The Whispering Leaf …

The Whispering Leaf …

1.

Infinite tendrils,
weave exquisite meanders,

sketching an immaculate, delicate sheaf,

while morning’s dew whispers,

tales of forgotten woes, of vanished yesterdays,

scribbled on the solitary leaf.

2.

Murmurs float gently across lonesome trees,

in distant forests lush and dense,

caressing waltzing grasses in a sensual dance,

coquettishly inflaming every sense.

3.

Listen!

For the murmurs whisper to us all,

listen intently,

as the whispers recall,

countless crushed memories of many a lovers call …

Listen!

For the whispering leaf shares,

tales traversing distances,

to you, to me,
if we only still our raucous minds,

gazing upon each leaf,

dispelling the mirage of the superficial lives we lead,

revealing to us the truths that lie just beneath.

the duality of time

 

      

 

 

the duality of time …

 

   

 

time

erodes.
loves, lives, hearts.

 

 

souls, spirits, selves …

time

mends,
wounds
a salve,

a balm.

 

knowing only that

in the end,

 

there shall be,

 

only
stillness,

silence,
peace,

calm.

 

 

 

 

 

for women everywhere

for women everywhere …

they said she was opinionated.

they castigated her for not following the norm.

they dismissed her for being “loud-mouthed”.

they spoke disparagingly of her for flouting cultural, religious, sectarian narrow-minded claptrap.

they damned her for unclipping her wings, as she soared free into the open skies.

she is you. 

and may you always be you …

​in love with hope

​in love with hope …

she comes to me,

offering solace, gentle words whispered in my ear,

she placates me,

her words a tender caress, dispelling fear,

she seduces me, as sure as she breathes fire into my soul,

she teases me, offering glimpses of the promise of being whole,

she heals me, when i’m down, battered blue black,

she picks me up, shuffling my self as bones achingly crack.

in love with her, i know now, without her, i would not cope,

in love with her, i know now, she is abiding hope,

hope lives,

hope breathes,

always … 

for Ché. Assassinated this day 50 years ago

for Ché

(14 June 1928 – 9 October 1967)

The Wind Carries His Name.

They shot him down,
to silence a man of flesh and bone.

Even as the bullets tore through him,

the wind carried his name.

Far across the weary fields,
high above the stubborn peaks,

over the blood soaked streams,

the wind carried his name.

They shot him down,

to silence a man of flesh and bone.

Yet the wind carries his name,

to you and to me,

to them and to us.

They shot him down,

but his name resounds,

as it floats on the breeze.

They still try to shoot him down

to silence us all, 

to stifle an ideal.

But the wind cannot be stilled,

and the wind carries his name.

Ché

(50th Anniversary of the assassination of Ché)
               _________
my Chè tattoo – right arm

if i only could

if i could …

if i could sip the nectar of your honey-soaked lips, etching poems on your burnished skin with my fingertips,

if i could embrace you, enveloping your body whole, whispering odes to love mined deep from my famished soul,

if i could share this desolate life turned true by your side, no longer fleeing, nor searching for places to hide,

if i could, if i only could.

i would …

freeversing the blues

freeversing the blues …

tears trickle down far too many a cheek,

while bigotry and hate like raw sewage reek,

down these cellophane faces in plastic towns,

while hope in the well of misery drowns.

the fractured spirits never seem to mend,

even when swallowing the latest trend,

gagging at the emptiness of last week’s buys,

desperately polishing facades while the barren heart cries.

we crawl as we trawl the roads for joy,

spitting yesterdays away like some overused toy,

fleeting moments never savoured whatever the ploy,

we become the enemies we seek to destroy.

why do we slam the doors shut on faces hungry and needy,

don’t we already have it all for us to be so callously greedy,

while we suck the blood and drink the tears of the ones we chase away,

condemning them to ghettoes in which they absolutely must stay.

when will we excise the demons on which apathy feeds,

will we ever kill off sweatshops serving our wants and not our needs,

will we ever stop putting guns in children’s hands,

will we perpetuate the lie of where the tomahawk missile really lands.

what grotesque metamorphosis have we been subjected to,

where we whistle down corridors oblivious, blinded to all that is true,

throttling the many for the benefit of the few,

all the while supping on heaving tables as if we don’t have a clue.

will we continue to feign ignorance of marital, partner, and child sexual abuse,

discarding each fractured soul as if they were stale news,

blindly turning our heads and thusly perpetuating male hetero-patriarchy,

keeping the blinkers on, while banishing the sordid truth we pretend not to see.

when will people of colour all around the world be seen, as human beings and not merely chattel,

as people, as a part of humanity, and not as some half-bred form of vassal,

to be used and discarded like stale garbage that needs to be trashed,

while on single malt whisky we gleefully get smashed …

… and when will all the world share in the bounties of this earth,

so that we may truly bring a more equitable, a more fair, a more just world to birth.

deciphering silence

deciphering silence …

you and i,

shielded by silence,

barred from ourselves,

inured against feelings,
exiled hearts,

building ramparts,
a berlin wall,

that may fall.

so my friend,

lay your head upon my chest,

and let my fingers run through your hair,

lulling you gently to rest.

life is far too short anyway,

to squander even a day,

so rest, my friend,

rest,

and lay your head,

upon my chest …

let us …

let us …

let us leave this place of jagged shards of glass, this place of crude spiked splinters.

let us leave this place of rotting words, this place of camouflaged jibes.

let us leave this place of race and of class, this place of us and of them, this place of prejudice and of tribes.

let us forge our own path ahead, choosing the simple purity of love instead.

let us walk on together till our hair turns white and till our skin wrinkles and pales,

we will have each other at least, if all in all, our great escape fails …

the bipolar conundrum

the bipolar conundrum …

something splintered
the fragmented mind,

deep within
flimsy neurons,

on
that day in may.

something splinters
flimsier dendrites,

each and every bloody day.

The rains over Jo’burg

The rains over Jo’burg* …

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

birds sing, ululate,

a chorus of catharsis flows through the barren land,

merging into a symphony of renewal.

The rains pour down,

transcending dry tinder of yesterday,

chasing insipid moments away,

drowning in a cacophony of jubilant life.

Life that rumbles,

streaming down desolate alleyways like meandering tears of joy,

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

this Jozi*, our eGoli*,

thirsting for nectar from the skies above.

Moments of undistilled mirth,

herald the arrival of spring,
a triumphant rebirth,

jubilant,
ecstatic,

as the Gods of Africa, the spirits of the ancestors,
smile down upon us.

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

thawing our hearts from frozen winter cold as stone,
infusing hope,

as the fragrance of rain on dry soil sketches rainbows,

seeking respite behind heaving clouds of charcoal grey,

the rains banishing winter chills away,

while graciously welcoming spring to stay.

The rains over Jo’Burg cleanse leaves on trees,

rinsing the detritus that listlessly hung,

dry and scorched by the merciless winter sun.

But today,

there are songs to be sung.

Today I am with the heavens,

no longer a mishmash of fragments,

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

I am whole, once again.

   
            __________

* – the different names that refer to Johannesburg.

* – eGoli is an isiZulu name that means “City of Gold”.

my half-baked tribute to Bruce Springsteen

My Bruce Springsteen Songbook …

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 beyond the seas from Asbury Park.

your lyrics slicing 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’s 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.

and 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,

you 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,

and 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 threw 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,

when 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 …

Dedicated to Clarence Anicholas Clemons Jr.

(January 11, 1942 – June 18, 2011)

the owl

the owl …

perched atop a tree stump,

it watches.

it sees.

seeing through ancient eyes,

it watches.

it sees.

shuffling its feathers,

it watches.

it sees.

its free skies stolen, its branches broken,

leaving just stumps to sit on,
having seen too much.

my loveliness

my loveliness waits,

through decades of lost haste,

through trials and grief,
peaceful days and dire straits,

my loveliness waits.

i wait …

through decades past,
for kisses meant to last,

i wait,

to hold my loveliness,
in these lonesome arms,

i wait,

transcending lust,
overcoming desire,

i wait,

to be burnt to ash,

in the furnace of her raging fire.

​the subtle constant of mathematics

​the subtle constant of mathematics …

rigorous proof.

simple. constant. real.

not this implausible charade, this illogical masquerade,

all our perambulations,
wasted wordy navigation,

our tottering,
our swaying,

our constant greed,
to believe,

clinging onto inexplicable human need,

the belief in fantasy:

fantasy as staple nutrition,

upon which our collective illusions,

continually feed.

on the cusp

on the cusp …

trawling turquoise seas,

cast adrift,

                   your eyes caressing fitful slumber,

                        whispering paens,

           soothing the ache,

of this weary traveller,

parched,

               thirsty,

                            alone,

cresting waves,

                           treading water,

             hither and thither,

a tattered heart,

                             a wounded soul,

        bathing my being,

                                      nestling,

       in cocooned dreams of your sugarcane lips,

seeing,

            feeling,

                         tasting,

                                      your breath,

soaked in visions of you,

the mirage,

                    a crescendo fanning flames of desire,

                                            of love, lust, tremulous fingers,

brushing your hair away,

sipping kisses,

consumed by the furnace,

your body, mine,

                                    entwined,

hungering for your tongue,

fiery,

         insistent,

                         true,

soaring above vagabond skies of blue,

             unshackled at last,

             craving only you …

my bipolar scribble

my bipolar scribble …

thoughts racing, taking on the whole world so cruel and wide,

‘I’m fine, I say, I just have to decide’,

do i stay in bed again, swirling down a maelstrom of gloom,

or commence the spring-cleaning of my already spotless room,

ah, decisions decisions,
far too many to divine,

‘I think I’ll scribble endlessly on,

because really, really, really,

I really am just fine’.

she smiled

​

she smiled.

I told her that I love her.

she smiled.

I vowed to love her forevermore.

she smiled.

I said “let’s walk this earth together, not knowing where the paths lead”.

she smiled,

“let’s” …

​talkin’ random rhyming rhymes blues

minutes merge into tears, spilling from eyes dimmed by the years, lost in the blurred fog that never clears, screaming out silently so no one hears,

the tormented cries of a man lost and broken, shredding  scribbled rhymes never to be spoken, amidst the charade, nothing but a mere token, baring his heart, nakedly open,

to wander these slippery streets alone, far from the promises set in stone, cut deep, the wound stinging down to the bone, yet still searching for the means to atone,

after all these years swirling down the drain, the rough taste insipid and plain, whistling a bygone dreary refrain, always first at the station, yet always the one to miss the last train,

setting off on a journey, seeking redemption for the lies, tearing at the shackles, twisting a lifelong of severed ties, to that place where sorrow eventually dies, away from the deafening deluge of hollow cries,

where peaceful waters gently flow, where the pace of breathing is soothingly slow, where lush green meadows grow, where anything is possible, where feelings are malleable as dough,

at last reaching that hallowed space, where misery evaporates without a trace, to finally feel a belonging, a bond to a place, to no longer be ashamed to wear this same old face,

to lose oneself beneath the brightest skies of blue, with you by my side, feeling my only wish coming true, tasting the freshness of the early morning dew, at peace, finally, in a haven built for me and for you …

i love her

i love her.

1.

she found me, when torrents raged, splinters gnawed,

she found me, when my wings were shattered, my heart tattered,

she found me, when i was desolate, aimlessly crawling,

she found me, in the depths of despair, deep in the maelstrom, aching for air,

she found me, trapped in the quagmire, sinking in the clutches of the foggy bog,

she found me.

2.

she reached down, her hand extended, a gesture that infused hope in me,

she pulled me out of the den of emptiness, the abyss of loneliness,

she helped me stand, on my torn legs, her shoulders bearing my weight,

she fed me, nourishing my soul, as i imbibed her warmth,

she led me into pastures green and alive, awash with colour,

she held me, in the cocoon of her embrace, her hair a waterfall drenching my face.

3.

i was not worthy, of her delicate touch,

i was not worthy, lying in a discarded alleyway,

i was not worthy, of her healing embrace,

i was not worthy, of her tender love,

i was not worthy then, i am not worthy now,

i had nothing, and still have nothing to give,

still, she loved me, and loves me still.

and i love her still …

i shall love her forevermore.

a question

soft rain settles, infusing the parched soil, rejuvenating life …

… what of the parched heart, waiting to be quenched, after a lifetime of drought.

I am Woman

I am Woman …

just when you think you’ve broken me,

with your cowardly fists,

with your diseased tongue,

I will not cower.

your fake macho shell does not frighten me,

your violence will not silence me.

I am I,

the mother,
the sister,
the partner,

the woman!

I am me.

I am Woman!

and you are not,

nor can you ever be.

moment by moment

moment by moment.

Rough pebbles on a deserted beach,

wait for the coming tide to take its toll,

moment by moment,

eroding each pebble,

the jagged edges made whole.

I too lie on that empty beach of fate,

inured by the coarseness I have seen,

moment by moment,

of contorting myself to belong,

while losing my soul in the screeching throng.

The waves keep battering my soul, incessantly,

as I desperately try to fit into the role,

moment by moment,

splintered by the slivers of life’s icy shower,

a drop of dew in the early dawn hour,

perched on a fresh petal of a morning flower.

To the Nameless Soldier.

Your orders may come now,

or at 19h45 this evening.

‘Shoot to kill’.
‘Engage the enemy’.
‘Hold the line’.
‘Break up the gathering’.

‘Ready, aim, fire’.

But you have felt it as well,

the stab of hunger,
the bite of thirst,
the bayonet of loss,
the wounds of despair.

You have seen,

the pain in a mother’s eyes,

the grief in a father’s face,

the incomprehension in a child’s down-cast look.
‘Ready, aim, fire’.

But you, the nameless soldier have heard,

the cries of the grieving family,

the wailing of the widowed wife,

the quiet agonizing sound of the child’s weeping.

‘Ready, aim, fire’.
Your orders may come now,

or at 23h30 tonight,

or tomorrow,

or the day after that.

But you have felt,

the agony of a peoples’ simple desire for freedom,

dignity,

food,

peace,

employment,

for hope!

You have felt the stab being long bludgeoned,

the wounds of your stolen generation.

So when that order comes,
now,

or at 03h30 tomorrow morning,
‘Ready, aim, fire’,

let your humanity muzzle your rifle,

let your conscience dismiss the order,

let your human side come to the fore,

let the people in your gun-sights be akin to,

your mother and your father,

your sister and your brother,

your son and your daughter,

your friend and your lover.

Let them live!

Let them be!

Let your rifle fall to the soil,

O’ Nameless Soldier.

The Persistence of Memory

The persistence of Memory.

thoughts whizz past, embers meant never to last,

leaving memories behind, grappling fears in spaces of the blind,

memories, with all their nostalgic tugging,

stand blurred, hazy sentinels against excessive lugging,

sentinels, silently harbouring, threads of you, and of me,

sentinels, hewn into our being,

protecting the persistence of memory.

Heritage Day: The African Rains

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.

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.

South Africa Heritage Day: 24th September

South Africa:

Heritage Day 24 September 2017.

Today we celebrate our shared heritage,

through smiles and tears, the ache of the past and the hopes of today and tomorrows yet unborn.

Today we share our Africanness, our blood enmeshed within each other – bright red thumping through countless veins, 

reminding us of the spirit of uBuntu – I am because we are,

we are because of each other, fellow travellers through the travails of life, 

seeking not riches nor title, seeking the bright sunshine of peace banishing the darkness of strife.

We are one people, myriad hues of the rainbow enveloping us all,

lending a hand to each other,

every time we stumble, each time we fall.