Tag Archive: #ALS


art courtesy google


art from google




https://youtu.be/V15BYnSr0P8

FIFA 2018 World Cup Russia Official Song – “Live it Up” – Nicky Jam featuring Will Smith & Era Istrefi





FIFA Word Cup 2018 Russia: a football and some feet …



( K’NAAN – Wavin’ Flag – FIFA World Cup South Africa 2010 )



I remember those brutal summer days as though they were yesterday,


of bare feet kicking an old patched football around,


learning to dribble, to chip and try to dance just as the greats’ swerving sway.




Then came some tattered sports shoes,


hardly sports shoes at all, yet worn proudly as we reenacted the battles of the World Cup,


as we nursed our aching ankles,


our excruciating painful shins,


willfully ignoring our mothers’ calls for us to get back home or else we would be in deep trouble,


shunning our homework for reading snippets in the newspapers of the exploits of the players all living the greatest show on earth.




we trudged on, proudly showing off the bruises, the scraped knees and the sweat soaked t-shirts,


returning home, always ready with a million and one excuses.




And then, in what seemed like an instant, we were treated to the thrill of every game beamed live on our tiny black and white televisions …




The memories will never fade,



… 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 …




… 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 …




… Johan Cruyff dazzling us all … Siphiwe Tshabalala sending all of South Africa into the stratosphere with the World Cup 2010’s first goal against Mexico …




… Zinedine Zidane walking past the World Cup after head-butting the Italian Marco Materazzi and receiving a red card …




… the titans of football Brazil being thrashed 7 – 1 by an unstoppable Germany on home soil in 2014 …




… and today Iceland stunned Argentina to 1 – 1 draw in a World Cup shocker …




… and on and on I may go.




Today, much older we are as decades have past, our ankles and our shins no longer in danger of being scythed down on the field of play,


all thanks to encroaching age,


and 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 …



( Shakira – Waka Waka – This time for Africa featuring Freshly Ground – FIFA World Cup South Africa 2010 )

art from google



photographs from google



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84 … for our father


http://www.thepresidency.gov.za/national-orders/recipient/moosa-mosie-moolla



84 …



(for our father and grandfather and comrade Mosie Moolla who turned 84 years old this June 12)


Mosie Moolla with Nelson Mandela in the 1950s



84 …


The number says so much, the years of sacrifice and struggle that can never truly be left behind,


the stark years of revolution when you and the countless footsoldiers shared the tightest bonds of comradeship,


the dedication to the cause of freedom against the savage cruelty that was the crime against humanity – Apartheid,


the 27 years in exile, separated from your two children, your family, your home,


holding the hand of our mother who stood by your side, torn apart from her children, her family, her home.




84 …


the number says so much, more than half a century ago, forging relationships in the cauldron of resistance,


your brothers and your comrades –


Nelson Mandela,

Oliver Tambo,

Walter Sisulu,

Moses Kotane,

JB Marks,

Joe Slovo,

Nana Sita,

Bram Fischer,

Ahmed Kathrada,

Alfred Nzo,

Yusuf Dadoo,


and so many more,

in whose hearts and spirit the fires of the just fight roared on, never to be dimmed.




84 …


the number says so much, of our mother and of your shared sacrifice, of not knowing the joys of seeing your daughter Tasneem and your son Azad grow, the pain of being ripped away from your families, your homes, your motherland,


to travel to distant countries to keep the fight alive on the outside, building solidarity in the world to isolate Apartheid South Africa,


to fan the embers into the flames of international pressure against Apartheid South Africa.




84 …


the number says so much, returning home when your comrades Nelson Mandela and so many other giants were released from Apartheids’ prisons,


to work in mobilising the tasks for the  groundwork to build a new, free, non-racial, non-sexist democracy for people of all colours, regardless of religion or tribe,


to finally see your comrade Nelson Mandela become the first President of a free South Africa.




84 …


the number says so much, as you still keep the lessons of history alive, as you shake us all to remember and never to forget the comrades who were executed, tortured and killed, who fell on the battlefield, the comrades who did not see the birth of their dream of a free South Africa.




84 …


the number says so much, yet the furnace rages on,


inspiring us and many more,


the furnace will rage on,


in our hearts,


deep in our shared core.







(for our father and grandfather Mosie Moolla who turned 84 years old on this 12th of June)



receiving The Order of Luthuli in Silver from former South African President Jacob Zuma


Johannesburg 2000s


with old comrades 2000s


with comrades 2000s






The Cost of Revolution …



(in memory of the June 16th 1976 student uprising in South Africa)





You hurled rocks, stones,

Molotov Cocktails,

Sling-shots against the brutality of racial oppression.



You fell on the streets of Soweto,

Thokoza,

Kagiso,

Sharpeville,

Tembisa,


and countless more across this nation. 



Tasting the acrid stench of tear-gas,


Feeling the flesh ripped off your bones by their dogs,


Drenched by water-cannons,

Stung by rubber-bullets,

Whipped by sjamboks,

Shot in the head by lead,

Paid for by your country’s gold.



You stood trial for Treason,

Facing the hangman’s noose,


You stood firm, you did not break,

Even though,

You had wives, sons, daughters, lovers, brothers, sisters, and friends to lose.



The revolutionary dream burned bright,

In all your hearts,


Even as the jackboot of Apartheid,


Fractured your bones and tore your families into broken and splintered parts.



You left your brothers,

Sisters,

Sons,

Daughters,

Lovers,

Wives,

Comrades and friends,


Seeking out foreign lands,

With only the ammunition that you held in your hearts, your minds and in your never-wavering hands.



The enemy did not waver either,


Tyranny didn’t cease.



2 AM knocks on doors around this land,

Meant to stifle, to intimidate,


Yet,

You took a stand.



Hungry,

lost far away from home, pining for freedom and your loved ones,


Still,

You stood firm,

You fought on,


“Release Mandela and all Political Prisoners” was your cry,

In capitals in far-off lands,


You feared not the bayonet in the enemy’s hands,


The revolution was burning bright,


Even as the dawn of Freedom was in sight.



Finally on a February day,

They released him and the joy was palpable, nothing stood now in the revolution’s way.


All the while,

The enemy consolidated its power,


Paying off traitors,


Seeding violence,


Orchestrating mayhem to taint the noble cause,


And still you took the tyrant’s rifles and clenched their muzzles in-between your brave jaws.



Never standing down,

Backing away,

Retreating to safe space,

The fire of revolution burned,

Spreading through the plateaus and valleys and townships and cities and villages in this pained land,


And still,


Still,

You held that Kalashnikov in your hand.



And when that day of freedom came,


You felt the stirrings of joy and pain and yes,

Of shame.



You felt the shame of leaving those you left behind,


You tasted again the pain,

Of economic hardships,

Of capitalism and its illusory promise,

Of a revolution left incomplete,


Till,

Every man, woman and child has enough to eat.



A revolution still incomplete,

Where hunger stalks the night,

Where mercy,

And comradely solidarity,

Left last night on a first-class flight.



You stand tall still,

Working as you always have,


Polishing the metal chariots of those you once bled for,


Still feeling the injustice,

Of not having the two cents more,


That deprives you of your daily bread,


And you try hard to remember,


Whether this is the revolution,


For which so many died,


The countless whose names remain unsaid,


The brothers and sister,

mothers and fathers,

Lovers and friends,


the martyred dead.






(dedicated to all South Africans who sacrificed their lives, their families, in pursuit of the revolutionary dream. A dream that remains a dream to many, and a dream that will continue to be dreamed)



all photographs from google



All that Jazz

art from google



?



is it perchance

that moment


tattoed in my mind ?




our shared dance ?


a lifetime ago ?


in jazzy-smoked ol’ johannesburg town 



?


was it perchance

your smile


as gentle as the whispers of my perennial dream …


… your eyes


an ocean into whose smokey waters i yearn to drown


away from this

away from it all


far

far

away from this life


this daily

work-sleep-cage

of vacuumed lies


this

cavernous

prison


of leaden skies




breaking the shackles


casting off the burden


of carrying it all

of shouldering this world


your world


while

feeling at times


like your back is

closing in

against a blank wall.




2.




ah but enough of that talk


that talk of yesteryear



for now


i dream


i dream waking dreams


of that night

in whiskey-glazed

ol’ johannesburg town


of holding on

to that shared dance


is it that moment

that crystallised moment


is it

perchance



?



art from google

live life now

photography from google



live life now …


clutching, grasping,

holding onto,


gulping down, hungrily,

each breath, every breath,


fearing the onset of the years,

the splinters of time 


embedding, 

piercing,


this moment, the very now,


numbed by repetition,

embalmed by trepidation,


of tomorrows yet to dawn,


suspiciously sifting through the strands of greying hair,


seeking clues,

the because to the whys,


the slow mornings,

restless nights,


jabbing reminders,

as years, decades,


scurry, scamper,

flee,

feeling it all slipping away,


standing, immobile,

stilled by the implacable sentinels at the doorstep,


these immovable sentries,

concealing the door,


that leads to today …




photograph from google



apologies to her

art from google



apologies to her who knows …





I walk through this neverending thicket,


thorns jabbing at my side, 


left out in the cold, a shimmering blade,

slicing emotions apart,


as she prepares once more, to depart.

I find her settled in a corner of my manic mind,

shedding yesteryears moulting skin,


beating through the foggy thicket,

my feelings flailing, gnawing, stretching my mania thin.



She leaves, burying herself deep,

in the convoluted recesses of my remaining senses,


having stormed the ramparts,

overrunning my paper thin  defences.



Do tell her that I miss her,

and all the moments we shared,


do please also tell her that I am sorry.


I was cold.

I should have cared.


art from google

love | peace | respect

for Wendy Cope

“Billie Holiday” art by Banksy




For Wendy Cope.



(Inspired by her poems ‘Bloody Men’ and ‘Flowers’)



1.


I may not have brought you flowers.

I know I was always late.


You tolerated my moodiness,

and my ever-increasing weight.


2.


You said men were like buses,

and you had grown weary of waiting,


Of putting up with my quirks and my fusses,

though we barely knew we were dating.


3.


Ah, but we weathered the squalls;

Your patience has always been saintly.


And now that old age palls,

our tiffs are recalled only faintly.


4.


We laugh at youth’s follies and know,

the beauty we had sought unaware;


It’s as wide as a calm river’s flow,

and as timeless as our years of care.





Art from Google





(Inspired by Wendy Cope’s poems ‘Bloody Men’ and ‘Flowers’)



Special thanks to Donald Webb of ‘Bewildering Stories’ for kindly editing this poem.




Art from Google

my recurring dream


my dream,

recurs,


delicious,

boundless, seamless,


one in which i am

allowed to savour,


lingering sensations,

quickening of the pulse,


the infinite pleasure,

of a few murmurs together,


profound,

intimate,

true,


for just as eternities may be lived in an instant,


i too may live a few lifetimes,


in a moment spent with you …




( dedicated to the countless souls who made the ultimate sacrifice in the war against Nazism and Fascism )



photograph from google

photograph from google





D-Day: France, June 6th, 1944.





1.




They were thrashed by the merciless sea.



They were drenched by the savage waters, their uniforms clinging to their shivering bodies.



They were mowed down as they approached the beaches of death.



The beaches of unspeakable horrors.



Gold.

Omaha.

Juno.

Sword.

Utah.



They were brothers and fathers and sons and friends and cousins and nephews and grandchildren and boys and men.




2.




They surged on, facing the metallic death of Nazism and Fascism,


they surged on and were cut into pieces of bloodied flesh and shattered bone,


yet they surged on.



They surged on so that we may live.



They surged on so that we may breathe the air of peace.



They surged on and on,



and on.




3.




Today their bones lie buried, along rows of crosses.


Today they lie beneath this earth.




4.




Today they live.


Tomorrow they shall live.


They who sacrificed their lives for humanity.



They shall live on eternally,


within us all!



photograph from google



( dedicated to the countless souls who made the ultimate sacrifice in the war against Nazism and Fascism )



photograph from google

art from google


seeking solace …





Bracing howling winds of fate, of love, 

enveloped by darkening clouded skies above,

what becomes of the heart that feels too much,

but desolate emptiness.


Merely traversing the daily grind,

fragile are the bonds, the ties that bind,


still hopeful, still searching,

for the solace that seems so hard to find.




bipolar blues

art from google






bipolar blues …



twisting minefields,

tearing neurons,

imploding with ferocious intent,

till synapses freeze,

numbly content.




I am rendered wasted, unfazed,


while the mind falters,
stagnating in puddles of highs and lows,


dumbed down, the mind ceases to gallop,

pulling the reins as every real thought –


S  L  O  W  S


– idle,
inured, pharmaceutically hazed,


all emotion stunted, razed,

floating,


aimlessly dazed …



art from google

L O V E

art by banksy




seeing you …



seeing you,

wraps my day in blanketed warmth,


seeing you,

feeds a hunger buried deep,


seeing you,

radiant in my dreams,


so close, so far,


scorches me, that burning furnace, an unquenchable desire,


the endless supernova of your ravenous fire …




art from google

Two Short Scribbles

art by banksy






Two Short Scribbles …



1.



nothing reaches,

the inner reaches,

of a heart,

that reaches too far.



2.



Alone, I rest.

In solitude, I breathe.

Alone at rest.

At last.





art from google

The Tears of Olives





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



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






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 …










schmaltzy mushy “it has got to rhyme” rhyme … 😊





Holding hands, we traversed the chasms of life,


hand in hand, through bleak times and strife,


holding each other in rain and in sunshine,


never letting go of your hand in mine.




We scour the earth for a peaceful place,


where bigotry does not bare its grotesque face,


and after all the years spent seeking,


we have found every nook and cranny where racism lies reeking.




All our desires, all of our dreams,


lie trapped in a gilded cage it seems,


still we search these lands for respite,


beyond the hate, despite the spite. 




How long will we have to walk these pathways,


seeking simple gentleness along life’s alleyways.




We find only intolerance and it’s poisoned dart,


and it seems that tolerance did long ago depart,


but we cannot be ever apart,


as we traverse these bumpy roads in our ricketty cart,


always,


always sharing the simple love of two souls merging as one whole part,


these are the truths we embrace forever more, in the deepest depths of each others heart …









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




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.




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