Ek was altyd ’n eenvoudige persoon,
Nie in moeilikheid gekom of gesoek nie,
Nie ’n druppel hartseer of verwyt gehaad nie,
Nie ’n smeersel huiwer nie,
Groot hart met baie liefde.
TOE:
jy deel die nuus,
skielike
treursame
nuus
van die persoon wat die meeste vir my beteken
se
dood
ek kan dit nie verwerk nie,
ek begin
bars
kraak
breek
knars
huil.
Soos Glas
Rizpah
She fights with hand bare,
For her life hanging on a stick.
She lays on black rock of lace,
For her life hanging on a stick, dead.
She fights off dogs and crows,
For her life hanging on a stick, dead, empty.
She cries and prays,
For her life hanging on a stick, dead, empty, cold.
She smiles and cries joyfully,
For her life in a grounding burial, with his Father.
Apollo
He looked at me with deep set eyes.
His bow line pulled to a vibration.
Never have I met such a person. Even if he was a god.
Many called him a ‘lesser†god because of his devotion towards poetry and music.
Never has anyone seen him as the god who keeps us all alive.
The warm, yellow sun is his burning to please us, mere humanity, with his presence.
He once showed himself to me, a mere mortal.
He was enveloped in a halo of yellow light.
He walked towards me on his sandals made of mere goat’s leather.
His humbleness was penetrating my heart.
He wore an insignificant ivory white tunic.
His body was glimmering, but it was not as impressive as the other god’s.
On his back, in gold and silver, a bound book of poetry.
Handwritten in silver ink.
In his hands were a wood bow, with fine, gentle insignias of suns and words.
A quiver of arrows, each with a white feather of pure truth attached to it.
If he has to use violence, he will do so with dignity.
He walked towards me once more, I looked in pure astonishment.
He changed shape.
He was now in a pair of blue jeans,
A pair of black and white sneakers
And a red and blue check shirt.
He looked like a normal person.
He wore reading glasses.
Like a normal person.
The bow and arrow still in his hands,
He shot a single shot into the man behind me,
A gun in his hands, he was about to kill me.
My own poetry book in front of me,
A single line in silver,
“Don’t stop writing, it helped me in life.
Sincerely, Apollo.â€
A Set I won’t forget…
Must I bathe you in clouds of sulphur?
Can I comb your blonde hair with barbed wire?
Will you let me decorate you with towers of death?
May I just look at you through the smoke?
You, eternal sunshine, cannot shine through the thick smoke,
And I, mere earth, am seeking your glinting rays.
The world, drowning in oil and smoke, cannot see your virtue and kindness,
For 15 foot cold concrete, mortar and bricks are all too greedy.
Must I feel your pain?
Can I help carry your burden?
Will I ever see your face again?
May it be a set I won’t ever forget?
The night, evil and cold, is taking your place.
And mankind will forget your face.
But when you have passed on to the universe,
All of mere earth shall weep and fall.