Tag Archive: LGBT


The rains over Jo’burg



The rains over Jo’burg …


The parched African earth soaks up the liquid offering from the heavens,

birds sing, ululate,

a chorus of catharsis flows through the barren land,

merging into a symphony of renewal.



The rains pour down,

transcending dry tinder of yesterday,

chasing insipid moments away,

drowning in a cacophony of jubilant life.



Life that rumbles,

streaming down desolate alleyways like meandering tears of joy,

drenching this mad, wonderful, insane, bubbling city of gold,

this Jozi, our eGoli, thirsting for nectar from the skies above.



Moments of undistilled mirth,

herald the arrival of spring,

a triumphant rebirth,

jubilant,

ecstatic,

as the Gods of Africa, the spirits of the ancestors,

smile down upon us.



We of flesh and of blood, of muscle and of bone,

thawing our hearts from frozen winter cold as stone,

infusing hope,

as the fragrance of rain on dry soil sketches rainbows,

seeking respite behind heaving clouds of charcoal grey,

the rains banishing winter chills away,

while graciously welcoming spring to stay.



The rains over Jo’Burg cleanse leaves on trees,

rinsing the detritus that listlessly hung,

dry and scorched by the merciless winter sun.


But today,

there are songs to be sung.


Today I am with the heavens,

no longer a mishmash of fragments,

and as our city breathes, purified by bounteous, rejuvenating rain:

I am whole,

once again …




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they do not see me at all



they do not see me at all …


1.


They do not see me at all,

as I walk through these desecrated avenues,

of soul-deadening frenzy.


I see them rushing past me,

and no matter how hard I holler and call,

they do not see me at all.


It seems at times, that invisible am I,

for when I reach out, and shriek,

when on my knees I crawl,

they rush past me,

for they do not see me at all.


I have tried to raise their ire,

I have taunted and goaded them,

till exhausted and fatigued,

to the cold damp ground I fall,

still they rush past me,

for they do not see me at all.


I stand mutely,

waving my hands all around while scribbling verses in my unintelligible scrawl,

still they rush past me,

for they do not see me at all.


They rush past me, knocking me over without ever looking back,

trampling over my fallen form,

they look past my limp crumpled shadow,

as they whine on in their monotonous drawl,

and they still do not see me at all.


2.


When they look my way,

flickers of recognition crossing their faces,

I crawl back into my nothingness,

cocooned as the day begins to pall,

hoping, tired and broken,

to be back in the space,

where they cannot see me at all …







the subtle constant of mathematics …




Rigorous proof.

Simple.

Constant.

Real.


Not this implausible charade, this illogical masquerade.


All our perambulations,

wasted wordy navigations,

our tottering,

our swaying,

our constant greed,

to believe,

clinging onto inexplicable human need:


The belief in fantasy,

fantasy as staple nutrition,

upon which our common illusions feed.





We will weather the storms of fate, we will face the winds of life, together“, she said.


There was nothing for me to opine.



So I took her hand in mine.






no more wasted moments …



No more wasted moments,

strewn like salt across the wound.


No more wasted moments,

discarded as empty specks of trust.


No more wasted moments,

in dire need of thorough shredding.


No more wasted moments,

far too many of them to count.


No more wasted moments,

spent on wretched emotions left to dry.


No more wasted moments,

reeking of the stench of rotten feelings.


No more wasted moments,

coarse and vulgar and mutely violent,

no more wasted moments,

spent on the vile disregard of the silent.


No more wasted moments,

grasping each moment with a trust anew,

no more wasted moments,

embracing each moment for it to be true.






I’ve walked many a mile, alone, desolate, aimless“, I said.


not anymore“, she said with a smile,


we have found each other, even though it may have taken a long while“.




art by Pablo Picasso



100% total schmaltzy mushiness 😁 …




She knows she has my heart in her palm, she knows she is my life’s soothing balm.


She knows she lives deep in my heart, she knows we cannot imagine being apart.


She knows her love is my shining light, she knows she blazes within me bright.


She knows all of this and more, 

she knows neither of us have felt a love so pure …


😁😎😊




Nature at Peace …



Settling on a branch, the solitary bird sings of its desolate pain,

the leaves of the tree shielding the bird from the jabbing rain,

the delicate branch straining to bear the weight of the bird,

while all across the savanna, on countless branches, the echoes of plaintive birdsong can be heard …


… offering respite to the weary, rest for the weak, relief to those seeking a momentary escape from the scorching day,

the trees, sharing their bounteous shade, sweep the detritus of the day away …


… all of nature, in harmonious rhythm,

as gentle night embraces the savanna,

soothing all in a pristine feeling of ease,

as all of nature finds succour,

in the safe cocoon of nature’s comforting peace …








you have become my all.


my everything.


your love raging through my veins,


warming me during these desolate nights of piercing, stinging rains.




you are my all.

my eternal flame,


a constant beacon, drawing me ever closer,


sheathed in the glorious sunshine of your love,


a precious gift, bequeathed unto me by the generous heavens above.




you are my all.


my everything.




you are the radiant brilliance of a flowering rose,


your fragrance filling my being, merging as one with my soul,


as our hearts seek each others,


aching to be closer than just close.




your essence is soaked within my every pore,


i have never felt a love like this before.




so allow me to thank you for loving me so completely,


your blazing furnace scorching me,


as i have bathed in the ocean of your pure love,


a love so rare in this cruel time and empty place,


yet i am made whole,


as my hands caress the soft, gentle, beauty of your exquisite face.




you are my all.

you are my life.




you embrace me, as I do you,


shielding each other from the pain, the cold, the strife.




you have picked me up whenever i have stumbled,


as i continue to vow to do,


always lending you a hand,


as the wrinkles on our faces grow deeper, and as the years pall,


i will be by your side,


each time you slip,

and every time you fall … 





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 …


























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

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