Tag Archive: thorns

hope prevails

hope prevails …

In these times,

restless, bleak,

a sliver of hope is all I seek.

These moments in a world,

cruel, mean,

greed, injustice, the abuse of power, slicing people,

mere cogs in a system meaning to forever demean.

Splintered dreams,

strewn across blood-stained roads,

sinking into the ground, clutching at strands of hope wherever they may be found.

These are the days when hopelessness stalks every street,

merging at the junction where apathy and complicity meet,

with so many left out in the chilling cold,

freezing in the nonstop barrage of icy sleet.

I have lost my way as well, stumbling through this futile maze,

ripped apart, bloodied, and in a concussed daze,

yet ever searching for myself in this throttling haze.

I stagger on, treading the thorns that litter my path,

clasping close to my heart,

the faint lamp of hope,

my perennial companion, through this life’s travails,

seeking refuge, dreaming of the winds of fate to bolster my sails,

holding the lamp that shines within,

soothing me, placating me,

even as I sleep on this plank of nails,

I know,

I know,

that just beyond that high hill I must climb,

hope lives,

hope prevails.

what are we if not just human

Beings flailing through the quagmire of life,

embroiled in emptiness so stark,

hoping to find some solace, some peace,

stumbling along in the dark.

What are we if not just human,

grappling the torturous grind,

stabs of reality wounding us each day,

enduring hollow platitudes,

cloaked in the veneer of strength we portray.

What are we if not just human,

filling the void with trappings of convenience,

deluded that it will dull the pain,

buffering us from truths that surround us,

losing ourselves within our selves,

celebrating the meaningless ornaments that we attain.

What are we if not just human,

no more and no less,

praying for a salvation beyond this realm,

buying redemption with lofty intent,

crawling in apathetic inebriation,

always on our knees, our backs forever bent.

What are we if not just human,

trying to make sense of all we feel inside,

while in truth the masks we wear,

shrouds ourselves in cocoons to hide.

What are we if not just human,

clinging to scraps we find here and there,

what are we if not just human,

jarring ourselves to care.

What are we if not just human,

rekindling the humanity that resides in us all,

refusing to look away while those around us slip and fall.

What are we if not just human,

striving for a world less harsh, more true,

what are we if not just human,

never forgetting that we all bleed red,

him, her, us, and me and you.

for Palestine: The tears of Olives …

Trickling down shrapnelled flesh,

tears fall,






In the sun,

lifeless bodies

lie cold as stone,

the tears of olives 


salty sentinels

of memory:





the tears of olives

perennially streak,

etching pathways of dust,

between alleyways of desolation,

hopelessly bleak.

The slaughter continues,

as more dead bodies,



Ode to Gaza

art by banksy

Ode to Gaza …

We seal our mouths,

lips sewn shut, the complicity hushed,

furiously wagging silent tongues shushed,

mute, impotent,

the deafening silence apalls,

while we build more and more walls.

Still we remain mute,


human beings, all,

helplessly desolate,

mowed down each day while our sewn lips remain shushed,

and as the forgotten petals of weeping olives,

are strewn about,

brutally crushed.

art by banksy

art by banksy

Talkin’ Death in Gaza Blues …

So, if you want to really know,

what a mother’s agonised scream sounds like,

take a walk in Gaza today.

she will bear her broken heart,

as she bore the coffin that held her 11 month old child’s body,

as it lay lifelessly broken and torn apart.

The mother screams in anger and in pain,

her howls and shrieks echo on the bloodied plain,

so take a walk in Gaza today,

and feel the rage that a mother nurses,

and bear the brunt of a mother’s curses.

You see, she laid her little baby in the cold, blood-soaked ground,

while you diplomats and peacemakers and politicians were buzzing around,

so stop buzzing,

and take a walk in Gaza today,

and for once,

for once,
listen to what a mother has to say,

“they’ve rained down death on us for years,

they’ve torched our olive groves while you have shut your collective ears,

they’ve killed our children over and over and over again,

and we’ve cried oceans of tears that have disappeared down the drain,

so tell me as I cradle my dead baby in my hand,

who gives a damn?”.

This is what you will hear when you walk in Gaza today.

It is what you have heard for years and years now,

and all I can think as I write these words is ‘how?’,

how could you fail,
you peacemakers and diplomats and politicians,

how could you fail the mothers of Gaza,

over and over and over again,

is it because Gaza’s mothers’ tears are forgotten,

because they simply disappear down the drain.

And how can you not stem that ocean of tears,

cried by countless mothers,
and fathers,

and children whose eyes are blinded by inexpressible pain,

whose days are haunted,

not by phantoms,
but by living fears.

So can you take a walk in Gaza today?

and what possibly could you have to say?

to the numberless mothers who have cried oceans of tears,

again and again and again,

or are Gaza’s mothers’ tears forgotten,

because they simply disappear down the drain.

(for the people of Gaza and the Occupied Territories)

art by banksy

with President Nelson Mandela & my father in early 2008 in Johannesburg

Nelson Mandela Centenary

(1918 – 2018)

Nelson Rolihlahla ‘Madiba’ Mandela walked amongst us not long ago.

A man of action forged in the crucible of resistance.

Resistance against racial discrimination.

Resistance against injustice.

Resistance against oppression.

Nelson Rolihlahla ‘Madiba’ Mandela walked amongst us not long ago.

A man burnished in the furnace of struggle.

Struggle to defeat the crime against humanity that was Apartheid.

Struggle against the obscene notions of racial superiority.

Struggle against the scourge of hate.

Nelson Rolihlahla ‘Madiba’ Mandela walked amongst us not long ago.

A human being who personified kindness.

A human being who embodied humility.

A human being who exemplified the unity of our human race.

Nelson Rolihlahla ‘Madiba’ Mandela walked amongst us not long ago.

A man of peace, and a man who fought the just fight.

A man of forgiveness, and a man who battled the Apartheid regime for the need of taking responsibility for the heinous crimes of the past.

A man of truth, and a man of humane love.

Nelson Rolihlahla ‘Madiba’ Mandela walked amongst us not long ago.

He was of flesh and of blood, and he shed his blood as he endured the lashes of the whip on his flesh.

He was of flesh and of blood, and he fought ferociously against the suppression of his fellow human beings.

He was of flesh and of blood, and he emerged with dignity from the hell of twenty-seven years of imprisonment on an island of tyranny.

Nelson Rolihlahla ‘Madiba’ Mandela walked amongst us not long ago.

He was a man of a steely will in the long cause to rid all oppressed people from the yoke of colonialism, he picked up arms and fought the honourable fight.

He was a man of fiery resolve against the scourge of divisiveness, he was at the forefront in the battles against human subjugation and indignity.

Nelson Rolihlahla ‘Madiba’ Mandela walked amongst us not long ago.

Madiba was a revolutionary, in the trenches against the obscenity of poverty and deprivation.

Madiba was a soldier, on the ground in the service of the most vulnerable, the children of this world.

Madiba was unshakeable, and he lived the example of the committed revolutionary and the dignified statesman.

Nelson Rolihlahla ‘Madiba’ Mandela walked amongst us not long ago.

Our beloved Madiba does not walk amongst us anymore.

And yet, Nelson Rolihlahla ‘Madiba’ Mandela lives within us.

Madiba lives in the streams that flow into the rivers that flow into the oceans.

Madiba lives in the winds that blow across the vast lands of Africa and beyond.

Madiba lives in the thud-thudding of heartbeats around our world.

Madiba lives in the veins where the blood flows through our common human form.

Madiba lives!

Madiba will always live!

Nelson Mandela & my father – mid to late 1950s – early 1960s in Johannesburg

A family history through the seasons:

our love story

our shared shore …


Awaiting the arrival of the lapping tide,

abandoning the shells in which we hide,

free from the corrosive acid of traditions’ coarse lies,

sharing a love true,

our hearts in wondrous synchronicity,

beating to the rhythm of the ebbing waves that fall and rise.


We feel the intricate bond that seals us,

from many a thorn that the future may have in store,

yet today, we are finally free, to cast off the many masks we wore,

free at long last,

to grasp the peace,

the love,
the embrace,

of our shared shore …

talking regurgitated impotent worldwide injustice blues …

… I have been here so many times before, spewing forth words that must be by now a repetitive bore.

Scribbling this and that, having said it all so many times, these tired, paltry, meagre words seem to be just cobbled together into rhymes.

All my belched words appear impotent to me today, scribbled over and over again, reeking of stale garbage, stinking in the rain.

Words and emotions felt deep, gnawing at my being, spat out, to ears unhearing, thrust before eyes unseeing.

So I ask myself why carry on this wordy parade, of simplistic rhymes, of grammar unsound, yet feeling compelled to keep going on this endless merry-go-round.

All my walls shattered, my ramparts battered, yet still I need to throw up these words, hither and thither scattered.

I ask myself how can I stop, when most of humanity is used as a ragged mop, when the few like vampires feast on the human blood they suck, squeezing out sweat from the many who are condemned to bleed in the muck.

I see the good people all around me, burying their heads so they never may see, their selfish religiosity on display for all to ooh and aah, while their own religions’ humanistic tenets they keep afar.

The curse of neo-colonialism, neo-imperialism, and of bonded labour, strangle the many, while the 1% their champagne do savour.

Misogyny, child-abuse, spousal and gender violence, hetero-patriarchy, female genital mutilation, in 2018 upon women everywhere is still what is endured, with all dignity slashed, while platitudes are spoken from pulpits, the sham of indignation hypocritically rehashed.

Governments the world over spending trillions on weapons of death, while pleading poverty when it comes to free, dignified, professional health.

The 99% still slaves to the tyranny of shameful wages, the same conditions that have tortured their ancestors through the ages.

Words of struggle and of principled defiance, words like ‘freedom’, ‘democracy’, ‘justice’, ‘equality’, have been cynically pilfered, by those in the corridors of business and of political power, while choking grimy dust across the planet does continually shower.

My mother is still paid so much less, than the very men who conjured up this economic mess, and if she demands higher wages she is castigated for the thoughts, while the business tycoons, the government men blather on about their newly-acquired luxury yachts.

The struggles of Nelson Mandela and of Martin Luther King, are neatly repackaged gutting out their sting, remodelled to be acceptable, while burying the essence of their revolutionary call, the demand for free education, health, housing, dignity, justice and work for all.

We wear these icons of resistance on t-shirts made in sweatshops in Bangladesh, the ultimate betrayal of their sacrifice, of the humane values they espoused, while the fires of resistance are with brutal, apathetic drivel doused.

This planet, our common earth, is being pummelled each day, nature itself is for profit ravaged, caring not that we shall leave behind an earth that has been for greed savaged.

When by the most powerful, ugly male egotistical, macho posturing is bleated out, beating the drums and threatening endless for-profit wars, the rest of us are petrified, for the mighty have long reaching claws.

Racist notions of supremacy are bandied about without a murmur of indignation, the evils of casteism, religious fanaticism, tribal and narrow sectarianism, grotesque nationalism, gay bashing, and misogynist sewage is poured with glee, and still we turn our collective heads, pretending we can’t see.

When speaking truth to power is deemed a capital crime, how impotent I feel scribbling yet another listless rhyme.

When societies are structured to create a craving for the materialistic trappings of capitalism, how easily tainted into swear words are the values of socialism.

What is demanded are not mansions of ostentatious gaudy gold, each replete with a marbled hall, but water, food, electricity, dignified work, health, education, housing, and peace and dignity for all.

They truly want us divided, on religious, caste, racial, narrow nationalistic, sexual orientation, male-female, and all the other lies, while all the while the hungry child for just some food cries.

They know if we break out of our narrow cocoons, they shall have to face the wrath of a united world, a world become one, for then none of their machinations shall suppress us, and only then shall our truest battles be hard won.

I may be a hypocrite for scribbling these rhymes, but then so are you for not hearing the bell tolling for a radical changing of the times.

How long will it take for us to rise, to dissent, to question everything that has been to us said, from the economy to religion to race, class, and to gender too, what will it take me to see what is right in front of me, and for you to see what is right in front of you.

When shall we cast off these shackles that imprison us, the shackles of apathy and of looking the other way, not realising that together we can and should and must strive for a better day, not perhaps to rid us of all suffering and all pain, all oppression, and perhaps not in one fell swoop, but at least taking our first steps towards progressive progression.

These scribbled, worthless words, seem nothing but an empty vessel drummed on and on each day,

but from the heart I do write,

about what I believe to be wrong,

and what I believe to be right.

Yet still the talons of grotesque for-profit dig deep,

buy one and get two for freemium today,

and all this under the benevolent gaze of Mandela and MLK,

Biko and Tambo and Sisulu,

Lumumba and Hani and Ché …

a taste of you

tasting you, breathing you,

feeling you,

                    exquisite bittersweet touches,

undulating, swaying in the johannesburg breeze,


  just knowing you,

       infuses emotions of mirth,

of simple joys,

                         of peace.

Freedom Day 27th April 2018

Freedom Day 27th April 2018 …

The shackles have been cast off.

The chains broken.

A people once squashed,

under the jackboot of Apartheid,

are free.

Free at last!

Freedom came on the 27th day in that April of 1994.

Freedom from prejudice.

From institutionalized racism.

From being relegated to second-class citizens.

Freedom came and we danced.

We cried.

We ululated as we elected

our revered Mandela.

President Nelson Mandela.

Our very own beloved ‘Madiba’.

Black and white and brown and those in-between.

All hues of this rainbow nation,

rejoiced as we breathed in the air of freedom and democracy.

Today we pause.

We remember.

We salute.

The brave ones whose sacrifices made this day possible,

on that 27th day of April,

24 years ago.

Today we dance.

We sing.

We ululate.

We cry.

Tears of joy and tears of loss.

Of remembrance and of forgiveness.

Of reconciliation and of memories.

Today we pause.

We acknowledge the tasks ahead.

The hungry.

The naked.

The destitute.

Today we reaffirm,

that promise of freedom.

From want.

From hunger.

From eyes without promise.

Today we also wish to reflect.

On unfulfilled promises.

On the proliferation of greed.

On the blurring of the ideals of freedom.

Today we say:

We will take back the dream.

We will renew the promise.

We will not turn away.

Today we pledge:

To stand firm.

To keep the pressure turned on.

To remind those in the corridors of power,

that we the people need to savor the fruits of the tree of freedom*.

And till that time,

when all shall share in the bounty of democracy,

We shall remain vigilant,

and strong.

And we shall continue,

to struggle.

And to sing out loud,

“We shall overcome”


take a stroll with me

come take a stroll with me, to our piece of heaven,

the bylanes of our childhood, the alleyways of our youth,

come take a stroll with me, to our abode of peace,

a gurgling brook trickling down distant mountains,

the roar of the oceans lappin our feet,

come take a stroll with me, down blinding highways of lost smiles,

across empty deserts, traversing far too many miles.

come with me, and I will stand by you,

come along with me,

where we may be,


free to be

a love enough

a love enough …

She threw her arms around me, hugging me close.

“Why do you love me?“, I asked her.

“Our love is unfettered. uncaged.”, she said.

“I have nothing to offer you.”, I said, my eyes drowning in hers.

“Your love is true.”, she said.

“That is enough”.

“And it will always be”.

love unrhymed

Kiss by the Hotel de Ville, 1950 by Robert Doisneau

love unrhymed …

you have sown the seeds, of an exquisite garden – in a tucked away part of my heart – where wild roses bloom, their fragrance infusing my entire being.

you have begun to flow through the synapses, the dendrites, the neural network of my mind – electrifying me beyond measure – a fusion of love sublime.

you rest within my all – my soul finding a soulmate – and as our fingers touched, a fire was lit, consuming my days and my desolate nights.

you have breathed life into me, your presence a whispering stream – the cool waters offering respite from this worlds heat – as thoughts of you swim through my veins.

yes, you have breathed life into me.

is there anything more that I can say?

pure romantic mush

Pure romantic mush …

My love for you knows no bounds, it rises high in our shared sky, soaring above the mountains, mingling in the streams,

my love for you lives in the air that I breathe, in the beating of my heart, in the flourishes of my sketched dreams.

My love for you is a flaming torch, a light guiding me through the crevasses of daily life, a lighthouse inviting me when I get lost in the fog,

a beacon of hope eternal, a constant feeling of bliss, afloat on the clouds, reaching down to lift me up, when I get mired in my desolate bog.

My love for you races through my veins, the furnace of desire scalding my lonely nights, in moments when for a kiss I desperately ache,

having tasted the nectar of your lips, our tongues swirling in a passionate dance, your fragrance infusing every breath that I take.

My love for you is honest and true, not a mere passing phase, not a temporary trance, but all-enveloping and felt deep,

healing my wounds, encompassing us both in the coolness of the shade, through the years, as time nudges us forward, while the shadows of age in the distance creep.

My love for you is difficult to express, it is a sprinkling of the truest emotions, laid bare for the world to see, my yearning heart in the cauldron of your love, exquisitely simmering,

a continuum of passion, surpassing the years in between, firmly rooted in my soul, as our wrinkled hands remain clasped, beneath the stars that have never stopped shimmering.

Our love has faced many a test of time, though we have walked together, the fragility of this life never taken for granted, and as we look back on this bond that has knotted us together,

as the twilight beckons us, we walk towards the horizon, as we have always done, holding each other close, through the rains, the storms, the sunshine, through it all, however harsh lifes’ weather.

Cricket, The Beatles, and You …

I remember those scorching summer days, on the bus home from school,

as exhausted as I was, when I walked past you, I tried to look so cool.

You sat on the steps to your block of flats, engrossed in your book,

hardly noticing me at all, while my heart thud-thudded and my legs like jelly shook.

I remember every night as I lay in bed awaiting sleep,

you swirled in my mind, your silence a well which was so unfathomable, so very deep.

The sweaty days of summer didn’t deter us at all, flinging our school bags and racing to the park,

cricket bat in hand and thoughts of you reading you book, simmering within me, an undousable spark.

The friends were always waiting, setting up the cricket field, stumps in the ground,

while I took my position as fielder on the boundary, to keep stealing glances at you as the park erupted into cricket’s familiar sound,

the crack of leather on bat, the ball racing for a four,

always trying to loft a six, for the ball to come to a rest at the steps of your door.

My friend loved your cousin across the street, and I loved you dearly as teenagers do, so we hatched plans to speak, him to your cousin, and I to you.

After the cricket and when most friends drifted away, my best friend and I sat underneath our tree,

strategically chosen so that he may catch a glimpse of your cousin, and I of thee.

We sang Beatles’ songs until we were hoarse,

belting out ‘All my Loving’ repeatedly of course.

My friend and I sat under that tree for years, our love an unrequited ache,

as we whistled ‘Careless Whispers’ meant just for your sake.

We often day dreamed of futures of love and joy,

while the hearts in our chests thud-thudded on, the simple love of a besotted boy.

Well the years passed as they always do,

I still managed to never say a word to you,

my friend as well remained silent as a church mouse,

as time took its toll, and as we drifted away to other cities, moving so many a house.

We often reminisce about those carefree days, when life was so much more innocent, when cricket and you consumed my world,

while through the years the ravages of time have dimmed that spirit, as the reality of true life before us unfurled.

So it was a thrilling moment for my friend and I, as we arranged to meet,

all grown up now, but back in the old neighbourhood, the first to arrive would sit under our tree on our old street.

We met at last, our bellies a bit heavier now, our hair greying with age,

as we sat down beneath our tree, just the two of us, back on our centre stage.

We sang old Beatles’ songs and we whistled ‘Careless Whispers’, thinking about all that could have been,

of how life tamed our wild hearts, of how nothing resembled the nostalgic shades through which we had those olden days seen.

We talked and laughed as evening crawled by, our hearts heavy with emotions of days gone by,

even as we bid our farewells, and promised to keep in touch, we hugged as felt time fly.

Yet as I walked passed those steps where you used to decades ago sit, engrossed in your book,

I must admit, my heart thud-thudded, and my feet like jelly, once again, shook.

art by banksy

talkin’ humanity on the rocks blues …

I’ll have my blue label whiskey neat, while the 99% search for tossed-out leftovers to eat,

I’ll shuck my oysters while all around me people dig for scraps in the much,

I’ll wear my crocodile skin shoes, while to everyone I bemoan the stock-market blues,

draped in haute-couture, I walk in suits of fine silk, while on capitalisms’ teat I suckle and milk,

my friends and I on golf courses close many a business deal, and just like woody said – we cackle as with our gold-tipped fountain pens we pillage and steal,

I’ve flooded markets with stuff made in sweatshops where teenage girls are shackled, while against more market control I have consistently prattled,

my home is a palatial mansion, and just one of the many that I possess, while billions barely live in slums that don’t even have an address,

I smirk and smoothly do the television rounds, hailing deregulation, while maneuvering for neo-liberalism to run rampant, without any bounds,

I bribe the vulnerable, and do so around the clock, to further my interests, while I wear the mask of mock-shock,

I walk and I talk with conceit, my arrogance far too gone to be shed, as I lay conformably with the governments and corporations with whom I share a bed,

and I know that my image is all important for the markets not to stutter and never to shake, so I make grandiose pronouncements of the charity I give, though always carving out a healthy chunk for a beneficial tax-break,

yes this is me, the capitalist who sees only profit for profits’ sake, my eyes never wavering from the ticker of shares, bonds, and stocks,

while I, and all of my ilk bash humanity in all its forms, harshly and cruelly, in perpetuity, against the jagged rocks …

e m o t i o n s

the sum of all emotions …

feelings fade, vanishing into the wisps of departing time,

lost in the echoes of paltry scribbled rhyme,

their embers simmering, emotions like ash, into the skies gently climb,

whispers murmuring, hushed into silence – a tragic pantomime,

while I claw and crawl, seeking a glimpse, of your beauty sublime.

Alas, ’twas not to be,

I pushed you away, far beyond what my eyes could see,

yet I smiled, tasting my salty tears, as I witnessed thee,

flying away from the pain, into the bluest skies,

to be yourself at last,

always true,

forever free


On Sale: Beauty

On Sale: Beauty

You have told me that you are not beautiful, that you are overweight, that you possess no allure,

still with your head on my chest, and my fingers stroking your hair, you possess the most exquisite beauty, sensuous, desirable, and pure.

There are many women in this world, as there are men, whom society deems beautiful and handsome, the magazines and advertisements sell us an illusion, to believe that that is the norm,

yet you are my most lovely, for I love all of you, your body, mind, heart and soul, for what do they know of true love, as they remain shackled to a singular form.

I have told you that I am overweight, not presenting the most breathtaking sight, and with your head on my chest, and your fingers clasped with mine,

you have told me that I am your lovely, beyond what society projects as being captivating, the temporary gloss, the photoshopped shine.

We share a life of beauty, ablaze in the furnace of yearning hunger, inflamed in the cauldron of burning need,

we shall never allow them to sell us their plastic smiles, their superficial veneer of of commercialised beauty, on which they expect us all to slavishly feed.

We have each other, beautiful, wondrous and enveloped in true love’s blissful joy, and try as they might, they will never sell us that facade, that cellophane illusion,

their monthly “brand new skin-care revolution”,

for we are bound by the truest love that transcends their glossy untruths, and we refuse to buy into their charade, their superficial delusion.

art by banksy

This life and our Love

Art by Picasso

This life and our Love …

I have walked these broken streets, across pavements off shattered glass,

where once roamed love, unfettered, free,

soaring into the infinite starlit night, plunging into the deepest leagues of the sea.

I have walked these thorny paths, my feet bruised and torn,

ever searching for simple love, to live within me,

to walk the beaches of my dreams, to rest, to tenderly be.

I have whispered odes to phantom love, breathing murmurs in the hope of belonging,

dancing a tango with the swaying of the willows, waltzing in the afternoon breeze,

to be with my love, under the gently sashaying trees.

I have whispered scribbles, sketched on your bare back,

feeling your soft skin as my fingers swirl and tease,

surrendering to you, as I choose to remain, before you, on my knees.

You have settled in my soul, an eternal part of who I am,

through your pristine eyes, you have bequeathed unto me the gift of seeing,

my love for you, now rests, in the innermost recesses of my being.

You have settled, in the crevasses that once pockmarked my battered life,

your love has unshackled my deepest emotions, your presence has been truly freeing,

you have washed ashore, cleansing my world, banishing the shadows as they scurry away, fleeing.

The world that surrounds us, is but a fickle illusion,

where vows are taken, oaths sputtered, in sickness and in health, to love and to hold forever more,

while behind the facade, more lies abound, hearts trampled underfoot, swept away off the sanitised floor.

Ah! but your love and mine is nothing like that, we have nothing much but love to give, nothing to hold onto except one another,

it is our bond, nurtured intricately, deeply forged over these long years, that has been the glue that has held us together over the years, the decades, and the ravages of time,

all the while you have patiently tolerated my quirks, and hand in hand we this mountain of love have continued to climb,

for what we share with each other, is a love genuine and true, and ever so sublime,

reaching far beyond my scribbled verses, never falling for the all-too inviting pantomime,

yet overcoming so much, so very much of my paltry rhyme.

Art by Picasso

The Female and Male Dynamic

The Female and Male Dynamic …

As I lay, catatonic, on the cold concrete ground,

you picked me up when I was the most fragile, with whispers of your voice the only sound.

You soothed my wounds, you stemmed the blood,

you lifted me up, holding me as I lay mired in life’s mud.

My days had been pockmarked with episodes of emptiness and gloom,

it was you who lifted the blinding shroud, bathing me in the sunlight, dispelling the encroaching doom.

You pulled me, yanked me back from the yawning abyss,

you took me into your life, filling my days and nights with peace and bliss.

Then, as so many men do, I took you and your love for granted, squashing the roses you had so lovingly planted.

You stayed with me through my indifference, quietly nursing your pain, while my memory was ghastly, as I conveniently ignored that it was you, who helped me up to my feet again, assisting me to regain my youth,

I chipped at your love, chiselling away a lack of empathy and of truth, my behaviour like so many of my gender, ungrateful and uncouth.

You stuck it out for as long as you could, you still had hope that in time I would, be the man you dug out of the mire with your own bare hands,

yet my conceit, my ever inflating arrogance, my ‘male ego’ was all that remained of that man you loved, without even traces of our love, slipping through my fingers like apathetic strands.

Though my callous actions were personal and without an inch of gratitude,

it is common amongst my gender, to be this selfish, so puffed-up on machismo, so lost in our male superficial impotent attitude.

I know now that my actions were distasteful, to say the least, and I cannot take the tears as they flow.

I shall not even try to beg apologies, for they are hollow, and as worthless as male contrition go.

Is this how the male of the species behaves, when love takes him in and offers solace immeasurable,

when he once again stands on his feet, and his macho ego is healed and back to its ugly self, why does he willfully blind himself to become merely bearable.

I have failed as a man, as a human being, to so many pure souls who have been my safe haven, who have offered me their love,

their kindest love in times when I needed it most, they showered me with tender care like the soft rains above.

What else can I say as a man, the misogynist, the sexist, the predator, the absentee father, the abusive husband, the child molester, the man who is fuelled by nothing more than the lust for power,

the man who twists words, gaslights, and always, always, takes pleasure when all others in front of him cower.

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