Tag Archive: #blog


Mushy Rhyme





mushy rhyme …




your love reaches high above, as into the heavens it transcends, lending me a hand to climb out of the abyss where my being often descends,


your love is a warmth that in my void inspires, coaxing me gently in those desolate moments when hopelessness transpires,


your love is a lighthouse that through the mist of life shines bright, a constant in the fog of my blindness, always a beacon of hopeful light,


your love dispels the vacuum of every encroaching night, as it wraps me in your cocoon, a shawl warm and tight,


your love sprinkles flourishes of gentle joy, in the numberless times of skewering pain,


tending to my wounded spirit, a calm balm massaging the hurt out from the cold slicing rain,


your love is a breath that reaches inside me, instilling my world with renewed hope,


as the endless hours of reality jab and sting, guiding me through the seasons in which I fear I cannot cope,


your all-encompassing love holds me so very close, as I stagger under the burdens of excruciating, back-breaking weight,


it is your love that finally relieves me, by unburdening the detritus of cruel fate,


your love permeates all around, as I breathe your gentleness through every pore,


filling me with a once unknown bliss, a special tenderness that I have never felt before,


your love sweeps away the agony of losing my sight, my failing eyes driving me to anger, bordering on the insane,


it is your love that leads me to see that in the desert of blindness, there still falls the healing rain that is a balm to my pain,


your love warms me with your whispers of a truthful ethereal peace,


murmuring words of solace that this ache shall also cease,


your love reaches down into the pit of my gloom, extending your ever-comforting hand,


as you lift me up, from the bowels of despair, so that on my feet I may again  stand,


your love rests deep, in the recesses of my injured soul, 


gathering the shattered pieces, making them once again, whole,


your love sates the furnace, this blazing cauldron of passion in which I burn,


filling my restless nights with dreams I once chose to spurn,


your love is a torch, a shining light that leads me back to our shared pathway,


far from the thorns that on the boulevards of diamonds casually lay,


your love is a precious gift, far too special, a truth I shall always endeavour to cherish,


always and forever,


a treasure that stays within me,


an intrinsic part of my life,


without which I shall no doubt perish …




















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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 …





Peace Dove art by Picasso




rhyming love and anti-bigotry scribble …



We lie on a bed, stung by many an intolerant thorn,

our love dismissed with bigoted scorn,

rattling the foundations of every societal norm.





We scaled the hateful walls of divisiveness,

we banished the boundaries of race,

of gender,
class,
tribalism,
ageism,

of religion and of creed,

we have walked hand in hand, upright and never cowering,

refusing to feed the beast of sectarianism,

of communalism.





We have refused to feed the weeds of hate,

we have ripped out the roots of fear that keep human beings apart,

we may be only two, our love hardly piercing the putrid flesh of discrimination,

or the smiling facade of accepted segregation.





We know our union is strong,

standing firm, however harsh the storms that batter us,

we have cast off the shackles that bind,

for true love like this, is truly far too rare to find.





Our path ahead may be beset with the bile of holier-than-thou judgment,

with the jabs of barbed words callously spoken,

yet our bond, our tethered connection is firm,

we shall not let hate shatter us, our love shall remain unbroken.





We tighten every strand, to keep our love buffered from the choppy oceans of racist fungal minds, who spew misogyny, blinded by their twisted notions,

while we grow ever closer, sharing the years of our love’s emotions.





So we walk tall, hand in hand, always standing firm,

finding solace in the overwhelming humaneness of the vast majority of our shared human race,

taking heart of the tide that must change,

as bigotry gets swept away,

allowing us all to share a common,

dignified,

free,

prejudice and racist-free world,

as we inch by inch, keep on the fight, to raise the flag of hope,

so we may all bask in its comforting shade,

as it is, at long last,

unfurled …







the beauty in you …




My eyes have travelled across oceans, beyond valleys and peaks, across the vast savannah and swirling in murmuring streams,


my eyes have travelled far and wide in many kaleidoscopic dreams,


my eyes have travelled here and there, and through places in between, yet your beauty remains a constant, skipping off the most radiant sunbeams.




I have felt the touch, the wild deluge of the monsoons, drenching me in its cleansing rain,


I have felt the touch, of moonlight cocooning me, a soothing veneer, that has kept me sane,


I have felt the touch, of your body, your lips, your being a healing presence, your unspoken words a melodic refrain.




You come to me in moments alone, when this world seems empty, a chalice brimming with tears,


you come to me in moments dark, your delicate whispers banishing away all my dreadful fears,


you come to me in moments of splintered thoughts, your wondrous self offering shade from the scorching sun that sears.




The beauty in you lends a lifeline to me, dispelling my mute vacuum, raising me from life’s empty hole,


the beauty in you douses the flames of my self-immolating fire, breathing life into me to once more be whole,


the beauty in you is a sublime truth, a truth of love and of belonging, a truth that has firmly taken root, in my once barren soul.



art by banksy





lost echoes of our love …




In the garbage heap of torn dreams,


long doused embers now cold and dead,


lie festering wounds, choked by dread.




Lost echoes,


whip up raw wounds, tearing at the scabs excruciatingly slow,


flayed by dimmed memories of long ago,


twisted, mangled emotions in our garden where flowers no longer grow.




Lost echoes,


creeping along life’s blade,


skewered sunlight condemned to the bleakness of the shade,


leaving a cowering form, torn apart, and afraid.




Lost echoes,


brewed in a chalice of once sprinkled kisses,


simmering on the furnace of burnt out wishes,


separated by deep crevasses, slipping into today’s yawning fissures.




Lost echoes,


now mere incomprehensible trashed thought,


charred, stuttering, a love reduced to absolute nought,


in life’s bazaar, where love is not love, but a commodity to be haggled over and bought.




Lost echoes,


dimming, dragged down bleak alleyways of curdled hate,


blinded by destiny, all hope lost to the tick-tocking clock of fate,


knowing now that it is all much too late.




Lost echoes,


unfeeling, just numb streaming tears,


burdened by the hopeless detritus, of far away splintered fears,


our shells, this life we carry, into the crowd as engulfing flames sears,


while we stumble,

while we fall through the cracks, as agony chuckles and leers,


at the hopelessness of all these days and months of the passing years …




art by banksy




just talking life  …




walking through the thicket, nettles stinging our hearts,



ever on the lookout for pathways of promise, yet forever treading the beaten track.



the hands of fickle time, jabbing these bodies, our shells to continue on ahead,



passing myriad alleyways of beckoning promise, a different course to chart alone,



though thorns dig deep, we persist, blindly trudging this dreary old way,



study hard, work harder, get married, have kids, buy a house, pay off the mortgage, babysit the grandchildren, develop illnesses, totter unsteadily on walkers, lay bound to our beds,



the well-travelled alleyways so many stumble through – over and over, and over again,



staying on the narrows, not going against the grain, banishing the murmurs, that whisper in our ears, to take a chance, to veer off the road, to stray down a more twisting thicket,



into an unknown realm, of dangers that may litter this course, of the light of hope that may shine in the dark,



oblivious of dragons that may lie in wait, hugging the shawls of comfort zones, soon to tattered by time and fate, to be left in the open, to brace the elements,



the same howling winds of that other well-trodden way, stung by similar twists and tragedies, tripping and falling, finding love perhaps, another one who has chosen to swim the streams alone,



we may lose our footing, sliding down slippery slopes,



but with a raging fire of hope, burning deep inside, knowing this has been our unique journey, far from the well-worn shoes of that other life,



stepping ever onwards one tiny inch at a time,



beholding beauty not even known,



tasting the sweet nectar of something new,



swimming the seas of uncharted waters,



thrashed by deafening winds,



tossed around by slashing waves,



till in the distance, we spot land,



and as the tides wash us ashore, we drift into fatigued sleep,



awakening to the soft chirping of the birds,



surrounded by swaying palm trees,



the hues of nature so vivid, the feelings in our soul so true,



as we feel talcum sands beneath our feet,



hearing the familiar music of life,



the sounds of the living surrounding us,



as we find this new abode teeming with life,



a world of peace we have at last found,



as we disappear into the sunset of a new day,



with the countless others,



who also chose this other way …






she who is free



she who is free …



I would have called out to her, across the the green fields she walked,

her silhouette fading in the distance.




I would have called out to her,

she who walked her own path now,

free from all the weight that caged her will.




I would have called out to her,

yet I remained still. 




what she said

she said that she had seen them all.


the promise-makers, the vow and oath-takers, the silken tongued smooth talkers, the quiet intense brooders.


she asked me if I could love her. truly love her.


I said that I would spend our lives trying.


it’s enough‘, she said.



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

art from google







The Shade of the Baobab …





The wandering soul rests,


under a Baobab tree that offers sanctuary,


as the South African sun,


burns copper red.




The wanderer gives thanks to the ancestors,


a moment of respite from the unending journey,


sifting through the dust,


divining the road ahead,


a time to reflect,


on miles lost through the sieve of time,


on paths that have yet to be tread …



art from google

tribute to my mother

reunion after 27 years






for my mother, Zubeida Moolla 1934 – 2008.

(dedicated to exiles, refugees, and the brave South Africans who struggled against Apartheid tyranny within South Africa)




meeting after 27 years




My mother passed away after a lengthy battle with Motor-Neurone Disease, also called ALS.


This poem is also dedicated to all the brave souls who are courageously battling illnesses and terminal diseases, and to the families and those dearest to them who are taking care of their loved ones.

May we always salute them and their families’ courage in the face of indescribably hard circumstances






I remember the tears she shed,

as she longed for her distant abode,

she wept often then, as she pined for her children, Tasneem & Azad,

and felt the future looked bleak, on that dim, lonely road.



I remember the tears she shed,

when that telegram came one afternoon,

‘regret to inform you stop father passed away stop’,

She wept often after that, for their last goodbye had been said too soon.



I remember the tears she shed,

on that glorious day in a February not that long ago,

when the prisoner finally walked out, breathing the free air,

she wept less after that, for then she knew where they were to go.



I remember the tears she shed,

soaring high above the clouds heading back to her land,

those tears came out in soft sobs, but her eyes were smiling,

defiant and full of new hope, as she held tightly on to his wrinkled hand.



I remember the tears she shed,

some years later, on that peaceful late April morning,

when she stood and proudly bore the ink on her aging thumb,

she wept a lot that April evening, knowing that a new day was dawning.



I also remember that on a Thursday not long ago,

as she was slipping away slowly, she seemed not to weep,

after all the miles and places, and after all the tears that she had cried,

I remember that she wept little then, as she drifted off into an eternal sleep.



(for my mother, Zubeida Moolla 1934 – 2008)




my mother and father

meeting comrade Nelson Mandela Johannesburg 2008

my father and comrade Nelson Mandela Johannesburg 1950s

my father with his comrade and friend Nelson Mandela




https://afzalmoolla.wordpress.com/2018/02/11/my-family-a-journey-through-the-years/



with late comrade Winnie Mandela talking about my mum and their friendship

courtesy of the Nelson Mandela Foundation

unashamed love 

unashamed love …



tongue-tied,

you said i was a lush,

intoxicated by you was i,


but instead i lied,

calling you my pineapple crush,


when all along i was afflicted, addicted,


with nowhere left to hide, adrift in the swirling sea of your love, and though,


time flies,

i still feel that rush,

gazing into the ocean of your eyes,


reducing me still,

today,

into an unabashed lush,

so forgive me this scribble,

this ode to you,

and all this unashamed mush …




our love

art from google





She smiled, looking at the sky,


her hair flowing like a meandering stream,


her face the soft petals of many a dream.




She smiled, looking at me,


let’s walk this earth a bit, you and I“,


I was quiet,


nodding as we both looked up,


as candyfloss clouds whispered by.




yes“, I said, “let us walk together“.




We walk hand in hand  still,


sharing a companionship that blossomed long ago,


by sharing the peace, the freedom, the bonds of love,


blanketing us like a shawl, from the heavens above.


My loveliness



quote from google



My loveliness waits,

through decades of lost haste,

through trials and grief,

peaceful days and dire straits,

my loveliness waits.


I wait,

through decades past,

for kisses meant to last,

i wait,

to hold my loveliness,

in these lonesome arms,

i wait,

transcending lust,

overcoming desire,

i wait,


to be burnt to ash,

in the furnace of her raging fire …


art from google


passion




art from google







 … missing

      the taste,

               

          lips

     brushing

          lips,


scribbling odes,


       fingertips

        drizzling

        scribbles,

                

on bare skin:


my muse,

                you,


           eternally

               you,


         my muse,

             

         a constant,


       inescapably

            hewn,


             into

        the fabric

       of my soul,


        evergreen,


       entwined as one …

 


          
 

quote from google



Love, Mania, and Verse




Love, Mania, and Verse …




The pendulum swings,

while the mania in my head,

strips me bare and yanks me,

into the cauldron of love.


Once again,

never divining the tea leaves,

knowing, always knowing,

the gnawing knots of unease,

that curl into a fist.


My isolation is a shield,

a suit of armour,

tightly clad around my self,

once worn,

then discarded,

taking its place on my barren shelf.


Love, mania, and verse,

coalesce, beseeching me,

with timeous forewarning,

not to tread into the quicksand,

that slippery bog of promise.


Yet,


in times past,

in moments present,

tis’ that very promise,

that I cling to.

At times I lose myself in the crowd,

revelling in the solitude found there,

at times I claw my way back to the now,

aching for the pain that stings,

the buried voice that sings,

dirges to forgotten emotions,

scribbled verse that flings,

the toys out of my cot,

while I wait,

for the mania to stop,


knowing,


always knowing,

that it shall be,

merely a matter of time,

before the other shoe,

must, as always, 

drop.







the years and our love …






years disappear, wisps of time consume moments,

even as tears streak down in the rain,

yet these true emotions remain,

in tune,


our heartbeats in symphonic harmony,

rises forever more,

a crescendo impossible to contain,


for our love like interwoven melodies,

soars,



eternally sharing a common refrain …




photograph from google




the girl with the beret at the bus stop …





I saw her at the bus stop, on a bitterly cold winter morning, her beret tilted to the side.


We exchanged polite smiles and furtive glances, till along came our ride.


We sat across each other and soon we spoke, breaking the ice, with talk of the chills battering our bones, as we shared sandwiches, for each other just a slice.


We spoke of the coldness around us, the frigid souls we encountered, we spoke of life’s pathways and where we hoped we were headed, as we confessed, what we feared most, was the banality of a life we so fiercely dreaded.


Thus began our short morning ritual, a bus ride with a stranger, not knowing anything except our names, our conversations so true they scorched like roaring flames.


We often laughed about the funny stuff we experienced, about the weight we felt we had to carry, the seemingly heavy burdens wracking us, all these chats, drowned out at times, to the soundtrack of the squealing brakes of our bus.


Our talks were blisteringly true, as happens at times with strangers, yet we opened ourselves up to each other, trusting the depths in our eyes, feeling a kinship, that logic defies.


We spoke of earning a wage, paying the bills, discarding the frills, we spent what felt like hours in those short-haul trips, baring our truths honest and deep, feeling for once, the harsh shadows of daily life retreat.


She was to me the girl with the beret, fierce yet gentle, knowing so much and still wanting to know, as was I on those mornings so long ago.


We spoke of lovers lost, of lost loves, of our ache for something tangible, something less gaudy, something more true, a mirage always just out of view.


I showed her my scars, she showed me hers, a lifetime of half-promises built on mounds of dust, we spoke of escape, into each others dreamscapes, even as all around us our world was covered in rust.


There was nothing about us but truth, nothing but a truth distilled, an understanding that someone out there in this cold world understood, far from the slicing of all the threatening grudges, we knew, our sharing was beyond all that, as we often in complete silence sat.


Our conversations churned into the butter of each morning, easing the coming day, and we smiled knowing that one else knew us, no one could ever relate, even as we were innocently oblivious of the often cruel hands of fate.


Her eyes danced with a fire, when sharing her insanity, and she said my eyes raged as well, embracing the craziness of it all, the two of us ever mindful, of the ache that did in each other dwell.


Then came that fateful day when she was there no more, and I felt the icy chills deep in my bare bones, feeling a vacuum I did not know my life could ever fill, a random friendship so tightly bound, that decades would pass till a friendship as profound as that was found.


I often thought of her, at another bus-stop, her beret tilted just slight, waiting for her ride in the morning air, feeling that we somehow remained connected, heart to heart, in a way impossible to articulate, for it was us, just us, with whom we felt we could only ever relate.


I think of her often, my friend on the bus all those years ago, sharing parts of our life, profound and without judgemental fears, through moments of agony, and through the smiles and the tears.


I must confess that to this day, whenever I pass a bus stop, I glance at it even as I know,


I shall not see that girl in the beret,

from so many years and lives ago …




( inspired by “The Boss” Bruce Springsteen’s “Bobby Jean” from the album ‘Born in the USA)


(also inspired by “Raspberry Beret” by Prince)



photograph from google

l o v e





art from google


L   O   V   E  . . .



Your breath reaches me, banishing the gulf between you and I,


across the oceans, so near we could be together in the blink of an eye.



Your fragrance swirls its way to me, across the distance between you and I,


thousands of miles traversed, sharing our own carpetted sky.



Your gentle caresses stroke my emotions, sweeping away the minutes that separate you and I,


our hearts meeting, beating in rhythm, in tune with the solitary nightingale, who for its mate does solemnly cry.



My entire being reaches out to envelope you, in this wondrous cocoon of love, shared by you and I,


breaking the barriers that stone walls can never contain, however daunting, however high.  



art from google



The Light Shines …


A beacon for revolutionary and real change,

a torch dispelling the narrowness of prejudice.


The light shines.

A permanent flame in the quest for universal human dignity,

an eternal sentinel against the comforts of embraced apathy,

The light shines, brightly,

today.


The light shall shine,

in your heart and mine.


The light shall shine,

tomorrow, and for all time …









with President Nelson Mandela, Johannesburg 2008 – from right: my father, President Nelson Mandela, myself

my father with Nelson Mandela – Johannesburg 1950s



https://afzalmoolla.wordpress.com/2018/02/11/my-family-a-journey-through-the-years/



Apartheid South Africa

Apartheid South Africa




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!







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.






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