Archives for 2013

Remote control

Oupa has rigid skin.
His softness, long since disappeared.
His shadow reeks of balms,
lotions, oil, scented soaps, cod-liver.
Shapes become tinged and bitter…

Tiny notions,
multiplied to become devouring oceans,
of salt-water tears and fresh-water fears.
He called up to heaven,
he settled into a peculiar divide.
Bitter beings choking on beautiful pride…

Broken knowledge passed into the children’s brains,
all while pointing his crooked finger towards the way.
He manufactured them,
then left them in his wake.
So they grew up and repeated every mistake…
Pride was so easy to swallow,
easier than the essence of life.
His old tongue turned black;
His black heart turned back;
His chest cavity resisted every attack.

His gift…

Oupa sits on the barren stoep.
He is alone now.
The children never forgave,
they never visited the grave.
He remembers it all,
in his own peculiar way.

The passage of time diluted by miscarriages,
Miscommunication,
Misdirection,
Misbegotten…

He controlled all of them,
his whole life long.
But now,
surrounded by this strange place,
he sits where nothing is possible anymore.

Remote…

Empty

Empty tears that fall from empty eyes
Silenced lips that speak no life
Darkened heart crushed by man’s defeat
Search for truth and vow
Clear as shadow water
Your hope, the silver string of time
Your spirit, the phoenix of decline

Unwelcomed love

It didn’t matter that he’d given her a black eye the night before,
he was still there,
It mattered little that he spit in her face,
abused her name and left stripes on her back from his army belt,
never letting her out of his sight
At least he stayed,
No other man had stayed after seeing her disfigured face,
caused by fire that killed her mother and made her father go away,
That put her in Foster homes for naughty children,
Who don’t listen to their mother’s and play with matches

The Morning After The Night Before.

I searched and wandered the morning, I found mist and dew, I found cold shadows, I found damp.
I found cold grey hillsides sheathed in a spongy blanket of moss, I found trees and ferns that dripped tears of water collected throughout the nights dreary hours, I found heavy hung clouds that were in a rush to retreat to the hills.

I found shattered shards from tipped and toppled glasses that only a few hours ago contained happiness, wit and long forgotten stories that had matured into exuberant and loaded with lavish yet like-able tales.
I found damp embers of wood that earlier warmed us and nourished our souls, the flames that licked the skies now long gone. I found a dance-floor sized spread of flattened grass and soggy soil that had once moved with us to a musical tune.

I found early morning birds with ruffled feathers scavenging lawns in search of a easy breakfast, shrugging off the cold as they went about their chores that were driven by evolved instincts.
I found dustbins that had been bastardly savaged and its contents examined and strewn across pathways, the edible delectables stolen to the hills, care of a troop of manic monkeys.

I found that the morning was groggy, along with my head. I found myself tracing my steps back to the warmth and security of my blankets. I found myself sniffing at the sodden air, somehow expecting the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, some salvation.

I found the sun breaking over the crest of the highest peak. I found others strolling around the gardens, holding their heads low, perhaps searching for what I was just looking for.

This morning I found life in the mundane, I found life in my surroundings, I found life.

The Road Less Traveled

The road less traveled is full of gravel and stones
The road less traveled has no sense of direction towards home
It only knows forward
It only knows what lies in front of your feet
Filled with defeat
The road less traveled is for the brave
For those hungry to make a name for themselves
Those that don’t tire
The road less traveled is no place to retire
It’s a place to build
A place for those willing to sacrifice for a chance to live
A chance to breathe
Pull up your sleeves and fight
We don’t rest
Not even in the night
The road less traveled is not for the weak, meek
Keep track of time because you lose everyday
You must know what you came here to say
What you came here to do
The road less traveled is not for those who came to play
But for those who came to do
Put on the right shoe
So that when it’s time
You’re ready for kicking and screaming
Fight for your life
The road less traveled is not for those with rights, but those who earn
The road less traveled is for he who knows it’s his turn!

I Forgot to care maybe

I forgot to care once.

It was pre-puberty
There weren’t any hormones
Of which to speak, then the tragedy
My home, extended family all on their phones
Mommy said Daddy loved you
Everybody shed a tear
I watched them, I missed my cue
What was wrong, did I not care?

I grew up
My first real girl was clear of cork
I had turned into quite the little screw up
Thick, she was still pure, she still enjoyed her pork
I was determined to meet her cup cake
Blinded by “love” we merged knife and cake
Disillusioned she was no longer my cup of tea
Teary-eyed named me evil; did I forget to care?

I grew wiser
The Lord had broke me to remake me
I met another
Sad really, now even I say she completes me
I am eager to learn of perfect and “real” love
She’s on my mind right up to day’s end
I will perfect me to fit her like a glove
I will never forget right up to life’s end

where is the smile?

You bring smile to my face.
Sweet laughter is the sound you make.
Love is what you give.
Illness is what you cure.

Happiness where you from?
Where are you located?
Where can I find you?
How can I give you to everyone?

You come to us in choosing.
You come to us in satisfaction.
You there when needed.
Disappear when not chosen.

How do I store you?
What are you made of?
Happiness be with me
And you’ll forever be happy.

The Story Of Me

I am a girl
I am a different girl
I am a unique girl
I am just me
As well you can see
No one can be more me than me
Listen this is the story of me

I know I can be “high”
I know I can be shy
But this story can never be a lie
I might talk out of turn
But at times I make heads turn
Yep! That’s right my name is Matilda
Just so you cannot be bewildered
The story is going on for a little longer

A lot do indeed hate me
Many have failed to tame me
They call me many name
Some have even called me lame
But come what may this is my game
This Is The Story Of Me

Almighty call

Almighty unifed.
Almighty glory.
Almighty merciful.
Amighty peace.
All heavenly Energy.

All that is one
All that is distant but connected.
All that holds all the knowledge.
All that holds time.
All that holds the bounds of space.

All that creates.
All that destroys.
All is All.

I call upon you.
I call upon you.

The problem with Alchemy being…

This is how we are:
Ignorant of Midas’ error,
Stubbornly, naturally dedicated to these bodies
And these minds
Of ours.

A white patron,
A black amasser,
And with such eyes,
It must be
Adept to see
Everything;
The past, the present, the coming, it ought to see
How it has risen from your dead flesh,
How it triumphs,
How it will turn to gold.

With those eyes,
It’s probably seen
A distinct mosaic portrait of the Holy Amalgamation
That could turn us all to gold.

We can ask the fly, of course,
But it is either dead
or gone.

But we know it knew,
As it had previously been, itself,
A fashion of philosopher’s stone
That is lost,
And needs our carrion
To surface.