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The fisherman
He stands on snaking sands resembling
morphing wisps of smoke, hung in the hue's above
casts his eye eastwards, watches Sun peck
Horizon, then quickly sail away
hot with shame
Clambering onto a hard rack of rock
the day bed for his naked feet. Stars,
mussels, blades and spines cut into
the pillows of his little feet, lulling
them to sleep. Blood gushes forth and billows
into the heaving, sighing, rabid sea
spitting white dribble from her cavernous
throat. She binges on the blood 'till all that's
left is the frothing white and sting of life
But he, the fisherman, thanks the rock
for reminding his spirit that he is
alive - sometimes he drifts from reality,
his soul plunging the unfathomable
depths of the sea's listless belly
"The pain is good!" he acknowledges,
"It makes my soul sing, singing is living."
Everything living he knows sings, horizon
ocean, birds, trees, friends, his lover at home
their beautiful baby boy, they all sing
Sometimes he too sings, like now, his feet asleep
arm stretched over the spitting sea,
hope hooked and cast into her bowels,
he sings a song to placate the sea,
he sings a song to bring the fish, another
for his little boy cradled in his wife's arms
he sings a song to numb the pain of life,
he sings because that's all he can do
while his hope rises and falls on the breast
of Ocean and his blood spills out over
and clouds His little stars
Wishing
Across the spitting seas where cold waters
meet shivering land, a blanket of light
wraps everything in it's grey wool: buildings
mountain, the sky. Claustrophobic clouds
low in the grey sky! Everything but
a hands-breadth patch of city basking
in warm light.
Somewhere in the grey, in one of the grey
buildings you're sitting under the orange
glow of a hanging bulb, doing whatever,
unaware that I'm wishing, with everything
in me, to be with you
Dust
I am a flea on the face of the earth
a million times less than a flea in your sight
yet You see me completely
How do You see so small a thing from so far away?
Distant
My clothes hang on the line like dead soldiers,
hung over a rampart starched stiff
by death, their arm's longing
for the watery grave below.
Because you are gone
everything I have is dead.
Perhaps one day, you wont be as far away
as the star I saw you laughing under.
Bekah
I'm trying to sleep my time away
don't want to face the day
knowing you're not going to be here
but sleep is a far off dream.
A million little balls of lead
eat their way through my stomach
on their way to my heavy heart
when they arrive, my heart will fall
into the abyss of emptiness.
My bed has lost all it's warmth
I'm like a corpse in a cold coffin
waiting for the dreaded drop into darkness.
I wish I could sleep
don't want to think about you
but that's all I do
let me sleep
Ching chong cha
Ching chong cha
you're the rock that's ground me as thin as paper
you're the blade that's cut me into a hundred shreds
you're the one that's scattered me to the four corners of the earth
Come!
Come and kneel down, here in the quiet place
of you and God, and open your heart
and be filled with the cool waters
that swirl around His feet, that your soul
might be satisfied with the kisses
of His love
Moon
I am like the moon, alone, shining
in the dark, courting loneliness
stealing light from the sun, to shine for youand anyone else who would care to see
Just like the moon, my journey fixed in heaven
I blindly sail through treacherous seas
of dead rocks, burning stars and the unknown.
We come to you, almost close enough
to touch you, but then scurry behind clouds
of secrecy or another night
lest you see an undressed emotion
I am the moon, looking down on you
from distances far away enough
for you to not see my longing soul
Haiku: Lighthouse
The arc of white light
spewn from your revolving face
falls on dark waters
On my knees
The massive mountain, the rooted tree
shaking her cymbals, clicking castanets
the vines, row after row after row
gardens of white roses, acorns, lavender,
green grass, blue sky, crisp air, cozy sunlight
makes me want to fall down and worship You
The one
“Where is the heart that once hid behind you?”
The cut and bump of steel through breast onto board beats in my ear. A fine smoke rises as the oil in the pan begins to burn. The gutted tomato halves stand silent. Decoratively sliced to look like lotus flowers, beautifully bloodied. I lift the board of war and wipe clean the plains of battle with the edge of my knife. The ravaged breasts fall into the fire of oil. A denser plume of smoke rises from the pan. I turn the shreds over, coating them in hot oil. The clock lives on the wall. My friend will be here soon. Is she the one I've been waiting for?
Lizard boy
“They paid the bill,” he tells the lizard, his eyes bouncing from lizard to bill. He gets up, lizard glued to forearm, bill on the table and disappears through the door.
I smile, “Cute!” I think, another thought quickly follows, “ If he were an adult I would have said crazy instead of cute.”
The lizard boy magically reappears and saunters up to me, little lizard lazing on forearm. “ Nice laptop! “ he comments, his lizard in my face.
“Lizard or laptop?” I think about which he would prefer. “What's that I say?” ogling the lizard, fingers still on the keyboard.
“A lizard.” he says curtly.
“Oh!” I remark, “Where did you get it?”
“In the park.” he says, his eyes fixed on his little pet.
“What's its name?”
“Kristy,” he answers and then laughs a little.
I wonder if he is mocking the little lizard.
“Kristy? How do you spell that?”
He laughs again, “Well I don't know, that's too hard.”
I can see the little lizards heart pounding hard against its chest, it still has its tail. “And what's your name?”
“Sky.”
I don't bother asking him to spell that. “How long have you had Kristy?”
“I just got it now.”
“And for how long are you going to have him?”
“Oh forever,” he says, then leaves me with my cold laptop.
Standing alone
I'm a changed man, a stranger in a strange
land, alone, on the ruins of my life
a singled soldier in a raging war
no drugs to accompany me, no booze
to mix with the tears that stain my sheets
no little darling to curl the hair
on my chest, just stark lucidness
spooning out my pain
Miss Du Pont
along the board walk that caresses
the sea, from Green Point past the white and red
lighthouse to the edge of the Waterfront?
I'm not much of a talker but listen
well and would love to see words slip
from your lips, your tongue smudge fresh red lipstick.
Miss Du Pont, let's walk beneath cerulean
skies, our arms joined by warm hands, swinging
like lovers do. Let's walk until you run
out of things to say, then turn back, wrapped
in a comfortable blancket of silence.
Hey baby, drop your cheek onto my shoulder
rest your soul as we walk by runners lanes
lit up by Christmas lights, past the green grass
of lover's picnics and fights, of boys play
and young men's dreams. Rest your soul as we walk
by little girls on swings with daddy near.
Rest your soul Miss Du Pont, as we travel
beneath sun drenched and star studded skies.
Cappuccino kiss
The room is stockinged in low red light
a black lady leans across the yellow
Mahogany bar, pushes her lips out
in a sultry kiss me pout, the dim lightfalling all around, ravishes her cheeks
exacerbating her angular features.
A white man leans forward, ever so slightly
closer, his identity lost in his back
of anonymity, the thumping drums
of kwaito fill the room, a highlight
softens her lips, a smile her pretty face
the faceless man relents, his lips find hers
and their eyes close, as they hold each other
in a stuff Apartheid kiss
Ends of the Earth
Tar and water sandwich bleached sands. The sands run from here, all along the west and east coasts, to the tops of Africa. The mountain holds the clouds like a skirt, skin close as if ashamed of her rocky flesh. At her feet the worlds lights go out and people wake from their dreamy sleep. I watch the waves roll in. Wave after wave they crash into the shores, breaking as if though a rope hid beneath her skin were suddenly pulled tight. The sun warms my back as the wind lacerates me and everything in her berth. Billions of little white horses leap up, running from the chasing wind. Their aquamarine feet beat the ocean, their white mains flailing behind. Tired, they disappear into the depths or into the heights. Who can tell? Behind me, the incessant drone of all sorts of vehicles thunders ever louder. The cold faces of high rise buildings, still grey in the morning light, loom down on them. I have no part in that. I mount a horse and head for the great waterfall at the ends of the earth.
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Canola Field Secrets
He knew at that moment that he loved her. That he would never love another. The wind caressed the canola with its warm hand. She was standing facing him. Her hair was as blonde as the canola fields were yellow. The fields spread as far as he could see, except to the left of him. There, fallen leaves, fresh or mulched, decked the ground. And there, trees as old as the earth itself, climbed, branch by branch, into the sky.
“To get from the secrets buried there,” his father said.
And there the canola stopped, not wanting to venture into the deep, dark woods.
Ziggy slipped her hand into his and gave a slight tug. Then she was running. Chasing the wind where it combed, stroke after stroke, through the golden fields. Gerson watched the wind and her and the lithe canola plants dancing. She giggled as she ran and jumped and spun around, her arms stretched wide to hold up the heavens. The wind whistled as it led her to the forest. And there, at the edge of the woods, behind a tree stood a man, mesmerised.
“I must have her,” he thought. Closing his eyes, he propped his head up against the elephantine trunk, “I will have her,” he whispered.
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