“Petals of love” by Marisa R Ng – Artwork from Google
may soft petals caress your being …
… may gentle shoulders share your burdens.
may warm sunshine reach the innermost recesses of your thud-thudding heart
may these words
offer
solace
comfort
when hope
seems vacant
an empty space
hollow
cold
yet safe
in moments like those
is when
i
hope
you
know
there’s always the promise of a less harsh tomorrow …
“Petite Petals V” by Konstantin Savchenko – Artwork from Google
love if you dare …
warm of heart, yes indeed,
luscious sparkling eyes, so difficult to read,
tender, kind, a generosity of spirit radiating gentle care towards species fragile,
with a dryness of humour that will forever make you smile,
almost impossibly irresistible,
elegant, classy, beautiful, attractive, sexy, sensually alluring, and oh so much more,
with wild beauty,
from the sunkissed beaches of Mandela bay, wind-swept Havana way,
sweltering nights of Polokwane far away,
this whole wide world and more:
that’s enough – geography can be a bore.
Now this person you most certainly know,
like an ocean of desire that perennially shall flow,
the mystery is before you, dear friend, so good luck to you all,
may your sherlockian deduction not hit a brick wall,
but friend, know this well, that in those beautiful eyes you may willingly drown,
wishing to never see, on that gorgeous face, even the hint of a frown,
and so,
the clues are here and there,
a quarter here, and there,
her name is ?
take a chance,
live a little,
love a lot if you dare …
Artwork from Google
Art by Banksy
The Mirage of Material Gratification in the Era of Carefully Crafted Hate …
Anaesthetised souls, willfully sterile minds,
prancing around,
searching, ever searching,
on the prowl,
reaching for, hungering after, thirstily,
the mirage of material gratification,
drooling in the bottomless pit of an insatiable satisfaction.
The price?
Human beings dehumanised into mere chattel.
women abused and denigrated into second-class citizens.
the rise of racism,
rabid nationalism,
religious fanaticism,
sectarian divisions,
outright fascism,
the rise of those who choose to prey and play and inflame the very worst elements of human nature –
fear, and not the reaching out and trying to understand each other,
hate, and not appreciating that we all bleed red as one human race,
arrogance, and not the humility espoused by all religions and basic humanism,
walls, and not bridges to bring together our common human family closer together,
sowing discord, and not a the concept of the oneness of us all,
kicking down the “other”, and not lending a hand, to those of us who falter and fall.
[ political and corporate vultures hover above the carcass of humanity, circling, swooping, picking at the rotting flesh, sating a hunger, a need, the greed to off one another, endlessly feed ]
Anaesthetised souls, willfully sterile consciences,
consume, devour, fantasy seducing need,
a greed that has to feed, oblivious, in inebriated consumer-fueled waves, filling the coffers of capital,
a consensual,
imperceptible metamorphosis, from a collective conscience, into a blind horde of slaves,
as consciences are cleaved, reducing the individual into a hellish beast who lecherously craves.
The fires continue to malevolently rage, as the 1% waltz on the glittering stage,
while the 99% are relegated, shamelessly, into a filth-ridden, reeking cage.
What does this say about you and me?
our eyes conveniently sewn shut so that we do not see,
the billions of souls who from imposed hunger, hunger to be free,
indeed,
what does this say about you and me?
Art by Banksy
Artwork from Google
scribble of what never was …
undulating, lengthy, scorching kisses,
peppered with sensuous caresses,
with you, i am one,
a bouquet of feelings, infusing every pore,
our bodies in unison, fused at our passionate core.
scribbling verses on on your fiery skin,
dedicating odes to you, my love,
melting into a poem of desire,
burnished against our writhing bodies,
inflamed, on fire.
these nights of hungering need,
these days aching to upon each other ravishingly feed,
swept up by our orchestral crescendo,
the symphonies coursing through our veins with greed.
no scribbles may convey the heat of our shared cauldron,
we become one, we are one, when the stars in the sultry nights disappear,
our sweat trickling off our flesh,
the sparkle in your eyes so crystalline, so clear.
though the years have vanished and slipped into cupboards to sleep,
though the wrinkles have imperceptibly on our brows begun to creep,
we have yet many moons to savour,
bathed in moonlight of our hearts beating as one,
within each other so immeasurably deep …
Artwork from Google
Clarence Clemons and Bruce Springsteen
Bruce Springsteen opens up about his battles with depression: ‘I know I am not completely well’ https://cnn.it/2P8uttd
my Springsteen tribute through his songs …
In memory of “The Big Man” Clarence Anicholas Clemons Jr. (1942 – 2011)
Growin’ Up in Delhi town, far away from being Born in the USA,
your words rang true to me,
nothing more so than when you sang Cover Me,
as i ached for release from my urban Jungleland,
to the rock ‘n’ roll tunes of The E-Street Band.
You made me weep with your melancholic My Hometown, as i related so deeply to I’m goin’ Down,
cos’ when you sang, you sang from the depths of your Hungry Heart, all the way across the seas from Asbury Park.
Your lyrics sliced deep, scraping away the veneer of cellophane,
stuck inside the prison of my Downbound Train.
I remember the first girl i met, with Bobby Jean stuck in my lovestruck head,
and as we walked hand in hand through the city park, all i wanted was to be, with her, Dancing in the Dark.
I believed that we were Born to Run, far away from that Brilliant Disguise,
far beyond the Darkness on the edge of Town, escaping our fragile spaces, on our Rocky Ground.
When Little Steven sang Sun City, it gave me more of a Reason to Believe,
singing truth to power, raging against Apartheid’s vile hell, for all who from racial discrimination had no reprieve.
When you sang with Tracy Chapman, Peter Gabriel, and Sting, all of you on stage for the Amnesty international concert, you carefully picked your principled fights, as we all sang Bob Marley’s Get up, Stand up, Stand for your Rights.
As i grew up, on that forked Thunder Road, you reminded me of The Ballad of Tom Joad,
your lyrics cut straight to the bone, when you belted out your sarcastic classic We take care of our Own.
You made me cry some more on the Streets of Philadelphia, while so many sweated it out in many a Darlington County, while the wealthy smiled and grabbed at this earth’s common bounty.
Oh how we joined you in the chorus, when you sang Woody’s angry This Land is your Land, while you paid homage to the countless immigrants in your powerful and visceral American Land.
I imbibed your words, feeling them course through my veins when i was bruised and tender, because you spoke to me of holding on tight to hope, to the words of No Surrender.
We are Alive spoke of the many who died trying to reach The Promised Land, to give it a shot, of Working on a Dream, while crossing The River would impossible seem.
Today, as so many are still sweating it out Working on the Highway,
you never fail to infuse hope,
the eternal hope,
of Waitin’ on a Sunny Day …
Clarence Clemons and Bruce Springsteen
artwork by banksy
A Rant …
… this moment in time, and the decades that have preceded it since the industrial revolution, have been studded with great breakthroughs in medicine and the sciences, among other ‘miracles’ of technology and human ingenuity.
However as we live in 2018, has the human race not become virtually inured to the ‘bigger picture’ – the ‘system’ chosen, or thrust down, being the system of profit at any cost.
Whether it be the grotesque arms industry or the equally grotesque Monsanto and Cargill and Halliburton corporations that wish to patent seeds – the very essence of food, and others of our world that have orchestrated an almost unbelievable feat of social and emotional and psychological control and engineering, or the corrupt leaders of governments pillaging the coffers that are meant to serve the people.
The fortunate ones in terms of material comforts and the rest that the ugliness of money can ‘do’ for them, compared to the 99% of whom we share this world with – those left out in the cold to eke out a miserable existence of the fight for just survival from hunger and the innumerable deprivations of poverty.
One need not look far.
The system and the placid and complicit acceptance of it has inured people to the point that hearts are hardened and that compassion has been dumbed down.
The self contained bubbles that ‘shield’ ‘successful’ humans from poverty and deprivation, but more frighteningly is the insidious injection of apathy and lack of empathy into daily life that has been the aim of the only-for-profit societies has done at the cost of fellow human beings who are stuck in 22 hour-a-day shifts in sweatshops and far too many dehumanising ‘work’ that is a necessity for the 1% to live the lives they do.
It is quite simple actually – earn as much as you can to buy the things you want and are ‘told’ that you need and make as much profit but at the price of the poor for no business or industry can run profitably if it gives its workers a decent salary or wages for then the grand aim of profit making is lost.
Don’t humans all live in cocoons?
In the office, a cocoon that makes human beings earn the money that is needed to live the life that is desired.
Cocoons at home in bubbles, surrounded by material possession that have been sold because of their ‘need’ and shutting out the ‘outside’ so-called ‘dregs’ of society, whom one gets irritated at when they knock on our cocooned bubbles once a week or so to plead for bread or some loose change.
Cocoons within ourselves, true feelings and emotions kept close in islands that are lonesome hearts because again it has been ‘sold’ to all that the McDonald’s ‘happy meal-life’ of always being ‘with it’ and always painting on smiles is the ‘way to go’ as people get more and more engulfed in the pressures of maintaining that lifestyle.
The pressure, or ‘persuasion’ to have kids go to the best schools, wear the finest clothes, have swimming and piano and other lessons where the parent, almost always the wife and mother, has to be on-call and on her toes all day juggling a career as well as being subjected to the daily grind of all of the above and more and then still having to prepare a meal or three – this makes the wife and mother exhausted both physically and mentally and emotionally and psychologically to the point when days are spent not really ‘living’ but just doing the ‘daily moms taxi runs’ for which we then need therapy and psychiatric medication for not all can bear all that and more without cracking or at the very least not being able to cope.
This anaesthetised ‘living’ – almost to the obscene point of even having the gall of comparing the 1% to the 99% because ‘look at the poor’ – they are so content and happy’.
No, the poor anywhere in the world are not ‘happy’ that they slog and sweat for long hours to return to shanties and urban ghettos in order to put some bread on the table – not even a table, as that is a luxury too.
So the system keeps on keeping on, piling pressure on cocoons separate from fellow beings and families and wives or husbands and mothers and siblings as the same cocoons are what family, friends, and people are ensconced in.
How can there be ’empathy’ in a system that breaks people down into compliant consumers and making sure that the cocooned state of meticulously crafted obliviousness, because how can humans ‘care’ for the ‘other-half’ when every hour of every day is precious and when the race is forever ongoing, always running and chasing time and being almost slave-like to the clock.
The system then further infects with the promise of bliss and joy if consumption of things people are made to think they need but really don’t – how many advertisements for alcohol are around which pummels all, where ‘The Main Man’ is surrounded by ‘pretty’ and scantily clad women – an ugly appeal to the basest of emotions – sheer unthinking lust.
Furthermore, every two years or so a new car model is unleashed with again advertising that seeks to ingrain the relationship between ownership of a particular thing, in this case a car to the ‘idea’ of the ‘ideal family – kids in the back seat having a laugh and the pretty wife looking over to the broadly grinning husband – so one has to have that car to add that ‘missing contentment’ to ones already cocooned lives.
The so-called cosmetics and beauty industry is probably the best example of all where an industry ‘sells’ their idea of their ‘ideal woman’ to women – maybe it’s maybelline that makes all desirable and pretty and not a hair out of place or maybe it is l’oreal because ‘you’re worth it’ and a worthy consumer also to make one desirable to whom – the man – always the man.
The louis vuitton handbags and the de beers diamonds, the ferraris and the chanel ‘haute-couture’, the mansions with 20 rooms for a family of 5, the ‘need’ to always ‘look’ the best and to attend parties and weddings shrouded by the ‘best clothes’ and for what? For the simple wish to look ‘better’ than the ‘rest’. Not to look presentable – nope – but to make a ‘splash’ and to be talked about with awe.
Of course all of this applies to men probably even more so as they have hand made saville row suits for their daily work lives and their thousands of dollars on their wrists for a clunky thing that just tells the time – the time that they have so very precious little of because to buy into the system is to aim to fulfill all that the system offers – first a toyota then a bmw and then a ferrari.
The patriarchal entitlement and the gender-based violence that countless women are subjected to by the very people they love and live with is a cancerous tumour that needs to be excised now, not tomorrow, but now.
We talk incessantly about the ‘need’ for simplicity and contentment while actively pursuing the very opposite.
The rituals of religion, all of them, overshadowing the very basic teachings and humane tenets that all religions espouse.
We are led to believe by the clergy of different religions that it is okay to amass wealth as long as ‘charity’ is ‘given’ – such an obscene word in itself making people feel so powerful with wealth that they may ‘give’ alms to the unfortunate poor.
The words of Dom Helder Camara – a Brazilian Archbishop, come to mind, who said the following:
“When I give food to the poor, they call me a saint. When I ask why the poor have no food, they call me a communist”.
If that statement resonates within anyone reading it – it means all is not lost at the altar of greed and imperialism and neo-colonialism and wars for oil and profit and influence.
It means that human beings are not totally lost in the temptation-filled cesspool of wealth and of power and of influence and of greed at any price, even the price of the blood of the miner who digs and dies to extract the shiny stone that has no earthly use other than being an ostentatious statement of which ‘class’ and what strata of society one ‘belongs’ to, and perhaps most grotesquely the shining little stone is tied together with ‘love for another person’ – the expression of love for another being that shiny shimmering cold and dead stone.
All is not lost when the countless human beings who are actively serving their fellow humans, not by flinging some charity their way, but but educating and imparting the skills needed to live a better life or to simply manage to feed their children and do so in a dignified way, and not being reliant on the alms of the ‘altruism’ we hear so much about in this world of pure unabashed greed and of standing and kicking down others to reach higher and higher on the ladder of ‘success’ – for every winner in the this system there have to be many many losers – that is built into the system.
What can we do about this gross obscenity we live in and pursue and are a part of, not because we are all greedy but because to eke out a living is to trample on others, giving us almost no choice.
What other systems of governance can we turn to in order to effect real and meaningful change.
Not many at all. Communism was tried and failed. Protectionist isolation was tried and failed. And a few more also tried and failed.
If there is a ray of hope it has to be that the people, us all, rise up to demand social equality for all our fellow human beings – even at the expense of our own personal cocoons being punctured.
A system of professional and free universal health care for all. A system of free and compulsory education for all.
A social contract between the government and the people that we may not all live lavish lives but that the lives we shall lead shall not be on the backs of those whose only crime was the accident of birth into poverty.
This may or may not effect real change – and certainly will not obliterate all the ills of this unjust world but wouldn’t it be a worthy goal to aspire towards – the service of our fellow living beings – our human family, the fish in our seas, the grandeur of nature and animal species not killed for profit, and for the active search for and working towards a world that is ecologically healthy so that future generations do not look back on us as those who failed not just each other as human beings but this entire planet called earth and the millions of other living beings and trees and plants which we share the world with.
It will take time.
But is it not a point from which we make a collective start moving forward.
I think so.
PS: On the other hand, who am I scribbling this for?
The ‘other half’ may not get to read this, they would need a cellphone and that too only a phone that is recent enough to run apps at the like which of course means a price will have to be forked out for a data-bundle – so I am obviously the 1% – as always thinking and believing that ‘I’ know what is best for ‘them – the poor of the world’ and ‘I’ again as always am speaking to you and I and not the ‘other-half’.
So no, this is most definitely not for ‘the other half’ who live and are beaten down by the system daily, and who certainly doesn’t need someone like me to spout the above with the presumption of knowing what their life is like every day.
So maybe it is just for me and for you.
Or maybe and probably more close to the point, it is just me absolving myself of guilt for a few hours or a day just because I scribbled something that mentions the words ‘system’ and ‘capitalism’ and the other platitudes people like me throw around when the convenient time presents itself – obviously after a steaming cup of not just any but the finest tea while lying on my bed surrounded by the very wealth and privilege I rail against.
Or it is even more subtle and dangerous – my attempt at appearing to sound like a humble man of sorts – not that any of this hasn’t been said and written a million times before but again to assuage my guilt and of course to puff my ego and my cigar a little more – scribble something about inequality blah blah, again sipping fine tea from a fine cup lying on a fine bed propped up on fine pillows surrounded by fine views of nature and far removed from the cacophonous ‘other’.
Yes, because I will rail against ‘my own’ but never shall I surrender ‘my life’ to be a part of the whole.
That would be so much more difficult and would mean yanking myself out of my own comfort zone, so instead, it is far more easier to just scribble a rant, because I am so ‘progressive’ and ‘liberal’ and filled with the most humane of values.
To quote Bono of the music group U2, in the song “Silver and Gold” from the album “Rattle and Hum” …
“Am I buggin’ ya – I don’t mean to bug ya“
from the Nelson Mandela Foundation
https://mars.nasa.gov/insight/timeline/landing/entry-descent-landing/
NASA’s Mars Insight Lander
we are starstuff …
(inspired by Dr. Carl Sagan)
stringed, strung, cobbled together, strands of DNA sewn from the cosmic rubble,
innumerable galaxies, theoretically plausible, infinite universes side by side,
floating in the quantum cauldron, within a bubble.
flotsam and jetsam in spaces between spaces,
where time, and days, kisses and tears, fears and years,
embroider the quilt of a multitude of races.
the vastness blurring much, grinding us down at times, into cosmic dust,
yet through stoic will, through love held deep, we rebuild again from crumbling rust.
starstuff, is all we are,
hewn through eons, within us, and into the stellar void so far.
starstuff is all,
we ever were,
starstuff is from where we came to be,
starstuff:
you, and me.
________
.
inspired by Dr. Carl Sagan
the legend. the humanitarian – Dr. Carl Sagan
art by Banksy
talkin’ cynical self-absorbed lovey-dovey blues …
All those hazy moons ago, when we slept in each others arms, when we felt we were blessed, wearing those 24-carat gold matching lucky charms,
we who knew the paradise that lay ahead, the glitterati loving us – the perfect couple, who were hotter than blazing hot in bed.
All those sunshiney days of way back when, we kissed deep, our chakras aligned so in-tunely bloody zen, sinking into the obliviousness, the vacuum that was our entire universe
then,
unaware of all else, of anyone around us as we breezed through life, floating past it all, lost in a marshmallow haze, as we sank deeper into our carefree daze.
Kisses and caresses, ensconced in our selfish crevasses, not giving a hoot, as long as you reeked of french perfume, as long as I showed-off my obscenely expensive silk suit,
as long as we valentined and new yeared ever on, blinded to the real world and all that was wrong, just so that we disappeared in each others eyes,
never sparing a thought about this, our earth, our world, as we trapezed by the multitudes, the throng,
where we should really, for heavens sakes, be simply human,
and to at least, at the very least, try to belong.
art by Banksy
A Grand Unified Theory*
… Scraping our knees,
as fluid time flows,
months and years and days and weeks,
loving, living, cooking, caring,
our pain, our desires, our simple wishes,
lie neatly tucked away,
behind the clean linen in the guest-bedroom cupboard.
Whispering to ourselves, bleeding to feel alive, feeling a cold, distant cloak of invisibility shrouding our screaming silences.
A tender glance, a few comforting words,
remind us that we are still human,
picking away at still-raw sores, pacing around in our minds, searching for yet to be opened doors,
craving simple warmth, a kind word, a knowing nod, a shared tear,
holding each other, close by, yet not near,
grappling within, without,
at the gnawing fear,
I may have loved you too much,
my phantom love,
always present,
still you always, always, always,
manage to disappear …
* – A Grand Unified Theory is a model in particle physics in which, at high energy, the three gauge interactions of the Standard Model which define the electromagnetic, weak, and strong interactions, or forces, are merged into one single force. Wikipedia
yesteryear … … …
memory slips,
slides,
cascades,
through the blurred veil of time,
sifting through memories,
of you,
your loveliness ablaze,
sweeping across meadows,
my stranded heart still in flames,
the furnace burning bright,
raging in the darkness of this night,
coaxing nostalgic yearning,
over years left behind,
between thoughts of kisses entwined,
and still,
and yet,
this heart may never forget,
the caress of your voice,
breezing between today,
last week,
all the drifting yesteryears,
lost in your deepest eyes,
even as days turn to night,
even as time continually flies,
scattering pieces of my soul,
hither and thither,
knowing it may never be, again,
whole,
ah! but the memories persist,
as summer begins to wither,
you are all i remember you to be,
between the wild rose,
amidst the thorns,
bathed in dawn’s dew,
I live,
I breathe,
I savour,
the sweetest thoughts,
of you, only you …
… running,
in flight,
bracing the currents,
thrashed against the cliffs,
of jagged fate,
broken-in, kneaded into acquiescence,
worn-down, stretched-thin,
soon-to-be yesterdays trash,
dumped, strewn in the muck,
filling landfills of destinys rubbish bin,
bashed by chaotic waves,
headed for,
primed,
course set, for yet,
yet,
another crash …
the passion of my pen: you …
this pen dipped in ink, scribbles odes to you,
my fingers caressing your bare back, paints words of a love so true,
while in your eyes swirls the raging fire,
the passion of my pen scalds my being entire.
i may scribble a poem or two, my meagre words unable to convey,
the roaring furnace you have lit within me, this dervish who in a daze does sway,
sprinkling kisses on your honeydew lips,
feeling the desire raw and thirsting, from my soul to my fingertips.
your love has breathed life, awakening my slumbering heart,
to beat in tune with yours, scribbling oaths to never be, ever apart,
for a love so complete, so warm and so achingly deep,
was once only dreamed of, in waking moments of thought, and in the cauldron of my restless sleep.
these odes, these poems, are but scribbles on the parchment of shared time,
tucked away in the recesses of memory, finding solace in each paltry rhyme,
assailed by the nettles of days gone by,
emotions billowing like smoke into the bluest sky.
the passion of my pen is the mirrored reflection of your love,
the stroking of your hair, your head on my chest, the bounty we were blessed with, from the heavens above,
when days were humid and sultry, the nights torrid, bathed in the essence of need,
when all subtlety fled, as our hunger growled, wanting it all with an insatiable greed.
i recall those years of long ago, when we danced in tune with each heartbeat,
when our bodies lay entwined, the sweat dripping off flesh, as our minds and souls did effortlessly meet,
i can never forget those minutes that stretched into hours, in the Johannesburg thunderstorms, drenched in the cooling African rains,
your body my canvas, from the tips of your velveteen mountaintops, to the savanna of your rolling silken plains.
i recall every one of those minutes, i can hardly forget the warmth of your breath, as we sighed in unison, skin upon blazing skin,
and were i to never love again, were i to never savour that ecstasy, i will forever bask in the paradise of those memories, and i will constantly keep you, for you will always remain my heaven within …
talkin’ self-indulgent blues
I’m talkin’ self-indulgent blues,
ramblin’ and a-rolling along,
on cobblestones,
here and there along the alleyways of this life,
seeking not much,
as such,
a few scattered smiles,
after all the miles,
more open roads, less clogged strife,
caravan-serais of hope,
of peace,
where the din briefly does cease,
where simple ways,
of bygone days,
seem cooler than the respite of the shade,
as ages pale,
and as words fade,
I’m still a-walkin’ alone,
flotsam and jetsam blurring my eyes,
as sand gets kicked and the dust flies,
my heart thrashed against cold stone,
while the mirage persists,
the promise of free skies,
still,
just there,
within reach,
slipping further into myself,
as the floodgates breach,
so don’t worry about me no more,
I’m still a-ramblin’ and a-rolling,
and know this too,
for it be true,
it is you,
who remains,
after moulted skin falls,
when the closing walls,
squeeze my straightjacket,
threatening to seal my fate,
into a vacuum-shrunk packet,
no, don’t worry about me no more,
my head is upright,
though my soul may be sore,
but I’m still a-ramblin’ and a-rollin’,
with you,
immersed deep in my core,
forever more … …
so near, and yet so very far …
I hear the birdsong,
early in the summer dawn,
knowing you hear the same call,
of the flying hopes that soar through boundless skies,
feeling an instantaneous bond, forged,
strengthened, within,
with you,
as sure as daylight blankets each star,
you are with me,
within me,
so very near,
yet, still,
so agonisingly far …
Humanity ?
us men,
almost always,
men,
myopic, impotent men,
our manliness oozing, seeping,
dripping,
soaking,
in swathes of red,
scarlet blood on infant skin,
hardened,
caked,
dried on cold, dead flesh.
Who am i,
a man,
myopic, impotent,
my swagger puffed on conceit,
my country right or wrong,
my god not yours,
my culture your caste,
tribe, sect, ideology … … …
Who am i ?
a man ?
knitted into,
shared humanity ?
Perhaps ’tis time,
to let this rotten, festering,
glossy, botoxed, tucked, trimmed, diseased skin,
moult,
laying stark this sham,
this theatre,
these lies, the maggots burrowing deep,
into man,
chiselling, smashing,
beheading, hanging,
shooting, bombing, drone-ing, killing, raping, torturing, killing, killing, killing,
excising man,
ripping man out of humanity.
Yes,
i am man
Banksy
scarred by gentle caresses,
ripped apart by tender kisses,
fractured within,
a ceaseless masqurade without,
when,
does the ache mend,
lose its sting,
soften the blows,
while destiny,
fate,
tomorrows not yet dawned,
shedding tears for pain unmourned,
battered blue,
and black,
always an arms reach away,
from my weathered backpack,
to venture, to plunge,
into the waters of chance,
where hopes dreams joys,
all dance,
a lifetime away,
yet embossed on the mindscape,
a fleeting moment,
vanishing,
like an eternal nostalgic glance …
what is this yearning,
this furnace, this cauldron,
raging, burning.
this need,
this ache,
these dreams,
entwined, woven in clandestine half smiles,
stealing glances, across forgotten years,
endless miles …
from google
the veiled connection …
when two souls connect, far beyond the constraints of place, of that or of this lifetime,
when two hearts connect, thud-thuddingly beating to the same rhyme,
when two minds connect, forging a kinship beyond the shackles of merciless time,
a veiled connection, an intricately woven bouquet of emotions begin to intertwine.
the connection that fuses, melding two people, must be restrained by circumstance and societal norms,
the connection that fuses, melding two people, can hardly be truly known, for love appears in infinite forms,
the connection that fuses, melding her thoughts with mine, caresses each moment as each moment magically transforms.
such are the frivolous machinations of fate,
such are the oblivious workings of time, at times too early, at times just a second or two too late,
such are the truths we realise but at what cost, for the key handed down to us may not be for our specific gate.
the random sense of humour that destiny and fate do often betray, leaves scars, not smiles along the way,
the random sense of humour that life often displays, condemns a soul to the bleakness of the foggy grey,
the random sense of humour that determines who loves, and who doesn’t, seem like a trick that the rolling dice of fate may play.
the timing of a veiled connection forged in destiny’s blurry haze, leaves hearts and souls scorching, ablaze,
the timing of a veiled connection often determines the bends in many pathways, rarely missing a beat to reduce feelings into a series of tragi-comic plays,
and so it goes, that the timing of a veiled connection is crucial to the direction the pendulum of love sways,
more often than not abandoning souls,
to be forever lost in an indecipherable maze …
from google
They’re prepping for a race war. And they see Trump as their ‘ray of hope’
NOTE: this is the drivel that is being spouted – neo-nazi and neo-fascist and apartheid- style rhetoric and hate – all based on spurious “facts” and on outright lies.
South Africa, and non-white South Africas have NOT targeted “white” South Africans – on the contrary President Nelson Mandela and subsequent presidents and Mandela’s party, the majority party the African National Congress (ANC) has since the end of Apartheid in 1994 NEVER ordered or even mentioned a systematic “race-war” against white South Africans.
On the contrary white South Africans today live in the many old “white” suburbs and yes, there is a serious crime situation but South Africans of EVERY race are affected and more so the African majority, being the majority are the highest, percentage wise, victims of violent crime.
This very dangerous and divisive narrative that is being spewed by hate groups around the world as they connect with each other on the web and elsewhere is toxic, corrosive, and very dangerous to the work-in-progress that South African society is still engaged in given the centuries old legacy of colonialism and the decades of Apartheid tyranny and racial oppression.
We dismiss these attempts at sowing division in South Africa and we will not let the forces of hate and racial-superiority derail our common objective of living up to the Freedom Charter’s opening words –
“We, the People of South Africa, declare for all our country and the world to know: that South Africa belongs to all who live in it, black and white, and that no government can justly claim authority unless it is based on the will of all the people.”
https://www.sahistory.org.za/article/freedom-charter
we THE people …
as the forces of reaction grow louder, as the fascism of right-wing politics seem to be burgeoning, as the misogyny and racism and attacks on the rights of those who love differently echoes through the corridors of power, as all of this and so much more fills the air we breathe with a noxious stench, may we the people resist! may we the people erect the barricades, may we the people look back to all those brave and courageous souls who stood upright and fought the battles of yesterday – and not give in to despondency, may we the people resist and in resisting may we send a clear and resounding message to the forces that choose to divide, not unite, engender narrow nationalism not fraternal internationalism, may our message to them be clear, concise and loud – no pasaran! you shall not pass, for though you may wield the whip of power, we the people shall not give in to your tunnel vision of the politics of hate and divisiveness, for We The People always have been, and shall remain many, many more. Take heed of history for you stand rickety on the losing side and lose you shall, despite your gains here and there, lose you shall and lose you will, for We The People have been and always shall be many, many more. many more than the 1%, many more than the vultures of capital and greed, many more than you are, and ever shall be.
We The People are many, many more*
Amandla!
Venceremos!
Aluta Continua!
We SHALL Overcome!
* – slogan from Ken Loach’s film “Tierra y Libertad” or “Land and Freedom” on the Spanish Civil War.
Capitalism 101
walking down pathways strewn with nettles,
swept along alleyways where dust settles,
always seeking respite from the nagging ache,
quarantined for a bit from society so fake,
where all that matters is the cash you rake,
throttling each other for the cents you make …
Baobab Tree – artwork from google
the nomad …
picking up, slivers of life, hewn into flesh,
leaving once again, clinging onto moonbeams, shards of sunlight once dazzling and warm, thrashed by howling fate,
lost in echoes of yesterdays hope,
shuffling onward, one step at a time, seeking not much but enough, always enough,
between concrete hearts and steely grime,
seeking absolution, in penitence resigned,
to more scribbles,
more paltry rhyme …
the city of gold – joburg skyline from google
Artwork from Google
just mush …
drowning in your eyes, 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 tempus fugit, 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 …
Artwork from Google
Artwork from Google
lost | broken …
lost, broken,
alone,
in a foggy crevasse,
wedged between
sanity | madness | anguish.
i lose, break,
memories taunting,
waking thoughts,
stripping me bare | naked | exposed.
i survive, barely breathing,
slipping deeper,
into nothingness,
feeling little | shattered | numb.
i am incomplete, without you,
fatigued,
gnawed by emptiness | desolation | pain.
i persist, each breath futile,
crushed, yet alive,
comforted knowing only,
that you breathe | you live | and that you love …
Artwork from Google
Artwork from Google
in the deep …
flailing, thrashing for gulps of air, when well-meaning words ricochet, and emotions in the deep lay,
when one is yanked into the chasm of the deep, blankly staring at the ceiling, chasing fleeing sleep,
alone, with misfiring neurons coaxing, inviting, paving alleys for gloom to slowly seep, when pangs of emptiness deeper still, begin to creep,
sleep vanishes, ushering waking nightmares in, a jangling discord of the day, the night, and of yesterdays din,
one reaches for slivers of hope, the double edged scimitar of life, the jagged rawness of seemingly unending strife,
ah but seeing a solitary shard, the lifeline of coarse hope, the being entire reaches out, digging in fingers to get a foothold, on that slippery slope,
and as dawn approaches, gently ushering in day from night, one feels renewed, rejuvenated, in the soft glow of morning light,
for it is the fragile strands of the new morn, keeping darkness at bay, nestling petals with the dew of hope, against the odds,
welcoming new life,
banishing the pangs of emptiness away …
Artwork from Google
Artwork from Google
timing …
aren’t we all
at times …
fragmented
broken
hypocritical
deliriously happy
mean
generous
pained
lost
hopeful
alive
numb
lonely
alone?
at times? right.
‘your timing is intolerable‘, she used to say …
Artwork from Google
Artwork from Google
talkin’ heartbreak blues …
… jingling and a-jangling between insipid day and fungal night, rumbling from those spirituals of yore, in a time way yonder back before, you pirouetted into my days and my nights, when pain was felt, though never this deep, this raw, that rotten gnaw deep in my core, compelling me to scribble this scribble, as i hyperventilate and as my broken mouth begins to dribble, these sentences, these words, these empty noises, barren drums, calling out, since you left, rendering me mutely bereft, just words, barren drums calling out to you, wherever you are and whoever you are today, now …
Artwork from Google
Artwork from Google
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.
Artwork from Google
Artwork from Google
When we Kissed …
when you kissed me, our tongues waltzed in symphonic harmony,
teasing the crescendos as we sipped ambrosia in our tango of passion.
when we made love, our bodies fused, in singular unison,
the sweat mingled with the desire to soak in as much of the nectar of love.
when we walked, hand in hand, the powdery beach beneath our feet,
we became one with nature, our love a testament to the unison of complete surrender.
when we spoke of times past, and tomorrows yet to dawn,
we felt the tug of kindred spirits, so elusive until now.
when we gazed into each others eyes,
we felt ourselves drowning in a maelstrom of unquenchable togetherness.
when we kissed again, and again, as we do now,
we bask in the sunlight, of a love impossible to explain,
a love that weathered the seasons, the coming of autumn,
through life’s pain, and through the slicing barrage of fate’s icy rain …
Artwork from Google
Comrade Nelson Mandela meeting my mother after 27 years – Sweden 1990
Comrade Nelson Mandela’s letter of condolence to my father on the day my mother passed away
a bit about my family …
with Comrade Winnie Mandela, sharing with me stories of my mum and her – who often worked together in the 50s and 60s and were comrades
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)
Comrade Nelson Mandela and my father – sometime in the 1950s
Artwork from Google
Hand in Hand …
‘take my hand‘, she said, as we walked on splintered glass,
‘we are together, braced for all that may come to pass‘,
we walk hand in hand today too,
traversing this world, that is often cold and untrue …
Artwork from Google
Johannesburg sunset – photograph from google
i stand alone.
1.
i stand alone, though never lonely,
she rests within me, and ’tis with her i long to be.
i stand alone,
though hardly disconsolate,
she sprinkles colour deep within me, a dazzling rainbow for me to see.
i stand alone,
at rest and with hope,
her soul caressing my edginess, her memory a soothing balm helping me to cope.
i stand alone,
her heart a part of mine,
our emotions are one, bound by tight twine.
2.
i do not stand alone, for we stand side by side,
our love in tune, with the coming in of the tide …
Johannesburg skyline – artwork frkm google
interwoven veins, crisscross this land, this continent, connecting the north to the south, the east to the west, veins infusing life, binding peoples, wrapped in the canopies of the forest, buzzing in the cacophony of the cities, silent in the arid deserts, meandering between the mangroves, flowing gracefully into the oceans, knitting us together, despite the slashing of these veins, the plunder of these lands, the desecration of the peace of the ancestors, tearing these veins open, pilfering the continent’s innards, gold and silver and copper and platinum and diamonds and so much more, so much more painful in the millions of souls herded as cattle, packed onto the slave ships, doomed to live and die in shackled misery, oh yes, these veins have felt it all, these veins that continually, silently, peacefully, benevolently, spread the precious gift of life across these lands, this continent – Africa.
embalming the conscience,
in a world catatonic with apathy.
apathy worn on sleeves,
with shimmering cuff-links of brazen indifference.
shopping, mall-hopping, acquiring, squinting at designer tags.
ah! but the party never ends,
as we giggle and flirt and drink and consume,
while corpses burn,
nailed to realities of need.
and while the 99% scavenge,
for scraps in the dirt.
history shall look back upon us, and a light shall be shed, upon this time when the few were fattened and sumptuously fed, while the many were wrung till the last drop they bled, to the hypocritical wars that for resources were fought, and the complicit silence of the power-brokers was bought, where children went hungry and were pummelled by shrapnelled lead, when obscene chariots roamed the streets and not a word was said, about the inhumanity of this technologically advanced human race, propped up and gaudy as it showed its skewered face, allowing the few to pillage and plunder, as the hopes and dreams of the many were torn asunder.
yes, for these are the days when noxious ostentation does rule, caring little that its modus operandi is so patently cruel, as long as the diamonds are adorned and the gold is worn, it matters not the billions of families’ that are torn, torn apart so the machinery of greed flourished, while the child remained forgotten, mattering not that billions of souls were left malnourished.
yes, history shall look back and judge us with withering hindsight, when we perfected avarice, fine tuning it as best as we could, while ignoring our fellow beings as though they were hewn from wood, and history shall not be wrong to judge us in a horrified light, for even as we read these words, the many lie huddled under bridges, on yet another bitterly cold night.
I want to walk with you, freely on this earth, soaking in the scent of the soil, our calloused hands testimony to the sweat and the toil,
I want to share with you my deepest hopes, my desperate fears, I want us to share, the joy and the tears,
we shall share a life together, not without sorrows, neither of hardships free, but you shall always be you, as I shall always remain me,
so take my hand in yours, my friend, we have much to traverse, with many a shoe yet to mend …
we shall walk hand in hand, vowing to take a stand,
never to be one with the soulless parade, not to be fooled by the ostentatious charade,
we shall carve our own road ahead, together, always together, walking our paths yet to be tread …
the 1%.
snouts deep,
all conscience excised,
seeking more,
always seeking more.
the 99%.
shrivelled shadows,
huddled under underpasses,
seeking enough,
always seeking just enough.
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.
uBuntu is an isiXhosa/isiZulu concept that espouses the “belief in a universal bond of sharing that connects all humanity”
when joy flaps its wings, soaring into boundless skies, all despair recedes, dusted off as hope freely flies, high to that exalted place, where smiles are worn on every face, where mirth bursts open all closed gates, showering all in its midst with kinder fates, where the world is no longer a slave to war, and peace reigns forever more.
an idealistic hope, though this may be, will we ever know if we do not try and see, to build a better, kinder, gentler world for all, where pained tears no longer into dust do fall …
( apologies but had to rewrite this piece )
the stench of xenophobia … … …
1.
when rancid racism strikes,
in cocooned fungal minds, narrow, superficially deep,
an insidious venom begins to seep,
into our consciousness as we sleep.
2.
racist beliefs held so true, so deep,
stripped of feeling,
empty, hollow, feigned, designed, branded as compassion,
feeds the conceit in chests swollen and rotten with self-righteous passion.
3.
the racist xenophobia once firmly entrenched,
envelopes all, not unlike a comforting shawl,
needing more and more bluster to fester, and to mutate,
into doctrines of superiority, bigotry, and new fashioned hate.
4.
are we guilty of succumbing to this virulent plague?
sipping martinis, and shovelling more, always more onto our heaving plates,
falling, slipping into inebriated stasis, without care,
as the stench of hate, prejudice, gay-bashing,
as the proliferation of anti hindu, muslim, christian, buddhist, and anti people of african and arab heritage and anti-indigenous and anti-semitic and misogynistic drivel and xenophobia,
continues to belch into the polluted air.
The Damned are Banned.
when an entire people, adherents of the religion of Islam, already pummelled and damned by the savagery of war in the countries they call home, are banned from entering a country that hails its freedoms and liberty as being sacrosanct, a country of immigrants itself, a country that was built on the genocide of the indigenous peoples that inhabited that land, and on the backs of countless human beings barbarically abused as slaves from the continent of Africa, one cannot but think back to the early days of the barbarism of Hitler’s nazism and its singling out of the entire Jewish people for extermination.
but then again, just a few days ago, we heard from the powers that be that they thought the Holocaust was a “sad” thing.
Goebbels would have been proud.
the parallels are chilling.
and this is not 1930s Germany.
this is the world we live in today.
and its 2017.
as another flees, soaked scarlet by war, choked by the famished cries of the baby, torn by the screeching of hate, adulterated by the politics of intolerance, bruised by gender-based violence, shaming humanity by female genital mutilation, ripping our souls out by wanton greed, trashing our world with mountains of waste, scarring our planet with the oblivious ignorance of climate change, hacking us, binding us with the knots of intolerable pain,
and so, may the coming year be less violent, and more equitable to all.
idealistic claptrap? yes, I know, I know …
but at times like these hope is all that I know I know …
1.
a path leads,
to where wild grasses grow,
sashaying in the summer breeze.
2.
along the path,
lightness settles within,
feeling the grass,
swooning,
tickling ankles,
swaying to lilting bird-song,
a dance of intimate abandon,
brushing remnants of pain away.
3.
melodies float across fields of green,
delicately caressing my heart,
teasing emptiness to flee,
comforting the mind,
to silently be.
4.
walking on,
savouring the peace,
a momentary respite,
casting off burdens of the now,
all is quiet,
a stillness cradling fractured emotions,
the grass in the fields sway,
dusk descends,
shadows lengthen,
nudging dimming light to take leave of the day … … …
barefoot on a talcum beach,
alone, not lonely,
with the breath of oceans’ caressing balm,
soothing pained memories away,
to the swaying of a solitary palm.
barefoot on a talcum beach,
alone, not lonely,
feeling the brushing away of past turmoil,
on a quest for solace, ever so hard to find,
yet comforted by the crashing of the waves,
as the tide washes away pain,
and leaves despair far, far behind.
barefoot on a talcum beach,
alone, not lonely,
drenched in a sea-breeze of mist,
that hushes aches of bygone moons,
tasting the salty tang on my lips,
as the burnished sun,
over the distant horizon,
swoons,
and dips.
barefoot on a talcum beach,
alone, not lonely,
searching, ever searching,
for a slice of solitude,
as memory bids adieu,
reaching under the sea so vast,
and seeking comfort in the depths,
while embracing,
tomorrows to come,
wishing that they be true.
barefoot on a talcum beach,
alone, not lonely,
seeing my truths drown,
as they slip beneath turquoise waters,
feeling my heart ablaze,
with a passion that rarely falters.
barefoot on a talcum beach,
alone, not lonely,
knowing that I am home at last,
wishing the waves would wash away,
the defences that once stood,
like an impregnable wall.
barefoot on a talcum beach,
alone, not lonely,
I have found,
at long last,
my final port of call …
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”
Scribbled Verse 
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