when death comes calling,
slipping effortlessly to rest by my side,
i will not flee, i will not try to hide,
i will not seek to scurry away,
i will embrace the dying of the day,
i will not cling to each breath,
i will not cower before death,
i will not try to escape it’s grip,
i will not steady myself as i slip,
for i know my betrayals well,
and i will have no more lies to tell,
so when death comes calling,
i will wade into the dark incoming tide,
for i am far too tired to continue to hide.
.
.
.
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!
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Why I support Liverpool Football Club …
.
.
.
1. Bill Shankly and the socialist ideal.
.
.
.
2. John Lennon.
.
.
.
3. Roger Waters.
.
.
.
art from google
.
.
.
Less lonely …
.
.
.
Walking through this void, this callous vacuum of life,
feeling the splintered sleet pummelling me, each fracture a slow twisting of the knife.
Walking through this shell, this indifferent chasm of loneliness,
all that I wish for,
all that yearn for,
all that I desire,
is to be less lonely.
Just less lonely.
art from google
the fear is palpable, sweaty, reeking, stagnant, primal.
the spectre of thermonuclear war, the ravenous vultures circling overhead.
all at the switch of a button.
infantile lunatics at the ready, exchanging taunts, rotten school yard bullies,
while the rest of us, the people, forced to hear the terrorising drivel and spewed vitriol of ad libbed threats,
of the hubris of dictators, whose people starve,
engaged in their machismo, their infantile game, their egos puffed and swaggering, their testosterone fuelled male ugliness putting on an obscene, murderous show.
they have rested easy, ensconced in their grotesque wealth, cocooned and coddled, while countless souls sleep hungry and wanting, while numberless souls slog for minimum wage.
these men are unspeakably dangerous, unhinged, seeing this world of ours as their fiefdom, devoid of humanity, brimming with twisted, smug arrogance.
we the people, can not, should not, and must not sit silent, lest we be complicit by being mute.
we the people, can not, should not, and must not allow our indignation to be squashed.
we the people, have for far too long, been battered blue by the actions of such men, always men, who have rained death and destitution and destruction upon millions.
we the people, can not, should not, and will not, sit quietly on the sidelines, as these men attempt to lead us to the precipice, the brink of horrific suffering for our fellow human beings.
we the people, can not, should not, and will not allow our voices to be hushed, our collective outrage to be beaten down,
for we are now in the deep, murky waters of hate,
and unless we rise as one,
we doom ourselves to choke, gag, and drown.
I remember her beret,
on that rainy day at the bus-stop,
she said that she had grown tired of the pretences this world demanded,
we spoke of Marx and she smiled, for I was much younger then, wearing it all on my sleeve,
she smiled, and we spoke till she had to leave.
we met at that bus-stop many times more,
sharing our laughter, our pain, of the knots that cut deep into our core,
she always wore her beret and she was fierce, brave and steadfastly traversing the murky waters of being a wage-slave,
we promised each other we wouldn’t be like the rest, not even in our grave,
ah but that was many moons back, when life was starkly coloured white and black,
I wonder where she could be now, and I hope she is as she was back then,
when everything wasn’t just about love and light and being zen,
I wonder too were we to perchance meet, would she pull me close out of the grime stained street,
or would she walk on by, leaving me to my own devices,
after decades of being whittled down, after making all the right choices … … …
on your skin, scribbling odes to love,
angry, lost, empty,
raucous, pristine, encompassing love.
on my heart, scribbled odes embossed, etched, engraved,
yearning, pining, aching,
for you … … …
destiny
fate
somewhere
someplace
alfoat on honeydew petals
mere strands
filaments
years trickling through
fingertips
lost whispers
dreamed caresses
awake
alive …
smouldering
ablaze in the cauldron
of
destiny
fate
of convergent wisps
sprinkling kisses
on your
honeydew lips
breathless, laboured
tortured
each breath
swallowed
greedily gulping gasping
each breath
stolen
without you
your fingers
mine
sketching dreams
scribbling hopes
my fingers
yours
holding back
resistant
knowing the path ahead
littered with thorns
oblivious
knowing
the path ahead must be walked
alone at times
but never lonely
not with you by my side
evoking a belonging felt true and deep
inside
these interwoven veins
dna
double-helixed
microscopically
binding
me
you
us
all
through
this common
shared
truth:
‘I am because you are’*
all of us
together
as one
me
you …
… uBuntu*
* – uBuntu is an isiXhosa/isiZulu concept that espouses the “belief in a universal bond of sharing that connects all humanity”
a beach of solace
the lapping waves
tickling our bare toes
softly powdered sand caressing our feet
a carpet of palms
waltzing in the breeze
imagine …
you
i
setting sail on distant seas
far
far
away
bidding adieu to the emptiness of yesterday
sharing each other
knowing that your
smile
stays with me
within me
through
tomorrows we have still to see
sharing
our slice of peace
through
laughter
tears
through
joy
fears
to
bloom in earthy hues
when thunderstorms pass
blossoming into fiery scarlet
kneading away
our hollow suburban blues …
for ’tis in your smile
that my mirth resides
imagine …
your head on my shoulder
ready to face all
oncoming tides
imagine …
misty tears fall on splintered parchment
history simmers
the shackles of centuries cast off
the chains of oppression shattered
embracing new horizons
dawning
and
trusting once again
in that unfinished dream
of less famished tomorrows
scribbling verses
on her bare back
my fingers
rhyming
each flourish a caress
etching odes to hope
across the canvas
of her warm skin …
her breath
inflamed
seeking
fingertips
lips
sashaying in the evening breeze
dancing free
abandoning trepidation
what do i know
as
fingers flutter
over undulating peaks
valleys …
softly
gently
as soul meets soul
she who is
half of my whole
she who remains
my perennial
meditation
…
straining to hear
the thud-thudding of your heart
amidst this cacophonous crowd.
so
i close my eyes
and
i see you
floating on clouds
unfettered
free to just be
your wings spread proud
unclipped
skipping
hopping
across sunbeams
sketching your open sky
bathed in
colours vivid
alive
fiery
earthy
warm
fierce
gentle
each
brush stroke
infused with hues
from
the palette of your dreams …
Parched lullabies seem jarring,
gentle persuasion an assault,
quiet understanding reeking of decay,
fatigued under this skin in which I must stay.
Dreams of moulting,
shedding the hubris of crafty words,
flushing away all famished rhymes,
ripping the fibres of an ink-stained past.
Knowing.
Always knowing,
that honey-soaked kisses, seem destined,
breathlessly,
never to last
Embers fade,
disappearing into the hushed night …
Petals wither,
falling on the soft grass …
Words pale,
obscured by the anguish within …
Faces blur,
dimmed by the galloping years …
Kisses lose,
the urgency of those bygone depths …
Feelings recede,
lying dormant in shielded vaults …
Love loses,
fatigued after numberless skirmishes …
Pain flees,
seeking new wounds to inflict …
Scars remain,
sentinels against,
the dilution of memory … … …
why, they ask her,
why him?
she always says the
day we met
and spoke
and laughed
she felt
all she needed to be was herself
William Dalrymple, author of ‘City of Djinns’ inscribed my copy.
Inscription reads “from an adopted Dilliwaala to Afzal, a real one”
😊
✌
👍
✊
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
my starved eyes, aching for a glimpse of your smile, ready to beguile, their thirst quenched, seeking simple joys, not million dollar toys, finally, coaxed the ocean of your eyes, to reveal the kernel of truth beneath the veneer of lies, so love me now, today, where fractured dreams are made whole by the sea spray, plunging deeper into the ocean shimmering in your eyes, hoping we may breathe, like the terror of time, high on up into blue skies, where love roams unshackled, in that ocean so deep,
in your beautiful eyes … … …
An imprint of you remains,
mingled in the blood racing through my veins,
hewn into my flesh you stay,
a chiselled tattoo from our long-lost yesterday,
deeply branded by your entire being,
rooted to a memory incapable of fleeing,
torn, and twisting inside my skin,
the pain screeches like jangling cans of tin,
a desolate nightmare this agony feels,
with a phantom whiff of your sweet breath my soul reels,
now that you are gone, lost within a labyrinth of illusions,
your voice swarms inside my desperate delusions,
scratching, clawing layers of past moments spent with you,
you are a part of me, an unfaded, vivid tattoo,
and as my dreams of you frantically race,
I am unable to erase,
the blazing picture of your exquisite face,
so let me be, and leave me to burn in this furnace of my hell,
I should have known better,
but all that matters little,
because it was for you, that I fell
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,
gaza too.
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 … …
talkin’ nugget-o-gold blues … …
stolen glances,
hearts aflame,
oblivious, blind,
reaching out,
yearning,
aching for,
not much,
but everything,
everything human,
not much,
but everything human,
eyes meeting eyes,
the furnace of your being,
form,
body,
your breath scorching me,
desire like tinder,
an oasis in this desert,
of my life,
of,
smiles, tears,
pain, fears,
sorrow,
joy, happiness,
strife,
ah, but you see,
where you are,
right now, presently,
is where i saw you last,
in dreamy waves of wishes long past,
yet, still alive,
breathing,
living today, now … …
… … so may i join you,
and all that i know to be true,
cloaked beneath monsoon skies,
to share,
to quench roaring flames,
of need,
want,
biddin’ adieu to yesterdays shames,
singin’ these blues into our shared night,
alone,
together,
passionate,
intense, never dense,
and all that jazz,
though oftentimes,
laying it all bare,
real,
devoid of frills,
of candy confetti-meaningless razzmatazz … …
memories of Ma …
bygone yesterdays
ploughing through
wisps of time
rekindle memories
of days now long gone
of evenings filled with birdsong
my Ma calling me home
for warm roti
cardamom chai
( sigh )
wordlessness …
shards of everyday life
slice through
cleaving
flesh
splintering
bone
battering the ramparts
chiselling away
incessantly
endlessly
shaving off pieces
bit by bit
tearing muscle
frying synapses
charring hope
with
only the
inevitability of endlessness
the tide of desolation
washing in
soaking dreams in diesel
fueling storms that rage within
deep
inside yourself
where there is only you
where all the pain
all the loss
feels
at least
true
alive …
lashed against jagged truths
plumbing the depths of hollow emotions
straining to hear
your voice calling me back
aching to taste
your breath scalding my lips
pining to feel
forgotten whispers murmured
swirling around
the rapids
gasping for air
nursing a simple dream
nothing grandiose
to feel
once more
alive.
alive …
the sapling that took root,
enmeshed in the sweat-soaked gulag of kisses & pain,
silence & self-pity,
will grow to be a tree,
rising above the prejudices of men,
higher & higher,
to that point when looking down,
humans all look the same.
and so …
I stretch out my arm,
my thumb defiant in the oppressive air,
& as I bid you an almondsweet adieu,
I hold you close,
whispering these words:
so long, my friend,
& stay well,
& know that I shall be counting down the days to how & to when,
I will see you here …
peace | love | uBuntu
war …
long after the guns fall silent,
when all the debris is swept away,
and blood-stained streets get hosed down,
will we once more say,
‘never again’ …
again,
&
again
&
again …
For Dr Maya Angelou
(1928 – 2014)
Vanquished by the day one may be,
Beaten down by the barren night.
Faltering at times,
at times upright.
Still one stands.
One still fights.
For though one falls,
One must rise*
*this scribble of mine was inspired by the poem ‘Still I Rise’ by Maya Angelou
Madiba.
( 1918 – 2013 )
Madiba, you are resting now.
Madiba, you have joined the ancestors.
Madiba, you are with your comrades.
Madiba, you are with us.
Madiba, you are within us.
Madiba, you live!
Madiba lives!
He lives!
He lives!
He lives…
South Africa: Freedom Day April 27 2013
1.
On the 27th day of April in Nineteen Ninety-Four,
Freedom was won, at long last.
The battles were many, the foe brutal,
Apartheid tore our southern tip of the continent of Africa apart,
it’s notions of racial-superiority,
its religious fundamentalism,
its fascist tendencies,
its beastly nature,
ripped the flesh off the skin of our collective selves,
but resistance to tyranny has always been a basic human aspiration,
and so resistance flourished.
2.
Ordinary folk,
school-teachers and machinists,
nurses and poets,
labourers and engineers,
lawyers and students,
resisted!
We remember you today,
as a copper African sun shines bright this Saturday morning in April of Two-Thousand and Thirteen,
we honour you, who fought,
Comrades all –
Walter Sisulu,
Nelson Mandela,
Joe Slovo,
Ahmed Kathrada,
Bram Fischer,
Steve Biko,
Solomon Mahlangu,
Vuyisile Mini,
Denis Goldberg,
and many many more,
those we know and love,
and those whose bones have now settled in our rich African soil,
those who died,
those who were executed,
those who were shot,
those who were tortured,
those who were killed,
and the countless who are still tortured today by the swords of memory,
the emotional and psychological torture,
that still rains down on the valiant ones and their families.
Families!
Families fractured, broken and scattered throughout the world,
fragments of a sister’s laugh, a daughter’s smile,
bite as harshly into the soul as did Apartheid’s cruel lashes of violence.
So many died, too many died,
and I remember them,
Dulcie September – Assassinated in Paris
Steve Biko – Tortured and Murdered in South Africa
Solomon Mahlangu – Hanged by the Apartheid State
Ahmed Timol – Tortured and Murdered
Bram Fischer – Died in Prison
Hector Petersen – Shot in Soweto ’76
David Webster – Killed
and many many more,
their blood flowing into the soil of our ancestors,
our country, our South Africa,
for all South Africans,
Black and white and brown and all the shades of humanity’s mosaic.
3.
Now we reflect,
now we must dissect,
the fruits of freedom,
thus far,
much has been achieved,
yet,
the struggles continue,
for employment,
health-care for all,
shelter and housing for all,
and my compatriots have earned it,
they have stewed in the mines,
deep beneath the soil,
for shiny metals and glittering glass.
The revolution is a work-in-progress,
true liberation shall be economic liberation,
where each and every South African,
can walk the land of our ancestors,
truly free.
We SHALL overcome!
Amandla!
Mayibuye-i-Afrika!
The Struggles Continue, Comrades…
Mido Macia 1986 – 2013
Mido Macia was a 27 year old Mozambican man, working in Daveyton near Johannesburg as a taxi-driver, who was found dead in a police cell, after police savagely dragged Mr. Macia whom they had tied to their police van.
The brutal incident of Mr. Macia being dragged was caught on camera and has shocked South Africa.
The 8 police officers involved are facing charges of murder, and have been suspended from the South African Police Service (SAPS).
This poem is an angry poem that I felt had to be written, because as a society, we need to ask ourselves and each other the hardest questions about xenophobia and intolerance and violence.
Mido Macia 1986 – 2013
Death came to Mido Macia,
a savage, brutal, hellish death came to Mido Macia.
Death came to Mido Macia,
death dressed-up in the colours of authority,
as callous, vile, sadistic policemen murdered Mido Macia.
The video-footage is blood-curdling,
Mido Macia being dragged,
his hands tied behind him,
to a police van.
But death came later to Mido Macia,
death cheered, clapped, and tore into Mido Macia.
Death came to Mido Macia,
in the cells where they murdered Mido Macia.
Death came to Mido Macia,
a fuelled, cheered-on, instigated death came to Mido Macia.
We are all culpable,
every one of us is culpable,
from racist ‘jokes’ emailed and texted,
to self-righteous comments about the ‘foreigners’,
from casual dinner-table conversations,
‘they take our jobs’,
‘they are crooks’
the ‘they marry our women’ kind of lunch-time chats,
racist, xenophobic, hate-filled talk,
to beating a human-being to death in a police cell,
or on the streets of Cape Town, Johannesburg ,
and in Daveyton,
where death came to Mido Macia.
Mido Macia 1986 – 2013
The Dilution of Memory…
Embers fade,
disappearing into the hushed night…
Petals wither,
falling on the soft grass…
Words pale,
obscured by the anguish within…
Faces blur,
dimmed by the galloping years…
Kisses lose,
the urgency of those bygone depths…
Feelings recede,
lying dormant in shielded vaults…
Love loses,
fatigued after numberless skirmishes…
Pain flees,
seeking new wounds to inflict…
Scars remain,
sentinels against,
the dilution of memory.
She was no more than 10 years of age.
He could have been a grandfather.
Young, old, women, girls, men, boys.
108 lives.
Now they are buried,
in hurriedly dug graves,
on the plains of Houla.
Killed by knives,
shot at point-blank range,
slaughtered, mowed-down.
108 lives.
Snuffed-out. Decimated. Taken-out.
108 lives.
As Damascus lies blatantly,
spewing forth untruth,
108 warm, dead bodies,
remain buried,
in hurriedly dug graves,
on the plains of Houla.
108 lives
Scribbled Verse 
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