​bidding another year adieu.

and when i see,

breathe her, her softness a whisper away,
she knows the ache, i fear,

of wanting,

needing perhaps,

the feeling of feeling dear,
not much, 

soothing warmth,

enveloped,
our warmth, a light autumn shawl,
her fingers, mine,

tracing sketches, scribbles,

our waltzing fingers entwined,
shedding this year that wasn’t, or hardly was at all,
like so, so many yesteryears,
now long passed,
quietly, threading catacombs crumbling into dust,
gently, reverently, 

laying it down, leaving it all far, far behind,
a few shared moments,

of gentleness, warmth, solace,
of pure, innocent, delicious, alluring promise of bliss,
so rare, 

            priceless, almost,

            

            almost,

            too rare to find

a soppy lovey-dovey scribble … … …

​My Beach of Dreams…

1.

Turquoise waters tease your toes,

as we walk together on my dreamy beach,

our fingers entwined,

a sensuous breeze caressing your lavender hair,

the soft sand kneading your feet, delicately bare.

2.

The burnished sun swoons and dips,

my ravenous mouth hungers for your sweet lips,

our hearts beat as one to the rhythm of the waves,

scorched by the furnace of desire that our love so passionately craves.

3.

I wake up, with your head on my shoulder,

my soul, my being, my very self continues to smoulder,

I kiss you gently on your forehead,

my fingers tracing verses down your cheek,

I am,

at long last,

at peace,

within,

I have found my home,

there is not a thing that I now care to seek.

the fake festivity

​plastic smiles, polythene emotions, gift-wrapped for yet another commercial chasm,

lost humanity flitting hither and thither, seeking to procure that perfect gift.

the fakery is ubiquitous, as inured souls scavenge malls, snouts in the trough as this or that price falls,

where are the simple joys, the fullness of souls and hearts imbibing, each others purest essence,

and not simply shopping till dropping for this year’s most coveted presents …

the air and the flute … … …

​

air caresses the flute,
unseen,

leaving not a trace
of itself.

a gentle melody,
lilting notes,
echo invisibly,

fused
by passionate breath mingling with air,

unseen … … …

frivolous …

​her moist eyes met mine,

entangled like twisting twine,

we laughed off all the years that have past,

while smiling at those still to be passed …

another year …

​as another flees, soaked scarlet by war, choked by the famished cries of the baby, torn by the screeching of hate, adulterated by the politics of intolerance, bruised by gender-based violence, shaming humanity by female genital mutilation, ripping our souls out by wanton greed, trashing our world with mountains of waste, scarring our planet with the oblivious ignorance of climate change, hacking us, binding us with the knots of intolerable pain,

and so, may the coming year be less violent, and more equitable to all.

idealistic claptrap? yes, I know, I know …

but at times like these hope is all that I know I  know …

if i could …

​if i could sip the nectar of your honey-soaked lips, etching poems on your burnished skin with my fingertips,

if i could embrace you, enveloping your body whole, whispering odes to love mined deep from my famished soul,

if i could share this desolate life turned true by your side, no longer fleeing, nor searching for places to hide,

if i could, if i only could … …

further

​stranded on this isle of the casually cruel, bracing against callously random fate,

we have held on this far,

let us hold on a little further … …

​Tribute to George Micheal through his songs … … …

​Tribute to George Micheal through his songs … … …

even As you turned A Different Corner, and though you may have been on the Outside, your Careless Whisper urged us all to Listen without Prejudice like Jesus to a Child. 

through your Faith you reminded us that we should be Praying for Time, and though this may have been your Last Christmas, we shall remember you in many more Christmases yet to come.

RIP George Micheal 

lying together … … …

​lying together, enveloped in each others arms,

we swore oaths to the stars and the years yet to unfold,

lying together. 

hand in hand

​’take my hand’, she said, as we walked on splintered glass,

‘we are together, braced for all that may come to pass’,

we walk hand in hand today too,

traversing this world, that is often cold and untrue 

the African rains

Soaking,

the rains settle,
meandering over jagged faultlines of our memory.

Drenching,

the rains settle,
streaming through veins,

the thud-thudding of the heartbeat of Africa.

Absorbing,

the rains that settle,
within each of us,

herald rebirth.

And,
if you listen,

if you strain to hear,

while shedding the raucous noise of your inner turmoil.

If you listen,

the whispers of the ancestors,

speak to us all,
lending us warmth,
urging us to stand,

even though we may
stumble,

even though we may fall.

port of call – a repost

​barefoot on a talcum beach,

alone, not lonely,

with the breath of the ocean a caressing balm,
soothing pained memories away,

to the swaying of a solitary palm.

barefoot on a talcum beach,
alone, not lonely,

feeling the brushing away of all past turmoil,

on a quest for solace, ever so hard to find,

yet comforted by the crashing of the waves,

as the tide cleanses all pain,

and leaves despair far, far behind.

barefoot on a talcum beach,
alone, not lonely,

drenched in a sea-breeze of mist,

that hushes the ache of bygone moons,

tasting the salty tang on my lips,

as the burnished sun,
over the distant horizon,
swoons,

and dips.

barefoot on a talcum beach,
alone, not lonely,

searching, ever searching,

for a slice of solitude,

as memory bids a final adieu,

reaching under the sea so vast,

and seeking comfort in the depths,

while embracing,

the tomorrows to come,
wishing that they be true.

barefoot on a talcum beach,
alone, not lonely,

seeing my truths drown,

as they slip beneath the turquoise waters,

feeling my heart ablaze,

with a passion that rarely falters.

barefoot on a talcum beach,
alone, not lonely,

yet knowing that I am home at long last,

wishing the waves would wash away,

the defences that once stood,

like an impregnable wall.

barefoot on a talcum beach,
alone, not lonely,

I have found,
at long last,

my final port of call

she …

​she comes to me, in moments desolate, the warmth of her balm a soothing pleasure under the swaying palm,

she comes to me in moments painful, her presence infusing my emptiness with sense,

she comes to me in minutes, hours, days,

and though she may be a million miles away,

it is her who quells my nights, it is her who brings solace to my waking day … … …

timeless love

​our eyes mask many a sorrow within,

splintered hopes, tattered dreams,

lost in the folds of ceaseless time,

whispered murmurs, ebbing in the tides of fractured rhyme.

yet still our disjointed verse has woven a path for better or worse,

holding each other close, through the travails of the years,

our wrinkled faces smiling, even as the end nears … 

love lost

​your heart thud-thudded, your breath mingled with mine,

our bodies wrapped close, like fresh twine,

you said you’d love me, forever and more,

today I look for you,

in open windows,

through every closed door

my wishes are simple

​

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 … … …

to the nameless soldier …

​

Your orders may come now…

…or at 19h45 this evening.

‘Shoot to kill’
‘Engage the enemy’
‘Hold the line’
‘Break up the gathering’

‘Ready, aim, fire’

but you have felt too

the stab of hunger
the bite of thirst
the bayonet of loss
the wound of despair

but you have seen too

the pain in a mother’s eyes
the grief in a father’s face
the incomprehension in a child’s down-cast look

‘Ready, aim, fire’

but you, the nameless soldier have heard

the cries of the grieving family
the wailing of the widowed wife
the quiet agonizing sound of the child’s weeping

‘Ready, aim, fire’

your orders may come now
or at 23h30 tonight
or tomorrow
or the day after that
or next week or month or year

but you have seen and felt and heard too

the agony of a peoples’ simple desire
the hurt of a nation long bludgeoned
the wounds of your stolen generation

so when that order comes

now

or at 03h30 tomorrow morning
‘Ready, aim, fire’

let your humanity muzzle your rifle
let your conscience dismiss the order
let your better side come to the fore

and let your very own people, your mother and your father, your sister and your brother, your son and your daughter, your friend and your lover
let them live
let them be
let your rifle fall to the soil of your beloved motherland

o’ nameless soldier.

Dirge for Aleppo

​as she lies bleeding,

the girl who skipped, hopped to school,

all of nine and a half years old,

with ribbons in her hair and a laugh that was her father’s pride.
 

as she lies bleeding,

shrapnel lodged in her torn stomach,

she stares at her skipping rope,

as her blood soaks it the colour of cherries her mummy buys.
 

as she lies bleeding,

she sees people all around thick black smoke,

blurred visions of scattering feet, shoes left behind,

hearing nothing but the pinging in her smashed eardrums.
 

as she lies bleeding,

she slips away and then she is dead,

a mangled heap of a nine and a half year old girl,

whose laugh was her father’s pride.
 
 

as she lies bleeding,

for even in death she bleeds some more,

shrapnel wedged in her torn stomach,

stealing the light from her bright little eyes.

as she lies bleeding …
in jallianwala bagh in ‘19,

leningrad in ‘42,

freetown in ‘98,

soweto in ‘76,

jenin in ‘02,

hanoi in ‘68,

beirut in ‘85,
raqqa now,

aleppo still.

 

as she lies bleeding,

a little nine and a half year old girl,

whose laugh was her parent’s pride,

we know she’ll bleed more,
tomorrow and in many tomorrows yet unborn,
with shrapnel in her stomach,

ripped open and torn.
as she lies bleeding … …

( what is shocking is that this poem was written a few years ago and titled ‘a child of war’, and that it still holds true. a damning indictment on the powerful and the war-mongerers. tragically heartbreaking )

As Aleppo Burns

forked tongues slither in the corridors of power,

as Aleppo burns.

realpolitik plays out on mounds of corpses,

as Aleppo burns.

humanity crawls away to hide,

as Aleppo burns.

our next step …

​the thorny paths we have walked, are now a blurred memory, the pain and the travails we have faced, are now mingled with the mists of the past,

for all that matters with you by my side,

are the steps we have yet to take …

you and i

​I want to kiss you so much more,

where bigotry no longer stabs at the core.

I want us arm in arm on long walks,

where prejudice these boulevards no longer stalks.

I want you, if you’ll have me,

we shall build our own world,

warm and loving and free … …

kisses beneath our African night

​let us kiss, deep and slow, in our long African night, beneath this carpet of stars, bathed in hues of soft light, 

far away from the clamour of each day, to our very own place where palm trees sashay and sway,

far from the echoes of pain, to be washed pure by our African rain,

so come with me, let us be free,

leaving it all behind,

to be,

to simply be …

your face …

​whispering petals caressing your skin, murmurs of long lost kisses, left adrift in the breeze of fate, of hopes crushed underfoot, of you and i, lost amidst the cruel fate of time, of space,

but still, and evermore,

it shall always be, forever more, the searing image,

of the memory of your face …

I am …

​I am the water coursing through the veins of these lands.

I am the fire rising from the bowels of the earth.

I am the drumbeat of a new today.

I am the nail in the coffin of patriarchy.

I am the power searing the eyes of those who choose not to see.

I am a billion sighs sighing no more.

I am the stand that I make.

I am my sisters.

I am hope.

I am Woman.

( with thanks to Maya Angelou )

desolate

​desolate.

empty breaths, exhaled charred feeling,

squandered moments, trampling a heart that lies reeling,

twisted and broken, beneath our leafless tree, promises hushed, scarred vows spoken,

left to fester on the icy ground, in the place where our love once danced freely around.

​talkin’ gay abandon blues … … …

they tell me I’m pretty,

fellas always telling me I’m cute too,

oh but they weren’t, aren’t,

nowhere as irresistible as you,

it ain’t the way you do your hair,

oh no it ain’t the way you dress,

and it sure ain’t cos’ you’re a smooth talkin’ fella,

oh no,

it ain’t cos’ of any of that and much more,

i got the blues for you,

staggering away from my liquor store,

so say its true, its eatin’ me up inside,

say it so there ain’t no place i can slip away and hide,

or say nothing at all,

that’s the ache of the blues,

ain’t never gonna know,

if life is gonna kick you down,

if you’re gonna stumble, and fall,

or if you’re gonna be as you have always been,

standin’ proud, tall,

stoic, but never just a wall … … …

our journey … …

​’where are we going’, I asked her.

‘someplace we’ll never truly get to’, she said.

our journey continues