Archive for December 16, 2018


remaining afloat,

waves hurling the mind in

unchartered waters.

no anchors in these seas,

in the void, hopeless, adrift,

beseeching the cloak of despair to lift,

to subdue the relentless ache,


that in the morrow, the pain shall begin to throb, 

yet again.

eGoli – City of Gold – Johannesburg

The Deluge …

finally the deluge,

skipping rhythmic heartbeats,

leaving behind rats racing on frenetic city streets,

caressing lonesome weeds, sprinkling crystal beads on gently waving reeds,

soft sprinkling rain,

a soothing balm banishing pain,

lulling, cajoling, comforting weary evenings,

glistening leaves

on rain soaked trees,

hope afloat on the misty breeze,

each blade of grass shimmering,

rough diamonds strewn about,

the rainbows in every drop  glistening,

settling in my heart,

softly lilting touches of peace, of truth,

hushed promises of a new start

of finally being a part,

as the rains sweeps away,

the debris of the now,

the numb detritus of  yesterday ….

the seesawing of my mind.

sleepless nights creep past,

clawing at the edges of my mind,

days spent shuffling through the blur,

adrift, untethered,

clambering through the thicketty haze,


lost amidst the racing minutes,

revelling in an insom-maniacal daze,

at times reeling,

feeling spent,



the words, the scribbled verse,

for better or worse,

a sanctuary, secluded,

shielded from barbed tongues,

barbed words casually spoken,

seesawing, walking the tightrope,


fingers scraped,

wreaking bloodless wounds,

the quest continuing for a shard of hope,

the ability to cope,

staying afloat,

bracing the torrents,

ever mindful,

of being perched on the precipice,

of my seesawing mind,

fearful of sliding up-down,

the perennial slippery slope,

a man on a wire,

no safety net, no rope,

aching to stand up,

to walk unaided once again,

through the fog,

the blur,

the haze,

the daze,

lashed by these blizzards of pain,

through the thicket,

on a rapid runaway train,

hurtling against the embedded grain,

seeking respite,

craving refuge,

from the incessant,


slicing rain …

timeless love.

​our eyes mask many a sorrow,

torn hopes, bygone dreams,

lost in the folds of ceaseless time,

whispered murmurs, ebbing in the tide of tepid rhyme.


have these disjointed verses bound us through painful tears,

as we held each other close, through the travails of the years,

our wrinkled faces smiling,

as the end nears.

the rains over jo’burg …

the african rain envelopes all,

shushing the noise and quelling the din,

scalding the skin,

raging inflamed and ablaze,

deep within …

… as fingertips scribble verses on a soft naked back,

as couplets are whispered in ears, stoking the fire,

flesh achingly sweltering, with untamed desire,

the dancing candlelight sweeping across a sensuous body,

the yearning wild, begging for a sweet sensual taste,

of lips to be sipped,

gently at first,

and only later with greedy haste,

as the rains caress jo’burg with the sounds of an unending pitter-patter,

two bodies entwined, hungrily devouring each other,

while savouring the sensations that consumes them all,

in the twilight, amidst the rainbow,

as the soft sunlight takes leave,

and as another dusk over the blazing african skies,

begins to fall …

hewn into my being,

carved across my heart,
weaving through my mind,
embossed in my soul,

it remains,
a persistent reminder

your name

The letter from President Nelson Mandela to my father on the day my mother passed away. My parents were comrades of President Nelson Mandela stretching back to the 1950s

letter from President Nelson Mandela to my father on the day my mother passed away. My parents were comrades of President Nelson Mandela stretching back to the 1950s

President Nelson Mandela’s mother and my mum protesting the arrest and detention withoit trial of many comrades – 1950s or early 1960s

The Women …

(for the countless women, names unknown, who bore the brunt of Apartheid, and who fought the racist system at great cost to themselves and their families, and for my mother, Zubeida Moolla)

Pregnant, your husband on the run,
your daughter just a child, a few years old,

they hauled you in, these brutish men,
into the bowels of Apartheid’s racist hell.

They wanted information, you gave them nothing,
these savage men, who skin just happened to be lighter,

and White was right in South Africa back then.

You did not cower, you stood resolute,

you, my mother, faced them down, their power,
their ‘racial superiority’, their taunts, their threats.

You, my mother, would not, could not break,

You stood firm, you stood tall.

You, like the countless mothers did not break, did not fall.

You told me many things, of the pains, the struggles,

the scraping for scraps,

the desolation of separation
from your beloved children,

by monstrous Apartheid, by brutish men,
whose skin just happened to be lighter.

You told me many things, as I grew older,
of the years in exile, of the winters that grew ever colder.

You were a fighter, for a just cause,
like countless other South African women,

you sacrificed much, you suffered the pangs,
of memories that cut into your bone, your marrow,

you resisted a system, an ideology, brutal and callous and narrow.

Yes, you lived to see freedom arrive, yet you suffered still,
a family torn apart, and struggling to rebuild a life,

all the while, nursing a void, that nothing could ever fill.

I salute you, mother, as I salute the nameless mothers,

the countless sisters, daughters, women of this land, who fought, sacrificing it all by taking a moral and principled and valiant stand.

I salute you, my mother, and though you have passed, your body interred in your beloved South African soil,

you shall remain, within me, an ever-present reminder,

of the cost of freedom, the struggles, the hunger, the toil.

I salute you!

Viva the undying spirit of the women Viva!

(for the brave women of South Africa, of all colours,
who fought against racial discrimination and Apartheid)

Anti-Apartheid poster from the 1980s

Comrade Nelson Mandela and my father sometime in tje 1950s

Comrade Nelson Mandela and my mother reunited after 27 years – Stockholm summer 1990

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 …

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