There’s an image of peaceful solitaire
Thinking back on the countryside air
The fields and my childhood lair
I remember a great fig tree — its still there
Standing many a feet up in the air
In a land no owner known nor heir
Everyone admits they were born and found it there
The vast expanse of land around it bare
And grass of gold, green and fair.
scientists claim the centre of the world I know not where
But I have always thought it to be there
Under that old large dark green stare
Cut it down and the world deflates all its air
Like an unknotted balloon at a county fair
Chainsaw-wielding fiends don’t dare!
There is a tidium so great
that has come with this gray weather – –
almost taking the properties of physical weight.
A flu has arrested my wheezing breath
and my teeth chilled from mouth breathing.
I curse the morning
and cross myself with immediate penance.
But until I press play on my record player
does this tedium lift off its weight a while
and Dvorak welcomes me to this new world
This music heals me!
I’m delighted to repost this poem from May 2020 with the addition of a spoken word collaboration with Kizito. Make sure you check out his page, he writes brilliantly. Image found here Her Questions: Darling will you still love me when I start to become old when my hair is streaked with grey and the […]
Calm Her Fears (with audio collab)
A beautiful collaboration with the wonderful Bree
A water pipe has broken
at a green patch by the road
the grass, the weeds and the wild flowers
probably think it is a spring from the deep
come to save them from all the artificiality.
Some men in blue overalls will soon arrive
and fix the pipe to stop the leak
and the grass, the weeds and wild flowers
will resume their coat of dust and lead.
We sat at a roof restaurant in perfect silence
enjoying the view, the company
and the inexpensive juice
How could you not.
You came over to my side
and we took pictures cheek to cheek
smiling ear to ear.
I printed the picture and stuck it on my wall
Tonight sitting on my hard-knock floor
listening to down and out blues
I stare up at the picture
Your hair short
Your glasses on.
A mosquito has landed just right in the middle of your smile
giving the illusion of gapped teeth.
How much you look like my mama from here
My dear Zindzile — my heart is in the Highlands
My heart is not here
My heart is in the Highlands–my love my dear
Little rebellious voice inside
That stretch the ends of my wits
threatening the anarchy of passions ;
fears and anxiety
I’ll suffer you
rioting and kicking against the light
I’ll suffer you—
Easy easy easy Bucephalus! —
It’s only your shadow.
Gallop on steady
and let’s conquer the world!
I own no flower garden
But here these flowers I bring
Not live but painted
They have no fragrance I know
But see darling they don’t wither
and come in their own vase—
They are not roses
but almost as lovely
They are tulips–
Calm and true
and no thorns on their stalks.
illustrated by the poet, soft pastel on paper
There’s claw marks on my left arm
thin stripes of scar
that was left on me by my beloved
on the last morning of our parting.
I bear this mark with pride and nostalgia
The only visible mark left on me by love
For you can’t see all the kisses on my lips
Or how my heart has since grown twice its size
My scar has been disappearing- my woe
Where was it ever heard
of one mourning the healing of a scar
My dear Zindzile – here on my left arm
it’s like seeing you walk away all over again
Years ago I learnt from a fellow reader
Who did tell of how sacrilegious an act it was
To fold the tips of a book leaf to track pages
So this day I was reading outdoor without my bookmark
I plucked a young hibiscus and with it marked my last page.
With nothing else to read today
I picked up the same book again after so long
The flower was dried up where I last left it
It was like a meeting of ex lovers
in their hometown where nothing has changed
And each corner street is achingly depressing
Both burnt out and spit back home by the big city lights.
Love comes and sits by me
Love opens a basket of savory goods
inviting me to a feast
But reason has bound my hands on my back
and gagged my mouth with bitter taste
Love takes off my gag
kisses off the bile off my lips
Love feeds me— grape by grape
in a bacchanal frenzy
My hands still bound on my back.
Illustration, Bacchus by Caravagio