the sun,
never to come,
between us and our hollow fun … … …

incoherent (like life) …

slipping through empty breaths sliding down on bent knees scraping raw flesh against cold skin hollow kisses falling to the desolate floor swept up discarded trashed recycled churned out strewn littered alongside barricaded hearts yearning to feel again to touch to taste to ache to be human once more to know to believe that one can feel that one can hear and see and dig beneath the veneer of sophisticated tinny smiles flinging around casually barbed words meant to jab gnawing at the core of all that makes us human the sting of tears the taste of salt the dripping red bleeding off roses in quaint gardens pruned to perfection yet dead inside numbed into comfortable complacency as the world turns threatening the linearity of time that prays for returns while this heart this soul this being within the cauldron of palpable loss simply burns

quislings … … …

collaborate with the forces of reaction,
jumping on the bandwagon of dissatisfaction,

saying this, saying that, uttering platitudes best left unsaid,

the quisling squirms, ingratiates, worms his way through the political plains,

seeking power, status, the bounty of power and the intoxication of wielding its reins, he says this and that and heaven knows what,

while camouflaging his own decrepit moral rot … … …

u n t i t l e d

leaving the past behind, tucked away neatly in hard to reach closets,

wishing it all away,
memories gnawing to stay, in mothballed kists, and through times’ mists,

shedding, moulting skin, flaked off again today,

living anew, afresh,
with pain an echoing memory of far, far away … … …

The invisible blade – a poem by my young niece.

Another hateful speech
Echoed inside his mind,
So apparent, so clear,
Stinging as it played over and over,
Like a stuck record inside his head.
As each tear slipped from his eye onto the stone floor,
His pain became a realization.
Those words as sharp as weapons,
Like smithereens of glass embedded inside his head.
The skies cried with him that day,
Reflecting the grey of his eyes.

With a knife at his wrist,
And a prayer from his lips,
He was ready to let the blood drip until he no longer lived.
He closed his eyes to dream one final time,
And in the silence, in the dark,
He understood that he didn’t need them to understand,
He understood that different was also beautiful,
He was also beautiful.
And in that moment,
A conflagration ignited his self hatred to ashes,
As his lesion mind began to repair the crevices and cracks that caused him to break.
He stood up in a confident demeanor,
the deluge of nefarious words tried to drown him once again but he kept afloat, fighting the currents in this sea of detestation.
Those tiny cuts healed inside his head and he embraced himself for a new beginning.

i need no pity,
no earnest sympathies,

hearing the birds singing in the trees,

enough to raise these spirits to the skies,

sans pain, sans beholding eyes … … …

talkin’ unseeing blues … … …

morning breaks,
sketching earthy hues,
lacing up my well-worn shoes,

beholding the colours of the dawn,
fantastical glimpses of a solitary fawn,
at peace with nature,
heralding the golden sunrise,

i see it all,
through unseeing eyes … … …

skipping over,
bubbling through the streams’ flow,

all this grotesque gaudiness washed away,

if we only,
and peacefully tread,

along the path unbeaten, the course nature needs us to stitch together, thread by echoing thread … … …

the hunger for freedom raged,
armed struggle waged,

daughters and sons,
lovers and friends,
sacrificed lives, life, families,

today we hear homilies, tales of misty yesterdays, of the birds and of the bees,

respectful homages to the valiant who fell,

still, the hunger for freedom rages,
to the tolling of the bell,

for water, jobs and food, electrification in the neighborhood,

while the few stack up their heaving plates,

the many are flung to the fates,

yes, the battle for freedom still rages,

for decent housing and dignified wages … … …


love is pain … … …

love is pain,
bitter as the piercing rain,

love is pain,
crashing like a freight train,

love is pain,



i hunger to love,

again … … …


this cat digs Chomsky




apology … … …

i had thought i thought about you,

i had felt i felt your pain,

i had thought far too much.

i had felt far too little.

i am sorry … … …

The Nameless (for South Africans of all colours)

The Nameless

Slipping through the sieve of history,

the nameless rest.

Not for the nameless are roads renamed, nor monuments built.

Not for the nameless are songs sung, nor ink spilled.

The nameless rest.

Their silent sacrifice,
quiet ordeal,
muted trauma,

remain interred,
amongst their remains.

The nameless rest.

Not for the nameless are doctorates conferred, nor eulogies recited.

Not for the nameless are honours bestowed, nor homages directed.

The nameless rest.

They rest within us,
they walk with us,

in every step that we tread.

They rest within us,
they walk with us,

for their spirit is not dead.

“Your name is unknown, your deed is immortal”

– inscription at The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier WWII in Moscow

Special thanks to my dearest elder sister Tasneem Nobandla Moolla, whose conversations with me about life as a non-white person growing up in pre and post-Apartheid South Africa prompted me to write this dedication to the countless, nameless South Africans of every colour, whose sacrifices and dedication in the struggle against Apartheid tyranny must never be forgotten.

My sister’s middle name ‘Nobandla’ which is an isiXhosa name and means “she who is of the people” was given by her godfather, Nelson Mandela, my father’s ‘best-man who could not be, as Nelson Mandela was unable to-make it to my parent’s wedding as he was in jail at the time in the old Johannesburg Fort. This was the 31st December 1961.

the pit … … …

when in the pit,
the gaping crevasse of empty dread,

i try, i really do,
to derail the freight train, to seek hope in the deep, to silence the murmurs, grappling with the now, lost in the maelstrom of jagged thought,

when in the pit,
the yawning hole swallowing me whole,

i try, i really do,
to fill the void, the hollowness of unfeeling, reaching for slivers of redemption slicing through my fingertips,

when in the pit,
the vacuum of pain,

i try, i really do … … …

waiting … … …

for paint to dry,
embers to cool,

trapped in a straightjacket,
the perennial fool,

battle fatigue crashing all around me,


to be … … …

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