Artwork from Google
let us kiss …
let us kiss, deep and slow, in our long African night, beneath this carpet of stars, bathed in hues of soft light, far away from the clamour of each day, to our very own place where palm trees sashay and sway, far from the echoes of pain, to be washed pure by our African rain, so come with me, let us be free, leaving it all behind, to be, to simply be …
Artwork from Google
“Billie Holiday” by Banksy
quasi-philosophical scribble …
whispers echo,
stumbling, crawling,
caught in sandstorms,
trudging across deserts,
strewn with famished hearts,
staying afloat,
somehow,
ceaselessly bashed by merciless tides,
gasping for breath,
deep in oceans of misplaced tears,
ever wary of tomorrow,
as another dawn nears,
carrying the scars,
scabs still unhealed,
raw,
souls battered,
sliced by the elements,
fate, destiny,
while,
free smiles are caged,
remaining shackled,
mangled,
through myriad threads,
hopelessly entangled,
here, now, today,
drowning out the whispers of hope,
love reigned in,
back to now,
away from placid streams,
far from sunsoaked dreams,
to awake back here,
without you by my side,
as years shamble on,
exhausting my weary eyes,
dripping blood,
shedding tears,
with nowhere,
nowhere at all,
left to hide …
Artwork from Google
faded photographs …
polished floors, paint dripping from fresh walls, tiles laid, house and home sparkling …
souls desolate, hearts unbeating, smiles jaded, ruffling through photographs,
now packed away someplace,
forgotten,
faded …
Artwork from Google
Artwork from Google
a few more days … … …
as the branch of the oak sashays,
solitary palms undulate, and sway,
i count the days,
till i feel your loving gaze,
your soul, your heart ablaze,
i count the days,
till our separate ways,
dispel the haze,
i count the days,
when seeing you will make my eyes with desire glaze,
i count the days,
mattering not what cards fate plays,
i count the days,
till destiny’s highways,
merge, embracing the sun’s scorching rays,
for as awake this man lays,
the need, the hunger, the desire aching and ravenous, stays,
as i think of you,
counting the days,
until our seduced souls through the night skies blaze,
i count on you,
counting the days,
when the need for each other whisperingly says,
for you, i have crested the waves,
knowing my hunger for you may be a craze,
a craze that shall abide, firmly rooted, in nights and in days,
as i remain still,
counting these remaining moments, for you my being entire craves,
i lie awake,
counting the days,
lying awake, counting these minutes, these days … …
Artwork from Google
Artwork from Google
I am the Heartbeat of Africa …
I am the heartbeat of Africa. The blood flowing through its veins, and I have seen much. I have witnessed the the pummelling of peoples under the jackboot of colonialism, the plunder of wealth, stripping bare the very veins I flow through. I have urged the collective to stand tall, amidst the horrors of history. It has not been easy, the tyranny of centuries has left scars, raw scabby festering sores, my thumping scarlet oozing out of myriad pores, rendering the great continent pained, hollow … but still, and yet, I course inside millions of souls, refusing to capitulate, thick with hopes for the day and the days after the day. I have placated the wounded, the multitudes forgotten, the bodies seeking respite from the loss, the anger, the deprivation of spirits undimmed by the splintered darkness of racial prejudice. I have seen so much, children torn from loving embraces, mothers holding on, as the world turns its face away, conveniently absolving itself of its crimes. I have felt the hardening of arteries, the will to fight on, despite the overwhelming odds.
yes, I am the blood of Africa.
and I shall continue to flow, coaxing my people to rise again, to summon up the valiant spirits of the ancestors, to stand and to fight against the insidious doublespeak of tongues, silken tongues peddling instruments of death, shunning the divides that separate one from another, to rise and greet the fresh blazing African sun, each day, every day, until that day when the daily battles cease, when the battles are done.
yes, I am the blood of Africa, and I shall flow ever on, sowing hope where desolation stalks the evenings, I am hope for tomorrows dawn, for despite and inspite of it all, the new day of peace, of renewed hope, must be, must be born …
Artwork from The Nelson Mandela Foundation
Artwork from Google
I am Hope …
I am the hope that soars, high above our shared African lands – a hope that skips over rainbows, the hope that trudges over the horrors of yesterday.
I am hope, smiling through tears that stain the soil, the hope that echoes across the valleys and plains, I am the hope of days to come.
I am hope, thud-thudding in countless hearts, lost at times amidst the detritus of history.
I am hope.
embrace me, do not turn me away, hug me as I yearn to hug you. cherish me as I do you.
I am hope. I will prevail …
From Google
Artwork by Banksy
a child of war and terror …
as she lies bleeding,
the girl who skipped, hopped to school,
all of nine and a half years old,
with ribbons in her hair and a laugh that was her father’s pride.
as she lies bleeding,
shrapnel lodged in her torn stomach,
she stares at her skipping rope,
blood soaking it the colour of cherries her mother buys.
as she lies bleeding,
she sees human shapes all around, thick in the black smoke,
blurred visions of scattering feet,
shoes left behind,
hearing nothing but the pinging in her smashed eardrums.
as she lies bleeding,
she slips away and then she is dead,
a mangled heap of a nine and a half year old girl,
whose laugh was her father’s pride.
as she lies bleeding,
even in death she bleeds some more,
shrapnel wedged in her torn stomach,
stealing the light from her bright innocent eyes.
as she lies bleeding …
in jallianwala bagh in ‘19,
johannesburg in ’93,
leningrad in ‘42,
freetown in ‘98,
soweto in ‘76,
beirut in ‘85,
hanoi in ‘68,
st. bernadino,
manchester,
baghdad,
brussels,
london,
tel aviv,
tripoli,
miami,
jenin,
paris,
kabul,
raqqa,
basra,
mosul,
gaza,
aleppo still,
ghouta now.
as she lies bleeding,
a little nine and a half year old girl,
whose laugh was her parent’s pride,
we know she’ll bleed more,
tomorrow and in many tomorrows yet unborn,
with shrapnel in her stomach,
ripped open and torn.
as she lies bleeding,
a child of war and terror …
Artwork by Banksy
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
The African Rains …
Soaking,
the rains settle,
meandering over jagged faultlines of our memory.
Drenching,
the rains settle,
streaming through veins,
the thud-thudding of the heartbeat of Africa.
Absorbing,
the rains that settle,
within each of us,
herald rebirth.
And,
if you listen,
if you strain to hear,
while shedding the raucous noise of your inner turmoil.
If you listen,
the whispers of the ancestors,
speak to us all,
lending us warmth,
urging us to stand,
even though we may stumble,
even though we may fall.
Artwork from Google
Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.
(January 15 1929 – April 4 1968)
1.
You had a dream, of pastures of peace,
where children of all hues mingle like rainbows.
2.
They silenced you, yet your dream
resounds louder still,
in pastures not yet of peace,
where children of all hues mingle like rainbows.
3.
You said that you had been to the mountain top,
they tried to strangle your voice as you saw the promised land,
those pastures of peace,
where children of all hues mingle like rainbows.
4.
Today your dream is glimpsed in pastures,
not yet of peace,
for though they tried to silence your voice,
your spirit in our collective hearts does rejoice.
5.
Your spirit, your dream,
mingles in the winds of all those pastures,
over the valleys, in the oceans, across the mountains,
in every flowing stream.
6.
Today, your dream lives in the wind,
seeding the prairies, the steppes, the savannahs, the pampas,
pastures of peace,
where children of all hues mingle like rainbows.
7.
We remember you today,
with a shared pledge to nourish those pastures of peace,
in each of us,
where your dream may thrive,
blossoming into our shared dream,
bounteous, and alive.
8.
Your dream realised shall then seem,
where children of all hues mingle like rainbows,
when we give life to the promise of the radiance of your beautiful dream …
artwork from google
The Autobiography – coming soon!
talkin’ born to run springsteen blues … …
i have lost myself,
so often,
tripping over the tangled barbs,
here and there and everywhere i have been,
splintering me more,
each time we hauled ass,
and where once i tried to sew myself whole,
now i know,
sure,
all the random trivia,
a bit of this
but not much of much at all,
that’s the truth,
and i’ll stick to it,
go ahead,
haul me up against the wall,
but now, you see,
that now i see a little more,
cutting deep to the core,
i’ve been putting on a show,
playing the part,
cowardly,
callow,
hollow,
empty,
blind-mans bowl,
and chillingly,
effortlessly,
almost now,
clanging on,
the same old song,
the tired old dance,
but then again having strutted once,
puffy,
conceited ego,
once,
and since i have been humbled,
many times since,
this old shell has had some touch-up, and some paint,
but still,
typecast,
twisted,
playing the sad old role,
vagabond castaway,
misfit whatever,
neither here nor there,
and not that i don’t,
(pretend, at leas) to care,
i am tired of the perennial fare,
this endless fair,
playing the skin i shed yesterday,
slipping into my new skin today,
vaulting myself high,
perched up,
on the mantle,
tucked away,
between suburban pomposity,
and expected holier-than-thouness,
but now after all these years,
and after all these miles and after all these tears,
i think i am able to get through the times,
when my burden of sins,
keeps kicking me in the shins,
because one thing i know is what you said,
what you said, man, was true,
i remember it was during one of your pre-song talk-in/intro/philosophical detours on that never-ending highway,
i remember it time and time,
i’ll remember it always,
again and again,
each time i’m kicked in the shins,
remember, you said,
“… remember, in the end, no one wins unless everyone wins.”
The Big Man and The Boss
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
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 … …
Artwork from Google
Album cover from Google
talkin’ walkin’ along bobby dylan bluesy blues …
Why does the sun dry up so many scattered tears
Slipping down the coarse cheek of a million hushed fears
Where no one is scalded though the searing fog clears
While prayers are mutely spoken even as the end nears
We shatter and scrape on demented knees
Blindly begging for mercy as it silently flees
Searching listlessly for salvation drowned in the breeze
That spits at the soft rose suffocated by a wheeze
I know now what I need never have known
Of hope that was trampled before it had flown
Into a wasted sky filled with hate that could drown
The giggling of the crowd and the crying of the clown
A hope so fragile its wings were of brittle glass
Ripping the veneer off the sewers of class
Twisting the fabric of the weighed and costed mass
Who numbly waited hoping that it too may pass
For when shards of that hope in all hearts scurries away
To a darkness where crowded night is emptied off the heaving tray
’Tis then when sewn eyes behold that doleful day
When all shall tear at each other while on demented knees we still pray
For a lifting of the veil of that wilful deceit
That’s wrapped up in a flag swollen with conceit
While the limbs splinter in the claw of a winner’s defeat
Yet still the drums roll for the ill-fated souls chose never to retreat
From that drenched battleground where blood flows through a sieve
And love’s lost song plaintively begs for a reprieve
From eternal loss which into raw emotion does cleave
Only to slip through the fingers and like grains of sand leave …
( for Bob Dylan )
Book cover from Google
Artwork from Google
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 …
Artwork from Google
talkin’ racism shattered unblues …
walking along these roads one day,
i met a stranger with much to say.
the stranger and i sat down to dine,
sharing each others crumbs and water under the warm sunshine,
we got to talking about our lives as such,
and as strangers do at first we didn’t say much,
but the warm sunshine and the delicious crumbs of food we shared,
moved us to talk and slowly to each other our souls we bared,
we were not alike, in every possible conventional norm,
yet as we chatted we felt a kindred spirit begin to form,
it matters not who the stranger was, it matters not the stranger’s race and religion and caste and tribe,
as we spoke for hours of this world, these differences amplified by those who feed off hate, the poisoned chalice of apartheidness we were continually given to imbibe,
we spoke of common travails, of the woes that assail us, of the troubles and joys of walking the different paths we chose to walk,
we shared the solace of our common humanity, a feeling of being one with another human being, as we for long whiles sat in enveloping silence, with no need to talk,
we sang the songs of where we came from, we whistled so many of our unique and different tunes,
as the knots of being human were binding us together, soaring over the savanna, the prairies, the oceans, the mountains, and the dusty dunes,
we laughed and we reflected, we acknowledged the sadness all of us humans share, of the thorns and the nettles, each of us talking of our personal pain,
as our cheeks streamed with tears in the coolness of a gentle passing shower of rain,
we knew not each others language, we merely spoke and cried and sang and shared as we ate from our chipped weatherbeaten plate,
we could not understand each others words, yet we understood more than we ever could, banishing the intolerance, the racism, and we doused the furnace of hate,
the stranger and i soon parted ways, with a smile and handshake and a warm tight hug,
and as i walked away, i felt so much lighter, no longer feeling the need for all the baggage i used to lug.
the stranger and i shared one of the rarest thing i could ever find,
stripping away the colour of our skin, the gods we prayed to, the different shapes of our features, the things that in this world separate us, yes, we left all of that behind,
if only for an instant, if only for some hours spent together on our home, this earth, our common ground, our shared space …
… if only for an instant, if only for some hours spent together on our home, this earth, our common ground, our shared space,
one world,
one human race …
Artwork from Google
incoherent (like life) …
… slipping through empty breaths sliding down on bent knees scraping raw flesh against cold skin hollow kisses falling to the desolate floor swept up discarded trashed recycled churned out strewn littered alongside barricaded hearts yearning to feel again to touch to taste to ache to be human once more to know to believe that one can feel that one can hear and see and dig beneath the veneer of sophisticated tinny smiles flinging around casually barbed words meant to jab gnawing at the core of all that makes us human the sting of tears the taste of salt the dripping red bleeding off roses in quaint gardens pruned to perfection yet dead inside numbed into comfortable complacency as the world turns threatening the linearity of time that prays for returns while this heart this soul this being within the cauldron of palpable loss simply burns …
Artwork from Google
.
Comrade Nelson Mandela and my father sometime in the 1950s or early 1960s
Comrade Nelson Mandela and my father sometime in the 2000s
Comrade Nelson Mandela and I – Stockholm Sweden mid 1990
.
.
.
.
Today, as our thoughts and tears and love flow to our beloved President Nelson Mandela,
We, human-beings the world over,
say thank you, Madiba!
Thank you for your life, a life of principle,
a life of struggle,
of torture, of pain, of loss,
of a selflessness that you have embodied so completely.
In this often cold and callous world,
where we have been jaded by war, by intolerance, by racism, prejudice, and so so much economic and social injustice,
your living spirit shall live on!
your body, that has endured so so much,
your heart, your mind, your very self, which injustice and tyranny tried so hard to break,
shines on!
Your spirit shines and shall be the torch that we, your children the world over,
shall carry forward …
you may be struggling for life today,
but you have breathed life,
into the hearts of countless downtrodden people this world over.
I don’t know what to say,
my heart breaks today,
I want to cry, and I am crying now,
with a sense of loss and of sadness that I have felt when my mother passed away,
I cry for my loss, selfishly,
but I know you have walked the long walk to freedom,
the long and arduous walk from struggle and sacrifice to healer and peacemaker and statesman and father, yes,
father to us all …
I will miss you, My father,
I will miss your comforting presence,
I shall miss your smile,
and mostly I shall miss the gentle solace that you imbibed in us all,
your children the world over …
Live on, you shall, Madiba!
In the shacks of the Sowetos of the world, you shall live on in that eternal quest for economic freedom,
in the eyes of the pained and tortured,
you shall live on!
in the whispered prayers,
the silent thoughts,
of the dispossessed of this world who still continue to be left behind in this cruel world,
you shall live on!
Thank you, Nelson Mandela, as you make your way to join the ancestors.
Hamba Kahle* Comrade President Nelson Rolihlahla “Madiba” Mandela!
Travel well, and go peacefully
* – Hamba Kahle – an isiXhosa and isiZulu term meaning “travel well” – often used when bidding someone farewell, but in the Apartheid South African context is was meant to bid farewell to fallen comrades
Comrade Nelson Mandela voting for the first time 27th April 1994
A Poem – 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!
with Comrade and President Nelson Mandela at tjr Nelson Mandela Foundation in Johannesburg early 2008
She, and I* …
I met her in another time,
the bus-stop sheltering us from the slicing hail,
I smiled, she did too,
as the wind screeched a shrilly wail.
Our bus splashed us with mud and we laughed,
we were never ones for fashion,
the books we carried were our escape,
the books were our world, our warmly hugged passion.
I asked her if we could sit together and she said yes,
we were two awkward souls,
both uncomfortable in our very own dark holes.
Our friendship blossomed in that unforgettable spring,
that humid year of lashing rain,
we talked and we laughed, we cried and we screamed,
we hollered at the world, wildly bellowing out our shared pain.
We were never a couple, we did not hold hands, we did not kiss,
we talked of escape from this place of emptiness so bleak,
and at times we just shared the silence,
no words needed to speak.
She was my anchor, and she said I was her balm, we shared a love of a different hue, as we danced in the monsoon rain,
our tears mingling with our gnawing pain.
We laughed as we shared the stories of our lives,
we sat quietly when we knew we had to leave,
we knew the knife of our present sliced souls, and like butter, into hearts did cleave.
We stood in the open expanse,
we cried, wishing each other good luck,
that one day so many moons ago,
and still,
now,
at this moment,
my tears flow …
__________________
* – inspired by the Keane song “Sovereign Light Café“
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=bH13eUiDhmo
Sovereign Light Cafe, Bexhill-on-Sea
Buchenwald Concentration Camp (1979)
walking towards horror,
my seven year old eyes,
were sewn open on that day at Buchenwald.
the reeking stench of death
was by now,
lost to the winds,
and ahead,
stood Buchenwald Concentration Camp.
Never Again!
we have said,
over and over,
and over and over,
but, but,
as Erich Fried* wrote,
it happened,
it is happening now,
and it will go on happening if nothing is done to stop it from ever happening again**
____________________
* Erich Fried 1921 – 1988.
http://allpoetry.com/Erich-Fried
** taken from and inspired by Erich Fried’s poem “What Happens”
http://poetrypill.blogspot.com/2009/04/what-happens.html?m=1
