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Johannesburg, Gauteng, South Africa
I am a white African. Contradiction in terms? I think not. Sometimes my blog will be serious; sometimes sad; sometimes irreverent; sometimes witty; always my truth simply written.

Friday, January 28, 2011

Old African Elephant


vultures
hover
circle
hover

assessing
life span of
breathless
bull elephant
clinging to
tenuous life

release
looms
closer
closer

distressed
hyenas
giggle
nervously

as matriarchal
herds approach,
close ranks,
protectively
shielding
proud old bull

vultures
hover
hyenas
giggle


(All rights reserved.)



Metaphor written, with love and respect, about Dr Nelson Mandela - Madiba - when the media camped outside Milpark Hospital after he was admitted during the week of 28 January 2011.  Viva Madiba Viva.

In African fables the elephant is always the wise chief who impartially settles disputes among the forest creatures....  In the African fables, the elephant is usually described as too kind and noble, so that he feels pity even for a wicked character ...The Ashanti of Ghana relate that an elephant is a human chief from the past. When they find a dead elephant in the forest, they give him a proper chief's burial....
http://www.a-gallery.de/docs/mythology.htm

Hyena giggle:  The giggle is a high pitch, staccato sound that is not communicating a good time. In fact, it is commonly produced by distressed, or submissive, animals in situations where they are both excited and conflicted between approaching and leaving the situation. For example, giggles are made by submissive individuals at a kill waiting their turn while being chased away by higher ranking animals. http://www.acoustics.org/press/155th/theunissen.htm

Thursday, January 27, 2011

brunfelsia pauciflora

stumbling blindly
through a veil of tears
searching for the sunlight of tomorrow -
longing for the darkness of yesterday
and the illusion of warmth
in a cold embrace


brunfelsia pauciflora is the botanical name for the Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow plant


(All rights reserved)

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

Snoring


Snoring! Snoring!
Oh, dear God, I’m tired!
His jaw should be wired
This man once desired.

Snoring! Snoring!
I just want to weep!
This guy is a creep
He won’t let me sleep.

Snoring! Snoring!
In my marriage bed!
I’ll chop off his head
Sleep in jail instead.

Snoring! Snoring!

SHUT THE FUCK UP!!


(All rights reserved)

ME C/F

gave mother
hell, from moment
of dry birth when
arrived kicking and
screaming and haven’t
stopped since

well, except for the first
decade, more or less, till
love and trust were abused, along
with shapeless young, body -
went off the rails big time after that
disrespectful, lazy, wilful, sad -

marks dropped off at school,
rebellion against parents set in,
promiscuity started rearing its
ugly head - took immense willpower
not to submit to the clamour of
over zealous hormones – by age

twenty six had been around
the block a few times and
so fucked literally, emotionally and
psychologically, drank three dozen
schedule fives on road to oblivion –

stomach pump was not much fun -
pipe down throat, watching tranquilisers and
anti-depressants that had almost
dissolved totally in the acidic
stomach contents - fuzzy little
blotches spreading feelers - almost

succeeded, slept for three days,
maybe more – time disappeared – spent
seventeen years telling incompetent
psychologists how screwed life and mind
were - told by one arsehole
with a degree, but little intellect,

that reason for all the guilt was because
there was enjoyment associated
with the sexual abuse of a child – enjoyment of
the destruction of a trusting soul –
stupid bitch – relegated her to obscurity
searched for and found a real shrink, not

a pseudo-shrink – this one actually
helped - in less than twelve months
panic attacks, emotional confusion,
self-destructive behaviours were
under control for the first time
in more than three decades of

courage in the face of fear
guilt in the face of innocence
inferiority in the face of ability
derision in the face of love -
yet some things remain forever,
until death offers ultimate release

from the recurrent fear that brain
damage was self-inflicted, and
from daily haunting by someone loved

who, finding a joyful soul,

crushed the life out of it
 
(All rights reserved)

Cause and Effect

multi-nationals’

profiteering
exploitation
sweatshops

boycotts

altruistic
endeavours
hurting

whom?
 
(All rights reserved.)

Unlikely

consolidate the
year’s news events

the inhumane
indiscriminate
causal murder

watched, daily,
on TV news,
as innocence dies -
B-OOM.

palatable doses
for captive audiences
vicariously

observing
death
destruction
anarchy;

docile
stupid
uncaring

superior species
propagating

bloodshed
hatred
wars

consolidate the
year’s news events?

unlikely
 
(All rights reserved)

Friday, January 21, 2011

Ambush

sun sets
the blue ablaze
as predators eye snacks
at african cocktail party.
crowded around the muddied waterhole
revellers intuit too late -
whirling in fear, they flee
straight into death.
sun sets
 
(All rights reserved)
 Thanks to friends at Facial Expressions Poetry Circle for their valuable advice on this one.
 

Cycle of Life - Tanka - Metaphor

spring frolicked within
autumn’s colourful shadow
absorbed winter’s vibe
while summer detested them,
desiring autumn’s freedom
 
(All rights reserved)
 

D.I.Y. Relationship

Dreamy eyelids disinclined
to acknowledge whispering clothes,
belt buckle snap,
creaking hinge,
engine roar;
silent echoes
ech-o ech-o
vivify;
languid stretch,
sighing breath,
feet stumbling across the room;
bleary road map eyes focus.

Crisp money;
scribbled note;
“Buy yourself something nice -
happy anniversary,”
seeping sorrow.
 
(All rights reserved)

Thanks to Jean Elmond of Facial Expressions Poetry Circle for rearranging this for me. He has given it life.

Monday, January 17, 2011

Day of Knowledge 2004

8:30
excitement boils
parents, kids
arrive at Beslan
school number one

gifts,
balloons,
laughter,

celebration


9:20
truck arrives;
stage is set for

bloodbath


9:25
killing starts,
living forced
into the gym


16:25
no food
no water
no toilet visits


14:20
hot
hungry
thirsty

hostages
drink urine


11:38
mothers
with babies
released


11:40
‘they’
do not allow
older children
to leave


11:42
death is
imminent;
mother of two
stays put


‘they’
send her
infant son
to freedom


13:45
army confronts
terrorists

bloody skirmish


13:47
mother cocoons
first-born
soothingly
selflessly
lovingly

easing terror
into
oblivion


baby orphaned

(All rights reserved)


BACKGROUND
The poem is named Day of Knowledge after the designated name of the first day of the new school year in Russia. This is a poetic tribute to the hundreds of children, parents, teachers and others who died during the bloodbath at School No. 1 in Beslan, Russia, over a period of approx. 60 hours in September 2004. In particular, this is a tribute to a mother who refused to leave one child in order to save another. Moving account of this hostage situation at :

http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2005/01/20/48hours/main668127.shtml

QUOTE
"One of the terrorists said that a Russian plane flown from our airfield had killed his entire family," says Elena. "Now, he wanted to kill and didn't care that it was women and children." UNQUOTE

Wednesday, January 12, 2011

Shackled Regret

fifteen ramadan’s
measured
cadre ouma’s life when
four hours
almost claimed it

fierce gun battle
between militant villagers
and armed oppressors;
bloody skirmish, hand grenade;
spear broken beyond repair

blinded
by shrapnel,
young back
pierced and
ripped by bullets

barely alive with chest
shredded, ouma’s request
to be killed was rejected;
nursed back to health
only to be taken, shackled,

sensory-deprived, to where
no man, woman
or child
could ever feel
human again

incarcerated and tortured
war crimes tribunal
label: murderer and terrorist
apology rejected
child soldier learned too late

the nature of war is death


(All rights reserved)
Based on the true story of a child soldier, this is the companion poem for an opinion piece at http://myfatoldsouthafricanlife.blogspot.com entitled When Murder is not Murder.

Monday, January 10, 2011

Will power

where mournful darkness
had reigned since the old man’s death
eager bright eyes now
illuminated the room
as his will was read aloud
 
 This is a Tanka with a syllable count of 5/7/5/7/7 
(All rights reserved)

Promises

golden light of a misty morn
filters through gaping cracks
illuminating the child newly born,
birthed on hessian sacks

furnishings of crates and planks;
a floor of hard-packed dung,
nothing to eat, nor money in banks,
yet a sweet lullaby is sung

the mother, but a child just past,
suckles her babe at breast;
grateful her pain is over at last
she sings to her son at rest

voice sweet as rippling streams
sings of the life he’ll live;
tells of hope, of love, of dreams
and all the things she’ll give

she promises a life of plenty;
education will pave his way;
forgetting her purse is empty
she swears to a better day

blazing sun of a summer’s day
bakes down on crude wooden shack
an old woman dies all alone -
cultured son never looked back
 (All rights reserved)

Saturday, January 8, 2011

SIMPLY MICHAEL

You undisputed King of Pop,
reclusive genius; childhood
extinguished. Yet you were so good

moonwalking your way to the top.
What did you gain, through all your pain?
Money? Thrills? Why didn’t you stop?

Supernova misunderstood.
You undisputed King of Pop
 (All rights reserved)
This style of poetry is known as an Octain, invented by Luke Prater of http://lukepraterswordsalad.wordpress.com    Thanks to all my friends at Facial Expressions Poetry Circle for their input into this final version of my octain.

Friday, January 7, 2011

AS HEAVEN CALLS YOUR NAME


Today it struck me.
Finally
I realized that you will never again
see a sunrise or sunset
nor the diamond-studded night sky
nor feel the wind on your face
nor smell the wetness of the earth
after a summer rainstorm
nor hear the birds chirping merrily
in a canopy of spring green.

Today it struck me.
Finally
I realized that you will never again
sit with me at a table and break bread
nor tell me that you love me
nor update me on what you’ve been doing
nor gossip with me about siblings
not present to defend themselves
nor simply criticize me, sometimes harshly,
as only you knew how.

Today it struck me.
Finally
I realized that you will never again
lose yourself in a massive jigsaw puzzle
nor read a good book
nor complete a cryptic crossword
nor savour the chewy saltiness of biltong
or the sweetness of wholenut chocolate
nor knit another pair of bootees or jacket
for your latest great-grandchild.

Today it struck me.
Finally
I realized that you will never again
be a vibrant and competent woman
nor be a loving mother or mother-in-law
nor be a caring sister or friend,
nor be a grandmother or great grandmother
to those who may still bless our lives
nor share all our hopes, our fears and tears
then bless us with your wisdom.


Today it struck me.
Finally
I realized that I will never again
be able to hear your voice
nor touch your hand nor give you a hug
nor fight furiously with you
nor tell you what you wanted to hear
as opposed to what I should have said
nor simply relish the good food
you placed before me at a meal.

Today it struck me.
Finally
I realized the end of our road has come.
You will move on now whilst I,
flesh of your flesh and blood of your blood,
having had you somewhere in my life
for every second that I have drawn breath—
no, even since my conception—
I… I must go on without your presence.
Realization dawns, and my heart cracks,
then shatters into a million pieces,
as heaven calls your name.

I’m sorry I took you for granted.
Godspeed, dearest mommy, till we meet again.


In loving memory
of
Elaine Marion Potgieter
9 June 1925 - 5 August 2010
I wrote this the night before my mother passed on, as my heart choked me and unbearable grief coursed down my cheeks.  The knowledge that my mom had reached the end of her road was just too much for me to bear.  I am posting it here in honour of my mother who was an exceptional woman.  My greatest regret is that I didn't tell her how exceptional she actually was. MHDSRIP.


(All rights reserved)

Tuesday, January 4, 2011

KENSINGTON CASTLE - (Revised Version)


marry me kate
build me a castle samuel

stone
by rough-hewn stone
hopeful love materialised
on the slopes of Kensington koppie,
high above golden plains

where velvet signal grass
grew tall and crested
grey louries called

kweh-h-h
kweh-h-h
from the sweet thorn trees

and where, beneath the
diamond-studded Southern Cross,
the distant anger of the wild

sawed
chirped
roared
across its shrinking hunting grounds

thousands of miles
from Scotland

Rothesay Castle reproduced
and, with a ship’s canon,
offered a haven for a
nervous and homesick bride
beneath the African sun

marry me kate
build me a castle samuel

so he did


(All rights reserved)

Samuel Scott Wilson built a castle for his wife, Katie MacKirdie, who agreed to marry him on condition he build her a castle.  Construction was finished in 1911 in Kensington, Johannesburg, South Africa and the stone used for its one metre thick walls was taken from the very koppie on which the castle stands.  It is believed that the castle was modelled on Rothesay Castle in Scotland.
 

STILLETTO


perfumed beauty
fingers caressing
silkiness encasing
shapely legs
innocent eyes
watching, fearfully,
from within
duvet sanctuary

six inch heels
tap
tap
tapping

out the door
into darkness
day after day
years pile up
wrinkles

dreaded call comes
doctors and nurses
try to repair
John’s handiwork
the face
the body
patched
remnants of desire

perfumed beauty
fingers caressing
silkiness encasing
shapely legs
jaded eyes
watching, fearfully,
from within
duvet sanctuary

six inch heels
tap
tap
tapping

out the door


(All rights reserved)