You are here: Home / Archives for other poetry

The Untold Blues Of Poetry

Still in a dream a shadowy light marches through the mind and
mist my past with a dreamy fascination, it filled all the cold voices in my imaginations

through poetry, like a ghost vanishing without a trace untold expressions cast a shadow over my imaginations, in the medit of silence crept lines, lines so diverse you bet this lie is reherrsed

my poetic being is scribbling in my mind, my thoughts are quiet and magical like the death of my character, I could’nt move to skate on the pad, I’m thinking, my mind flickering with the poetry, even the lad in me is awake, my passion, my inspiration, but I know this story wont be told

Beneath the earth Poetry is a key to a peaceful world that lies deep
within the mysteries of peace, I layeth still composing this magical bliss of sweetness I will only witness

the noise in my stress is now silence, Poetry in my head is the very best piece I have ever
had

all I can here is the chaos of children with echos of laughter ringging out clear, like the sound in the flaps of a butterflies wing, I realise i’v just missed a poem, I
could’nt do much it got me prisoned for reason, that why I call it, The untold blues of Poetry…

NB:The best poem I have ever read is the one that only appeared in thought

The Untold Blues Of Poetry!

Poetry Progeria

Small and 7, curious of the world innocuously searching for answers
Bilabial and nasal stops endeavoring speech
Syntax still unripe, Mother deciphering my guileless Morse code
A premature Bill Bojangles I dance to entertain, kin laugh in amusement

But patriarch absent, view of mankind altered.
The neurotic pang matures me in haste, Old Boy I become.
Like Lao Tzu I too am a poet

Nexus

Religion although a notion denoting a sign-post to the unknown begets a safe haven once one has perished. Heaven. To some an obscure ambiguity to others a place of rest after death of infinite time & space.

Who are we ultimately besides our outward personality? As humans we are sculptures, constantly chipping away the unwanted pieces trying to create our own version of the masterpiece.
The earth we borrow transverse soil with our feet but soon we shall lay beneath, mortality our fate but spiritual faith allows for life thereafter. God. A guiding light, omnipotent force, a nexus with which we collate.

Pantomime tales inhabit duplicate self’s like blissful secrets, we instead wake from figments of our minds as though we live in sequence. A fluorescent light lives within us all provided by a higher power, makes us vigorous in peril a strengthened form one day we’ll reach his tower.

Life an expedition of highs and lows but why travel it alone, in trying times look deep inside and simply close your eyes, darkness follows don’t despise you feel your far from home, omniscient being there to help a patron you’ve always known, the orb inside it comes from him, just pick up the non-secular phone.

Family Life (a poem in experimental haiku)

Infatuation –
Winner of America.
Paper tigers ghosts.

Beast in the kitchen –
Drowned thing with her rosary.
At war with the roast.

Throne. Ghost. Leaf. All guests.
Pale. Ancestral bloodlines – a clever-experiment
In romanticism.

Beach life. A green-ish plate.
Swimming towards velvet rays-of-light.
A child’s-laugh (bees). Sea mist.

Jasmine passion – reel.
Flowers in a lonely mind.
Illness for breakfast.

After Leaving Mr Muirhead (a poem in experimental haiku)

Alleys. Streets. Wolves. Sheep.
The shores-of-Johannesburg do not smell like anything-like-Malibu.
It’s primitive living-for-sale.

To the lighthouse soul.
To Sappho, Antigone’s divine-ceremony.
Go fishing in rifts.

Something is damaged –
There is a richness in dust – mother-tongue.
Post-apartheid things. Compasses.

You are a typhoon –
Waves in the folds of daylight.
Childhood stars are past.

The end of violence –
The world’s feast is not my home.
Celestial routes. Fruits.

Love on a Cloud

She sent him a message …
A message of her undying love….upon a cloud
The cloud full of passion and love….embraced his soul
The silky white cloud resembled the purity of the love
That no force could ever separate
A love that stood the test of time
has reached the heavens!

Lamb (a poem in experimental haiku)

Once a boy was hatched.
Born with sonnet wings most heaven-sent –
Eased into planting.

Appalled by the world’s stage.
Tooth – radar splitting the hunt
Courage is exposed.

Brilliant inner sea –
His cry glides across the moon.
This mother tongue comforts me.

Ghost of a vision.
Every finger a stem –
Leaves antiques, tears sap.

Winter’s bone – a party’s birthday balloon
Summoning earth’s ripening –
Blades of pleasant grass.

Bough Down (a poem in experimental haiku)

Aloes from Bethelsdorp –
The green world’s-majority is not my home.
Only Goethe’s throne.

Mum’s June wedding lace.
Dad’s glove was lost at the church.
His Mrs. Dalloway.

There were her roses.
Granadilla hands in earth.
Ice lungs frozen. Night.

Dolls in childhood – dead
Things. Once attached to slippers.
Church. Girlhood friendships.

Origins of wives –
Daughters, girls. A dramatic gulf.
Ruined geraniums. Roasts.

Biko Hani Mahola Malema Daddy (a poem in experimental haiku)

Social media – flux.
Lunch. History wilderness.
Broken hinges. Spice.

Post-apartheid child underfoot –
There is footstomping-traffic in my house.
Toy guns. Cowboy hats.

I am the June guest –
Greedy for ritual. Sonnets.
Winter possession.

Orlando’s river –
Habits of tsunamis past.
What remains is life.

I read as a child –
In books, there are valleys. Hills.
Worlds were within reach.

Married Life

I cannot condescend to it –
The parties I would have thrown.
The dinners I would have cooked.
The beets cannot illuminate anything
In their pink broth. There would
Be so many things that I have
To remember. I would have left
The feasts of nature to other brides

To decayed leaves of all things
I would have counted my chickens
Before they hatched. Only a virginal
Girl could be so terrified of the art
Of lovemaking not the victim of sex abuse.
The beets are still cooking while I am
Writing this poem for the world.

While I am standing on the edge of
Whirls of totems in nature. I have to produce
Something. If I cannot produce progeny
Then what other alternative do I have?
But to write and to write and to write.
Because writing is healing, therapeutic.
I will have no need for psychologists.

Why didn’t you love me mum?
Why did you give me up to the world
That has this infatuation with drowned
Things and the paper tiger empresses
Journaling romantic ghost stories. Clever
Experiments every one of them telling me
That there is something ancestral about a leaf.

The throne upon which it sits reminding
Us all that we are only guests
And that this world has our guts
For breakfast while women cook steak
For their husbands and bring life into
This world, watching their parents cross
Over into the eternity of the hereafter

And so I am left with the stems,
Flowers, with that great melancholy
Of the lonely mind. The hours
Are in my blood. The stain of humanity
That I am so obsessed with. Its canvas.
Its caves. There is the useful light
Tunneling away into the system.

« Previous Page
Next Page »