A Slice Of Afrikaans – My Oseaan

20-beach-sea-photography

Te diep was ek in die verlede gekrul

in ‘n donker gat van heimwee gehul

vol negatiewe dinge gevul

waar was my oseaan?

 

Te vas in die greep van hartseer

was ek van realiteit geskeur

met winderige winter gevoelens

moes ek deur digte doringtakke beur. 

 

Tog het ek aan ‘n greintjie hoop

die winde met ‘n traan getem

die winter met ‘n glimlag gekoop

en die wiele van hulle daad gerem.

 

Ek het uiteindelik my oseaan gesien

skoonheid blink in blou smarag

met silwer wit wolke oorhoofs

het ek my hart gevind. 

 

 

 

 

Gilded Moon

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As the gilded moon rises to meet the heavens,

and the waves disperse across the shore,

I look to the stars and make my wish,

for you to be here ever more.

 

As the gilded moon glides across the void,

and the waves retreat back to haven,

I feel a tear trod down my cheek,

and I feel my heart start to cave in.

 

As the gilded moon turns its blind eye,

towards the waves rushing to the edge,

I feel how my heart skips a beat,

as I wrap my mind around our pledge.

 

As my gilded heart beats ever faster,

I see you by the light of the moon.

As the waves crash behind your stature,

I knew you’d come to me soon.

 

The gilded moon slowly descends the sky,

as the waves dilute to nothing.

Finally, I feel my arms take you in;

finally, I took hold of something.

When A Mockingbird Sings

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Can you hear it? Oh, can you, dear?

Hear the Mockingbird, oh hear. 

Or is it just the image of a silly old fool,

with her mind wound round a sturdy spool?

 

Oh, hear it there, oh hear it here, 

my sculling heart caught in a weir.

How can I enjoy these pretty sound,

when sharp deceit is well abound?

 

Of whom do you sing when you alarm?

Or do you rather use that pretty charm,

to keep us in sweet, sweet wonder,

or . . . 

 

My, how fast time flies,

can you believe?

It steals it right away.

For a moment’s reprieve . . .

Shakti

 This is a poem inspired by a real good, crazy, loving friend, my sis in soul, Shruti Fatehpuria. Of course, today she has turned a whole 276 years old, and this piece, with the picture below it, is my present to her. Enjoy . . .

shakti

I followed her heart,

a pleading song,

to where the Hooghly silently runs.

I followed her heart,

a strange melody.

Her dark eyes looked to the distance.

Forlorn,

confused,

afraid,

yet alive. So alive.

In silken sari she stands alone,

mehndi on her hands;

her arms.

Her smile is that of a stage actress,

a phantom in the sunset.

Her dark hair is caught by the hands of the wind,

caressing every raven strand.

She closes her eyes,

and shuts the world,

her Bhur-loka.

The Hooghly shimmers in sunset light,

golden reflections.

And while the day slowly meets its doom,

rain

begins to fall.

She raises her hands,

And with it she raises her spirits,

For with every drop,

a new beginning

awaits.

SAM_1789

I’ll Stay

downpour

Strange how it is to be amidst this downpour,

when all I feel inside is but a deep . . . deep silence.

Of need, of longing, suppressed into tiny little diamonds,

to shatter the surface of my reverie.

I dare not go inside, where I can’t feel the pain.

I dare not go inside and miss what else I’ll gain.

Fleeting moments linger on corrugated roofs,

as it lingers on the edge of my mind.

To only fall when gales of wind

blows memories into sweet oblivion.

This downpour obscures that which I don’t want to see,

and drowns all the noises of my past.

Alas, this shared downpour speaks of one finality:

within the gray, you go, and I’ll stay.

I’ll . . .

Stay.

WT: Doorways

weeikend-theme

It’s words on the walls –

always had me going,

but words on the walls

spoke of truths and lies . . . and cats and wars and messengers.

The words meant everything

but held something

                                     heavy,

as if by weight it could bring the walls

crashing

                 to

                        the

                                ground.

Hairline c.r.a.c.k.s across thousands of good paper

cut through stories,

cut them in ha/lf

that separates the kids from their               fathers,              the mothers,

the cows with their golden bells and red apples shining in woven baskets,

taking you on an Oz journey

and spins more words on threadbare carpets.

Words in pictures and pictures in words,

are the real truth,

are the real doorway,

to all you need to know.

Free

The-Ground-Beneath-Her-Feet-4e15c8bf62dd4

Set aside, oh heart of mine,

perhaps in room of murk,

safe by darkness held,

so safely within its cirque.

 

Wondering, oh, wander, hence

my feet tied to the ground;

tied to the world, I am,

tied faster than a Swainson’s Thrush.

 

Gracious mountains nearest me,

rumble me by name,

and greet me by the hand,

and a cyssan on my mane.

 

Trees, old sentient beings,

their history crystalline by memory,

their hearts soft red,

asking for my own.

 

Happen, that I won’t,

but lies did that true.

Running from the truth,

that held a thread of tongue.

 

So I go home, to and from memory sweet . . .

 

Just love this song 😉

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Desk Pad Poetry

the-cluttered-desk-jc-findleyHere is a little poem I’ve written yesterday. I was bored to tears, yet had nothing to write about otherwise. 😀

As Mad as the Hatter,

I sit here and sigh,

plans running through,

my overactive mind.

The lights and the players,

just peripherally viewed,

my eyes start to water,

my lips thoroughly chewed.

Oh, old Neil Gaiman,

you nutty old twit,

come to my side,

and amaze me with your wit!

Nothing

awkward-boring-conversation-hello-nothing-to-say-Favim.com-257629

Nothing to Say

Nothing to write, oh nothing at all

boredom take me away

take me away

away

a way

for nothing

a way to stay away

away from nothing to do

let me be the one to be the one

the one to take away the

boredome far

a way

then

I’ll be free

to speak a tree

into its eternal oblivion

then I’ll be the one, the one to be

to keep the pages empty

away from pry

away

. . .

Abe’s Oddysee

abe03

I’m green, I’m slender,

remember not my gender,

yellow eyes, big hands,

not wearing any pants.

Confused, on a quest,

don’t wanna dis’point my guest,

broad-shouldered, senile,

for you I’ll run a mile.

A pigtail, or antennae,

either which don’t know I,

knobby knees, big feet,

and boy I like to eat.

I whistle, I chant,

sing? Oh no I can’t,

I fart, aloud,

to giggle of my proud.

I’m fast, I’m hasty,

the dogs do think I’m tasty,

I run, I jump,

just to end up as a lump.

I snort, I giggle,

hate to stand and jiggle,

I say ‘hi’, I fly,

and then, oh dear, I die.

I’m resurrected, I roll,

to reach my empty goal,

I’m trampled, I’m squashed,

before your eyes I’m crushed.

I sneak, I plead,

for you to take the lead,

I’m wasted, to gore,

and then I fart some more.

I’m innocent, I run,

don’t keep no bloody gun,

for Abe’s, am I,

this Oddysey ain’t no lie.