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A Sanguine Melancholy

Bound by mortal chains
Left cold to the touch by Life’s fleeting ways

Like phantom lost from Lover’s heart
Condemned to memory of days gone past

A sea of consciousness, an ocean of thoughts
These stars shine dull on Earth’s darkened soil

Like slaves sat at wooden prisons
Coerced to pay for Mother’s gifts

Three eyed but dormant, marooned in their comforts
Stirred only by their binocular vision

Does he not see that he is friend and that he is foe
Does he not know that the lioness weeps as she hunts the gazelle

Oh Son of Man
Dance to Fate’s beating drum

For I have become accustomed
To this lonely conversation

Tears of joy

Tears of excellence
Tears of happiness
Tears of appreciation
All a revelation of ambition
Ambition brought by pain,conquered by tears leading to tears winning.
Living a life of laughter is never healthy for a wealthy person as it shows no victory.
Tears and joy were never set on one time but their force of conquering fear and pain attracted them to attention of Tears of Joy.
Grant me a pen and paper to write the power trip of Tears of Joy.
Noooo…..
How could one write down the power I feel within my heart.
Heart,hear the high hill of hatred falling as hailstone
Heart,listen to words spoken by my voiceless tears
My heart,take action of my voiceless tears..
These are the tears tearing the tower of terror
The tears flowing like a river in ones eye fall
Tears leaving the strangers of Earth speechless
These tears are found everywhere but expirienced by few..
These are the tears I found when I found you.

Without Death’s Certainty

Without Death’s certainty, my Love,
I would neither mourn, nor cherish you
You would be resigned
To an old page in my story

Without Death’s certainty, my Love,
I would neither wake, nor stir
The birds’ song would grow dull,
As I lay through Summer and Spring

Without Death’s certainty, my Love,
I would neither laugh, nor cry, nor smile
Lost only in perpetual thought,
Eternal Youth etched upon my face

Without Death’s certainty, my Love,
I would fashion fables
Tales of Father & Son
Sinners and saints

Doomed to forget,
My inevitable return

Memoirs of a Dog

I recall how willing I was to reclaim our territory. Full of vigor and youth, we would venture at least thrice per moon cycle to realms beyond our own. By paw or by machine, we journeyed along the blackened paths, navigating our way through uncharted lands. One of our favourite prospects was known as the Land of The Dozens. It was a lush field of grassland complimented by sloping mounds and scattered foliage. A vast expanse of land which required a vantage point in order to scope the entire arena. Many artificial lookout posts had been erected and were utilized by their young. They would scurry and climb, slide and swing, quickly learning the essential rules of play. Upon entering the Land of The Dozens, one would be greeted by hordes of enemies. Often I would see the familiar mug, and a new face from time to time, but all with the same look in their eye, that same sheer desire to lay claim to that land as their own. But none before had been able to establish a settlement within the hallowed grounds, so each cycle bore opportunity. The atmosphere within the picketed walls would teem with unrest, culminating in a tension so electric, it was palpable. In my impudence, I would rush onto the battlefield, bellowing the ancient call of my kind, paying homage to the most primordial of games! We were on the hunt!

As a wee whelp, my mother would tell my siblings and I stories of how our relationship with the Bipedal Ones came to be. Tales told by our elders of how our ancestors domesticated them. For the ancestors were fascinated by how these hairless creatures lacked any significant natural weaponry, yet fashioned artificial claws and teeth in order to compensate. We taught them how to bring our young eats and drink, and in return we aided them with protection from predators and lent them our keen sense of smell when tracking prey. It was theorized that since they lack any true proboscis, they are reliant solely on their eyesight and opposable thumbs, yet they were a proud warrior race. A formidable partnership had been born and as its success grew, we moved into their settlements and shared migration patterns. But not all of our ancestors left their wild ways; many stayed and procreated, and to this day, inhabit immense outcrops of territory in lands far away. Their progeny are our cousins, the Wolvian kind. My descendants were farmers in the hills of western-central Europe, shepherds by trade. My great, great, great, great, great, great, great uncle told his family of how he had had a brief conversion with an old wolf whom had told him that the Bipedals were not only slaughtering one another but also the local population of wolves as well. They had betrayed the scared oath. But these are lore of old, now the Bipedals seem too amused by distractions and our kind made too soft by their comforts, too obsessed with worldly possessions to heed the call of the explorer. Too often on my return from expeditions with my bipedal, ten settlements before our own, one would hear the mut at the end of the path hollering, “Sound the alarm gentlemen! An intruder is in our midst!” Had they the decency to introduce themselves, I would have lost the hubris air with which I walked. Their taunts were directed at our freedom. I basked in it.

For generations we had watched them grow as a species. Under our tutorage, they made remarkable advancements in development and exploration. One of our most notable achievements was sending the honourable Laika into space. However, it seems that they no longer rule their tools, but rather their tools rule them. My own Bipedal would spend copious amounts of time staring at the moving pictures on the wall, a veil of static seemingly able to reach within his being and subject him to aimlessly sitting on the couch for hours on end, transfixed by a random pattern generator. But that was not the worst of his worries; he was addicted to a luminescent box which he kept on his person religiously. Every time it cried he would run to its aid, every time it flashed he would respond. Pavlov would be proud!

Perhaps the reason for their downfall was in fact the very essence of what made them successful. They seemed so intent on creating a utopia that they forgot they were living in one. I remember my alarm when I first noticed that my Bipedal kept mutilated fowl and beef in the cold box. I thought to myself, “Good gracious man! What will stop him from doing the same to me? I mean they do do it in East Asia don’t they!? How could he desecrate another living creature like that? I’ll have to end it whilst he’s sleeping…” But soon I learnt that this was just one of the many forms of their superstimuli. But not all of their stimuli have been disastrous. They have a keen sense for companionship, one surely developed long before they had even met us. It is the very thread which holds them together. The last shred of love in their rapidly deteriorating world. I pray for the day when I can tell them that a caterpillar emits the same signature as a butterfly.

I wish

I wish within a beat lay the answers to us,
That with every note all became clear
And with every lyric true feelings flowed
And with that the melody made it all worthwhile

Still Believe

This morning when I opened up my eyes;

That old lonesome feeling seemed to take my heart by surprise;

There you were again heavy on my mind;

I struggled to hold back the tears from falling from my eyes;

 

I wanted to call you up and tell you how I felt inside;

I called and like so many times before that I’ve tried;

It just rang and rang until I dropped the line;

You sent me a message asking me what’s wrong;

 

I told you that my feelings for you were still as strong;You asked me to let it go, you’re married and you’ve moved on;

I wish I could say I’ve been able to do the same;

6 years have passed and I’ve failed;

 

I miss you still and I think that this feeling will never go away;

I’m sure it would have by now but it still resides within me;

I wish you still felt the same way, I wish I was still the one you were missing;

I wish I could show you how I feel;

 

Time as they said would help me heal;

It only opened up my eyes to the pain so real;

Knowing I’m the reason you wanted to leave;

If I could do it over girl I’d give everything and anything;

 

I know he has your body but your heart is still here with me;

I know I can’t be feeling this alone, I know you still love me somewhere deep within;

Even if this ain’t true, girl I still believe;

Just wanted to tell you I still miss you, I wanted you to know just how I feel

Don’t wanna see you

Don’t wanna go to that place;
Reminded of your rigid face.
Don’t wanna see you anymore;
So don’t come knocking on my door.

How long ago have you thought of me;
Clearly not where I thought I would be.
Can hardly stand on my own feet;
A result of your silent retreat.

Honourable Mr. President

I was at the gym the other day, staring at the floor, hands on exhausted hips, trying to recoup from a treadmill experience. A pair of Takkies walked into my gaze. A pair of White Takkies caught my attention for some obscure reason? These Takkies had tasted and toiled the South African ground they were not reserved for gym escapades alone. They were not unkempt just worn. Proudly. Shamelessly. They had been washed one too many times as the fraying edges told the story of been beaten in the washing machine. They were not branded, probably a Mr. Price version of Nike, but what retrospectively caught my attention was how humble those Takkies were.
I glanced at their owner – a stocky proud African man. His rounded tummy snuck out of his stretched shirt, he kind of made me think of a black Winnie The Pooh, he looked very cute and had an air of hug-ability about him. He held a very used old Energade bottle on which I could see the remains of the day on the label as white sticky sediments of whatever flavour that Energade was. It was humble, Sunlight liquid had tarnished its appearance, but it indeed worked. The owner had a chilled yet confident expression on his podgy wholesome face. He was in no hurry to complete the circuit. He sat on the bench of one of the arm apparatus machines and checked the people fiercely carrying on with their individual battle to bodies. His battle did not seem as inflexible as the others – it seemed to me like whether he did 10 or 2 push ups he would still see himself as having accomplished a milestone. He was at gym. He was honestlty trying. That was the landmark.
I tried to fathom why the Takkies of an African Winnie The Pooh had such an impact on me? Then it came. Sunday night on Carte Blanche they interviewed Mmusi Maimane, the brand spanking new Democratic Alliance Leader and I saw what was hugging onto me so. I had heard that Mr. Maimane had taken over from his predecessor, Mrs. Helen Zille, but didn’t know much else. I didn’t care much else either, I had lost hope, I was grieving the pride I once felt when Mr. Mandela was leading us out of Egypt into our Promised Land, which has now sadly become Tarnished Land. I got to the place of total dissidence, what was the use in actually bothering to vote anyway? I was first shocked then moved as I watched this epiphany, Mr. Mmusi Maimane make his landmark.
This was it, I understood what the gym incident had tried to portray and wanted me to see through those dear White Takkies (bless). I saw a picture of a hard working, honourable, ethical and humble African doing what he can with what he has in order to slowly but surely shed the arrogance from the fattened calf, Mr. Zuma. He was shown in parliament addressing President Zuma, it was a bold reformation to behold. He said “Honourable President, when I use the term ‘Honourable’, I use it out of respect for the traditions and conventions of this House but please do not take it literally. For you, honourable president, are not an Honourable Man……Lead the way or step aside”.
I say to you Mr. Maimane, lead us! Walk South Africa into its predestined triumph, we have tasted it before. Mr. Mandela lifted an Honourable staff and the sea parted, now walk us through it. White Takkies, black feet.

The Girl

There once was a girl; a little, fine girl.

Who played and laughed and cried and smiled,

She was happy, very happy but for a short while.

The girl loved the colours of the earth,

Her eye’s had been readily open to absorb them since birth.

Her skin smooth like firmly ground cocoa powder,

She was beauty, all who looked were stunned

Her ebony loops, softly growing to the heavens with such power.

 She was the daughter of grace, the daughter of pride,

She would have made a man so lucky to have her for a bride.

And she was a bride, but slowly the girl’s joy turned into a haze

And soon after that, the girl got into sickly daze,

This happy, healthy child was slipping, passing away.

The chocolate of her skin was losing its glow

As the banana’s got riper, her raven sheen matted day by day.

And when the joyful soul left the little body

They all cried, ‘If only she hadn’t died’

The girl was her family’s gold, and at a tender age cold;

So now, that she’s trapped in the eternal black,

The groom’s family demands their money back.

Persephone and Zeus

Question? You ask me if I love you or just admire the hell out of you. I have this to say in return.

I like you. Your eyes house collections of self-portraits of every kind of material possession imaginable. Almosts. All I have are gorgeous almosts. Forgive me; I am afraid I may have already drunk the poison that was meant for the rats. It was an accident. The waves of a good man like Zeus will always come with a map. Some kind of atlas. A succession of cloud people will learn to tolerate you because the man who has fallen for you not only has an intellect but has empires too. There is something written in him.

Your hair was as thick as syrup. Your hair is a swarm of bees that awaits the fortunate villagers. Your hair was a specific colour. Dark and sometime I would see our children in your hair. As if, your hair was something otherworldly, ethereal and magical. You are my heart’s assignment. The object of my affection. Sometimes when I dream I see that the fishermen have caught malignant fish in their nets. You saw the girl inside me. Destroyed her in the end. I already know the ending to this story. I feel as if I have wasted something.

All along, I knew you would break my heart, even though I called you beloved. I can see you in the dark with your pig’s heart. I asked you quite timidly. Are you done with me now? You said, I am quite done with you now. I have no further use for you. Do not love me if the only thing you are going to do is break my heart? Do not love me if all you are going to do is the proof a hypothesis. The stars unite with the night. The details were left up to you. Completely up to you. You were the one who had to include me in your life.

All I want to remember is pleasure and the pleasure that you give me but it is never quite enough. I long to be loved and admired by both men and women. I tell myself that this is no big deal. It is what everyone wants but I know at the heart of it all it is not so. Heterosexual women want to be desired by heterosexual men and not by other women. I never wanted to be anointed or a prophet. Do not go on so. As if, it is a big deal or something. I change. With each autumn’s birthday that approaches, I change. It is comforting to believe we are just bodies.

With every fall, with every friendship, with every city or country that I move to, with every Kafkaesque movement inside my head, you, my blonde gravedigger one day I am afraid I will have to give you up to your children. I know the gist of your knowledge. I know the translations of your language and I want to be lost in neither. I slip into your skin. Afternoon delight. I slip into your skin. I become a woman. When I finally give up your butch flesh, sweat, tears, blood, bone, straw I become a girl again.

It is wonderful to be a girl and to see the world through the eyes of a girl even though you are a woman. There are the details of us in the grass. The outline of our bodies. Yours crashing and crashing like waves into mine repeatedly until we are one. Solidity. Anchor. I think of words like that when you are with me. You deliver your messages with such confidence that I just have to kiss your sweet face. I know that one day I will return to this ground. I will walk here but you will have passed on to the hereafter never to be seen from a distance again or heard from again.

I saw you. Love at first sight. I buried themes in the ground hoping that you would find them and when you did that, first you would find my eyes and put them to good use. Wear them as if you would wear rose coloured glasses and see the world through my perspective. I am elated that at my age I have discovered love. The love of mountains and of dogs. I will never forget that day that you made for a bed for me out of a field. I can hear you breathing and it is the most beautiful sound in the world to me. This journey has been strange.

I want to waste nothing of the sweetness of it. All I can remember of your passing through my life to the other side is your mouth and from here on out that is all I have been searching for. Duplicates of it. There was something so comforting lying down next to you, putting my arm around your waist, and feeling you breathe in and breathe out. It reminded me of childhood except we were not children. We were grown women. I was older. You were younger but at the end of the day, it did not matter. We were women in love.

Nothing could camouflage that. The shadow of pain lasts and lasts and lasts. For a while, whenever you lingered and I languished in your arms it was forgotten but only briefly. Let us build a home in the desert and we could make love all afternoon there if we wanted, you said. Your breath smelled like cake. What did my breath smell like? I was a late bloomer. You showed me photographs of you and your family. In one, you are posing with all of your friends in swimming costumes. You were the bravest one out of them all. You were wearing a bikini.

You hardly had any breasts late bloomer but you looked at the camera zooming in on you with a swagger and an honest confidence. I was finished.

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