for Palestine:
The Tears of Olives.
Trickling down shrapnelled flesh,
tears fall,
like
blood
on
bloodied
cheek.
In the sun,
lifeless bodies
lie cold as stone,
the tears of olives
flow,
salty sentinels
of memory:
pain,
suffering,
occupation,
hunger,
the tears of olives
perennially streak,
etching pathways of dust,
between alleyways of desolation,
hopelessly bleak.
The slaughter continues,
as more dead bodies,
rot,
reek.
Love trumps Fascism …
we have scaled the barbed walls of stigma,
we have weathered the storms of prejudice,
we have traversed the thorny path of racism.
We have walked, baked by the sun, frostbitten by the ice, thrashed by the waves,
we have found at last, the gentlest places in the mind,
the most inclusive land, where we now stand,
our own place of sanctuary that knows no prejudice,
no stigma,
no racism …
… and if you feel like joining us,
here,
take this outstretched hand …
The Artists Lament …
Broad dazzling brushstrokes,
as hunger chokes,
penning odes to hope,
in dreadful penury, hurtling down the jagged slope.
Sketches and drumbeats alive with passion,
lost in the cavernous stink of the latest fashion,
souls bared, creating music, poetry, and art,
lie discarded amongst the trash, doomed to be flung aside from the very start.
Dead artists long gone, their lives a living hell,
now fetching obscene millions, to the repugnant smashing sounds, of countless gavels that fell,
dead artists long gone, their lives broken and torn,
their works oohed and aahed at today, on the deadened walls they adorn.
Living music, poetry alive, the heartbeat of arts, today heaped on rubbish carts,
while the musician, the poet, the artist,
achingly watch their lifeblood as it slips away silently,
and into the drain quietly departs,
Ah! but to be up for sale in a century or two,
though as for now, who cares if the art is vibrant, vivid, and true?
Definitely not me.
Perhaps not you …
Congratulations Real Madrid for their 3rd consecutive Champions League win.
Football = Respect
a football and some feet …
I remember those days like yesterday,
.of bare feet kicking an ancient ball around,
learning to dribble, swerve and to like the greats’ sway.
Then came some tattered sports shoes,
as we nursed our aching ankles,
our excruciating shins, ignoring our mothers’ calls for us to get back right then and there,
as we trudged on, proudly showing off the bruises,
returning home, always ready with a million and one excuses.
Then, in what seemed like an instant, we were old enough to follow the worlds’ most beautiful game …
… Paolo Rossi scoring three goals, and breaking my 10 year old heart as Italy sent Brazil home in Espana 1982 …
Diego Armando Maradona slicing through England after his “hand of God” insanity, to score his second goal of the match, the most exquisite goal in history in Mexico 1986 …
Roger Milla taking Cameroon and Africa and all of us into the heavens in Italia 1990, the old man a “super-sub” …
Roberto Baggio missing a penalty for Italy in the final at USA 1994, collapsing on his knees as Brazil took the trophy home …
Zinedine Zidane heading two goals to lift all of France in 1998, to the echoing chorus of “zizou-zizou” …
Ghana so heartbreakingly close in 2010 South Africa, being thwarted by some of the worst unsporting behaviour by Uruguay on the field of play …
Andres Iniesta scoring in the Final of 2010 for Spain against the Netherlands in my own Johannesburg’s Soccer City, lifting the World Cup high in our African night.
Today, much older we are as decades have past,
.our ankles and our shins in pain,
thanks to encroaching age,
still the memories flood back,
through all the intervening years,
the ache of having shed our fair share of tears.
Yes, it will always be our beautiful game,
the peoples game,
in the African sunshine,
under the South American skies,
beyond all borders, in icy winter sleet,
in the pouring buckets of rain.
It is the beautiful game,
and may it always,
and forever so remain …
the fragrance of your love …
Wafting, caressing wisps,
reach me.
A barely discernible lilting fragrance,
touches me.
You are my bouquet of flowers,
you are my garden of nature’s bounty,
you beckon me closer, ever closer,
your sultry love, crossing the miles,
in my rear view mirror, a series of snapshots, of the times we shared,
of the years fleeing past, as we, with each other,
walked hand in hand, on our beach of promise,
our souls to each other, bared.
Now I lay here desolate, alone, if I only knew why I was banished, I would do it all again,
to atone,
yet your fragrance infuses me, with a hope of reckless, passionate daring,
for it was you,
it was always you,
on the silver moons of long ago,
who taught me the true meaning of love,
and of caring.
Your fragrance has settled within me, deep and flowing through veins,
though you may no longer be here by my side,
our shared moonbeams filter through my cracked windows,
and as always,
there is no place for me to hide.
For a mother …
She left me,
with only the thoughts of her embrace to warm me,
in frigid mornings of tomorrows yet to come.
She left me,
with her words of tender truths to shroud me,
in the coming evenings of stabbing sleet and hail.
She left me,
yet she stays forever within me,
in my waking dreams
and in my restful thoughts,
she stays forever within me,
she remains an abiding part,
of the love,
the pain,
the tears,
thus we shall never, ever be truly apart.
greetings all …
this is a bit of an excuse and a bit of shameless self-promotion.
I have been and will be sharing some old scribbles from time to time.
needless to say that is the laziest thing a scribbler can do so my reasons may not be too sound but nonetheless …
when reading a lot of my older scribbles, i’ve been tempted to tinker with them and so a lot of older scribbles that i re-post are either tinkered with or just sharing once again for all my new friends on this wonderful wordpress …
that said, it is still the laziest thing to do 😁
warmest wishes to all and peace and respect and equality and dignity and unity as the human race and an end to misogyny and justice for all …
🌷✊👍✌️🌻
☮️
( perhaps also a cynical way to garner more “likes” 😁 )
live life now …
Clutching,
grasping, holding on,
just barely.
Gulping hungrily,
each breath,
fearing the onset of the years,
the splinters of time,
embedding,
piercing our days and nights with trepidation,
encroaching upon this moment,
the very now,
this life we lead,
as we walk, in a daze, numbed by repetition,
embalmed by the cocoon that lets nothing in,
the gnawing fear of tomorrows yet to dawn,
as we sift through strands of greying hair,
seeking clues,
the because to the whys,
the slow mornings,
and the restless nights,
all just jabbing, prodding reminders,
as the years, and the decades,
scurry,
scamper,
and flee,
while we feel it all slipping away,
standing,
immobile,
stilled by the implacable sentinels at the doorstep,
these immovable sentries,
of time itself,
that conceal the door,
that leads to a better today …
talkin’ whatever-comes-to-mind bluesy blues
wearing different skins, having being kicked down at the shins,
i walk on, fearless.
when this cruel world stabs me, slicing me with the pain of the thousands cuts,
i walk on, fearless.
hearing all the barbed words, smashing against my core,
i walk on, fearless.
when they tell me that i am a loser, devoid of the trappings of luxury,
i walk on, fearless.
when fate deals me rotten cards, and i feel like i am walking on jagged glass shards,
i walk on, fearless.
if you kick me down into the dirt, i will stand again, despite the hurt,
i walk on, fearless.
even when all seems desolate, and everything feels lost, i will weather the winters, dusting off the frost,
i walk on, fearless.
when this glittering world of plastic smiles savage me, i shall smile knowing i am free,
i walk on, fearless.
whether i am man or woman, i will no longer bear the brunt of your twisted words, and your cowardly fists,
i walk on, fearless.
when you strike me across my face, because the food is cold, i shall no longer be bludgeoned by your impotent macho fist, i shall resist,
i walk on, fearless.
when we stand up and take individual stands, we shall outnumber you, and we shall make our demands,
we shall walk on, fearless.
when we rise up together as one, we shall not rest till our daily battles are won,
we shall walk on, fearless.
when you realise you have no hold over us today, we shall combat your misogyny, we shall have our say,
we shall walk on, fearless.
while your guns and and bombs rain down upon us, our children will defy you, and we shall hold onto what we know to be true,
we shall walk on, fearless.
when the slavery of millennia we shall no longer take, you shall fall to your knees, in your shoes you shall quake,
we shall walk on, fearless.
when your anachronistic norms of culture, of religion, of tradition we shall fight, we shall do so knowing the battles to be right,
we shall walk on, fearless.
when we no longer scrounge for scraps of your leftover feasts, we shall move forward, for this struggle never retreats,
we shall walk on, fearless.
when we shall no longer sweat it out in your factories of labels and brands, we shall rebuild our lives with our hardened bare hands,
we shall walk on, fearless.
when your wage-slavery and your greed we shall topple till your very foundations shake, we shall hold the line, for our resolve you will never break,
we shall walk on, fearless.
we shall no longer let our daughters and sons be sent to fight your wars, we shall not spill our bloody to stock your designer stores,
we shall walk on, fearless.
we shall no longer be trampled because of caste, tribe, religion, or sexual orientation, we shall strive in all our lands, to bring to birth a kinder nation,
we shall walk on, fearless.
we shall pull off the blinkers so many wear, we shall counter their aggression, if they should dare,
we shall walk on, fearless.
we shall wrest the control from your greedy paws, we shall attempt to heal the planet, rewriting your stale anti-pollution laws,
we shall walk on, fearless.
we shall arrive at those crossroads quite soon, so sup as much as you can from your silver and gold spoon,
we shall walk on, fearless.
this is our collective threat and challenge to all of you, whose greed knows no end, we stand upright, we shall not bend,
we shall walk on, fearless.
so be under notice that we are rising, and in rising we shall slay,
the endless wars, the corporate greed, the religious oppression, the imperial plan, the shackles of culture and tradition, the scourge of abuse and misogyny,
so be warned, for yes we are rising to all these demons say,
to shape a new world, a less cruel, and more equitable and just and peaceful day …
The Odour of Excess
Sitting together,
smiling benignly,
sipping coffee,
flaked with 24-carat gold-leaf shavings,
their empty souls,
always on the prowl,
to sate,
the latest cravings.
“sell all your jewellery, and give to the poor”,
revolutionary words, uttered by His son,
Jesus of Nazareth (Peace be upon Him).
Well, we all know what became of him,
when we see God’s Sacrificial Lamb,
stuck up on cross to bleed out and to die.
And today, two-thousand years on,
we are drenched in the rivers,
of the crocodile tears,
that His people on Cable-TV do cry.
It reeks of ostentation,
and of smug conceit,
for their hollow piety stinks,
as they suckle on,
and bite down hard,
on capitalism and greed’s raw teat.
“pay your workers before the sweat on their brow dries”,
so said the Prophet of Islam,
Muhammad (Peace Be Upon Him) in Arabia,
more than fouteen-hundred years ago,
as they dishonour him,
each and every day,
as they sip,
on their designer coffee,
flaked with 24-carat gold-leafed shavings,
masking their crassness,
by screeching their prayers,
five times a day,
and ever so loud.
They stink of money,
and their odour reeks,
wafting across all lands,
lingering on for weeks.
Now some will say,
that I envy them,
and thus I am sore,
but honestly now,
let’s ask a question,
was this what God the Merciful had in mind,
when He sent His Son,
and all His Prophets,
down upon this earth for?
love and silence …
you and i,
shielded by silence.
barred from ourselves at times.
exiled hearts,
building ramparts.
a wall that may fall.
so, my friend,
lay your head on my chest,
letting my fingers run through your hair,
lulling you gently to rest, as we share our silences,
for life is far too short anyway,
to squander even a day.
hope prevails …
In these times,
restless, bleak,
a sliver of hope is all I seek.
These moments in a world,
cruel, mean,
greed, injustice, the abuse of power, slicing people,
mere cogs in a system meaning to forever demean.
Splintered dreams,
strewn across blood-stained roads,
sinking into the ground, clutching at strands of hope wherever they may be found.
These are the days when hopelessness stalks every street,
merging at the junction where apathy and complicity meet,
with so many left out in the chilling cold,
freezing in the nonstop barrage of icy sleet.
I have lost my way as well, stumbling through this futile maze,
ripped apart, bloodied, and in a concussed daze,
yet ever searching for myself in this throttling haze.
I stagger on, treading the thorns that litter my path,
clasping close to my heart,
the faint lamp of hope,
my perennial companion, through this life’s travails,
seeking refuge, dreaming of the winds of fate to bolster my sails,
holding the lamp that shines within,
soothing me, placating me,
even as I sleep on this plank of nails,
I know,
I know,
that just beyond that high hill I must climb,
hope lives,
hope prevails.
what are we if not just human
Beings flailing through the quagmire of life,
embroiled in emptiness so stark,
hoping to find some solace, some peace,
stumbling along in the dark.
What are we if not just human,
grappling the torturous grind,
stabs of reality wounding us each day,
enduring hollow platitudes,
cloaked in the veneer of strength we portray.
What are we if not just human,
filling the void with trappings of convenience,
deluded that it will dull the pain,
buffering us from truths that surround us,
losing ourselves within our selves,
celebrating the meaningless ornaments that we attain.
What are we if not just human,
no more and no less,
praying for a salvation beyond this realm,
buying redemption with lofty intent,
crawling in apathetic inebriation,
always on our knees, our backs forever bent.
What are we if not just human,
trying to make sense of all we feel inside,
while in truth the masks we wear,
shrouds ourselves in cocoons to hide.
What are we if not just human,
clinging to scraps we find here and there,
what are we if not just human,
jarring ourselves to care.
What are we if not just human,
rekindling the humanity that resides in us all,
refusing to look away while those around us slip and fall.
What are we if not just human,
striving for a world less harsh, more true,
what are we if not just human,
never forgetting that we all bleed red,
him, her, us, and me and you.
for Palestine: The tears of Olives …
Trickling down shrapnelled flesh,
tears fall,
like
blood
on
bloodied
cheek.
In the sun,
lifeless bodies
lie cold as stone,
the tears of olives
flow,
salty sentinels
of memory:
pain,
suffering,
occupation,
hunger,
the tears of olives
perennially streak,
etching pathways of dust,
between alleyways of desolation,
hopelessly bleak.
The slaughter continues,
as more dead bodies,
rot,
reek.
art by banksy
Ode to Gaza …
We seal our mouths,
lips sewn shut, the complicity hushed,
furiously wagging silent tongues shushed,
mute, impotent,
the deafening silence apalls,
while we build more and more walls.
Still we remain mute,
hushed,
human beings, all,
helplessly desolate,
mowed down each day while our sewn lips remain shushed,
and as the forgotten petals of weeping olives,
are strewn about,
brutally crushed.
art by banksy
art by banksy
Talkin’ Death in Gaza Blues …
So, if you want to really know,
what a mother’s agonised scream sounds like,
take a walk in Gaza today.
she will bear her broken heart,
as she bore the coffin that held her 11 month old child’s body,
as it lay lifelessly broken and torn apart.
The mother screams in anger and in pain,
her howls and shrieks echo on the bloodied plain,
so take a walk in Gaza today,
and feel the rage that a mother nurses,
and bear the brunt of a mother’s curses.
You see, she laid her little baby in the cold, blood-soaked ground,
while you diplomats and peacemakers and politicians were buzzing around,
so stop buzzing,
and take a walk in Gaza today,
and for once,
for once,
listen to what a mother has to say,
“they’ve rained down death on us for years,
they’ve torched our olive groves while you have shut your collective ears,
they’ve killed our children over and over and over again,
and we’ve cried oceans of tears that have disappeared down the drain,
so tell me as I cradle my dead baby in my hand,
who gives a damn?”.
This is what you will hear when you walk in Gaza today.
It is what you have heard for years and years now,
and all I can think as I write these words is ‘how?’,
how could you fail,
you peacemakers and diplomats and politicians,
how could you fail the mothers of Gaza,
over and over and over again,
is it because Gaza’s mothers’ tears are forgotten,
because they simply disappear down the drain.
And how can you not stem that ocean of tears,
cried by countless mothers,
and fathers,
and children whose eyes are blinded by inexpressible pain,
whose days are haunted,
not by phantoms,
but by living fears.
So can you take a walk in Gaza today?
and what possibly could you have to say?
to the numberless mothers who have cried oceans of tears,
again and again and again,
or are Gaza’s mothers’ tears forgotten,
because they simply disappear down the drain.
(for the people of Gaza and the Occupied Territories)
art by banksy
with President Nelson Mandela & my father in early 2008 in Johannesburg
Nelson Mandela Centenary
(1918 – 2018)
Nelson Rolihlahla ‘Madiba’ Mandela walked amongst us not long ago.
A man of action forged in the crucible of resistance.
Resistance against racial discrimination.
Resistance against injustice.
Resistance against oppression.
Nelson Rolihlahla ‘Madiba’ Mandela walked amongst us not long ago.
A man burnished in the furnace of struggle.
Struggle to defeat the crime against humanity that was Apartheid.
Struggle against the obscene notions of racial superiority.
Struggle against the scourge of hate.
Nelson Rolihlahla ‘Madiba’ Mandela walked amongst us not long ago.
A human being who personified kindness.
A human being who embodied humility.
A human being who exemplified the unity of our human race.
Nelson Rolihlahla ‘Madiba’ Mandela walked amongst us not long ago.
A man of peace, and a man who fought the just fight.
A man of forgiveness, and a man who battled the Apartheid regime for the need of taking responsibility for the heinous crimes of the past.
A man of truth, and a man of humane love.
Nelson Rolihlahla ‘Madiba’ Mandela walked amongst us not long ago.
He was of flesh and of blood, and he shed his blood as he endured the lashes of the whip on his flesh.
He was of flesh and of blood, and he fought ferociously against the suppression of his fellow human beings.
He was of flesh and of blood, and he emerged with dignity from the hell of twenty-seven years of imprisonment on an island of tyranny.
Nelson Rolihlahla ‘Madiba’ Mandela walked amongst us not long ago.
He was a man of a steely will in the long cause to rid all oppressed people from the yoke of colonialism, he picked up arms and fought the honourable fight.
He was a man of fiery resolve against the scourge of divisiveness, he was at the forefront in the battles against human subjugation and indignity.
Nelson Rolihlahla ‘Madiba’ Mandela walked amongst us not long ago.
Madiba was a revolutionary, in the trenches against the obscenity of poverty and deprivation.
Madiba was a soldier, on the ground in the service of the most vulnerable, the children of this world.
Madiba was unshakeable, and he lived the example of the committed revolutionary and the dignified statesman.
Nelson Rolihlahla ‘Madiba’ Mandela walked amongst us not long ago.
Our beloved Madiba does not walk amongst us anymore.
And yet, Nelson Rolihlahla ‘Madiba’ Mandela lives within us.
Madiba lives in the streams that flow into the rivers that flow into the oceans.
Madiba lives in the winds that blow across the vast lands of Africa and beyond.
Madiba lives in the thud-thudding of heartbeats around our world.
Madiba lives in the veins where the blood flows through our common human form.
Madiba lives!
Madiba will always live!
Nelson Mandela & my father – mid to late 1950s – early 1960s in Johannesburg
A family history through the seasons:
our shared shore …
1.
Awaiting the arrival of the lapping tide,
abandoning the shells in which we hide,
free from the corrosive acid of traditions’ coarse lies,
sharing a love true,
our hearts in wondrous synchronicity,
beating to the rhythm of the ebbing waves that fall and rise.
2.
We feel the intricate bond that seals us,
from many a thorn that the future may have in store,
yet today, we are finally free, to cast off the many masks we wore,
free at long last,
to grasp the peace,
the love,
the embrace,
of our shared shore …
2 Reasons …
1. The Beatles.
2. Pink Floyd.
talking regurgitated impotent worldwide injustice blues …
… I have been here so many times before, spewing forth words that must be by now a repetitive bore.
Scribbling this and that, having said it all so many times, these tired, paltry, meagre words seem to be just cobbled together into rhymes.
All my belched words appear impotent to me today, scribbled over and over again, reeking of stale garbage, stinking in the rain.
Words and emotions felt deep, gnawing at my being, spat out, to ears unhearing, thrust before eyes unseeing.
So I ask myself why carry on this wordy parade, of simplistic rhymes, of grammar unsound, yet feeling compelled to keep going on this endless merry-go-round.
All my walls shattered, my ramparts battered, yet still I need to throw up these words, hither and thither scattered.
I ask myself how can I stop, when most of humanity is used as a ragged mop, when the few like vampires feast on the human blood they suck, squeezing out sweat from the many who are condemned to bleed in the muck.
I see the good people all around me, burying their heads so they never may see, their selfish religiosity on display for all to ooh and aah, while their own religions’ humanistic tenets they keep afar.
The curse of neo-colonialism, neo-imperialism, and of bonded labour, strangle the many, while the 1% their champagne do savour.
Misogyny, child-abuse, spousal and gender violence, hetero-patriarchy, female genital mutilation, in 2018 upon women everywhere is still what is endured, with all dignity slashed, while platitudes are spoken from pulpits, the sham of indignation hypocritically rehashed.
Governments the world over spending trillions on weapons of death, while pleading poverty when it comes to free, dignified, professional health.
The 99% still slaves to the tyranny of shameful wages, the same conditions that have tortured their ancestors through the ages.
Words of struggle and of principled defiance, words like ‘freedom’, ‘democracy’, ‘justice’, ‘equality’, have been cynically pilfered, by those in the corridors of business and of political power, while choking grimy dust across the planet does continually shower.
My mother is still paid so much less, than the very men who conjured up this economic mess, and if she demands higher wages she is castigated for the thoughts, while the business tycoons, the government men blather on about their newly-acquired luxury yachts.
The struggles of Nelson Mandela and of Martin Luther King, are neatly repackaged gutting out their sting, remodelled to be acceptable, while burying the essence of their revolutionary call, the demand for free education, health, housing, dignity, justice and work for all.
We wear these icons of resistance on t-shirts made in sweatshops in Bangladesh, the ultimate betrayal of their sacrifice, of the humane values they espoused, while the fires of resistance are with brutal, apathetic drivel doused.
This planet, our common earth, is being pummelled each day, nature itself is for profit ravaged, caring not that we shall leave behind an earth that has been for greed savaged.
When by the most powerful, ugly male egotistical, macho posturing is bleated out, beating the drums and threatening endless for-profit wars, the rest of us are petrified, for the mighty have long reaching claws.
Racist notions of supremacy are bandied about without a murmur of indignation, the evils of casteism, religious fanaticism, tribal and narrow sectarianism, grotesque nationalism, gay bashing, and misogynist sewage is poured with glee, and still we turn our collective heads, pretending we can’t see.
When speaking truth to power is deemed a capital crime, how impotent I feel scribbling yet another listless rhyme.
When societies are structured to create a craving for the materialistic trappings of capitalism, how easily tainted into swear words are the values of socialism.
What is demanded are not mansions of ostentatious gaudy gold, each replete with a marbled hall, but water, food, electricity, dignified work, health, education, housing, and peace and dignity for all.
They truly want us divided, on religious, caste, racial, narrow nationalistic, sexual orientation, male-female, and all the other lies, while all the while the hungry child for just some food cries.
They know if we break out of our narrow cocoons, they shall have to face the wrath of a united world, a world become one, for then none of their machinations shall suppress us, and only then shall our truest battles be hard won.
I may be a hypocrite for scribbling these rhymes, but then so are you for not hearing the bell tolling for a radical changing of the times.
How long will it take for us to rise, to dissent, to question everything that has been to us said, from the economy to religion to race, class, and to gender too, what will it take me to see what is right in front of me, and for you to see what is right in front of you.
When shall we cast off these shackles that imprison us, the shackles of apathy and of looking the other way, not realising that together we can and should and must strive for a better day, not perhaps to rid us of all suffering and all pain, all oppression, and perhaps not in one fell swoop, but at least taking our first steps towards progressive progression.
These scribbled, worthless words, seem nothing but an empty vessel drummed on and on each day,
but from the heart I do write,
about what I believe to be wrong,
and what I believe to be right.
Yet still the talons of grotesque for-profit dig deep,
buy one and get two for freemium today,
and all this under the benevolent gaze of Mandela and MLK,
Biko and Tambo and Sisulu,
Lumumba and Hani and Ché …
Scribbled Verse 
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