Bound

How must I disfigure my words
Conform endless unbound ideas
into tiny boxes of acceptance

How must I contort my essence
Submit the free-running child
to the shackles of conformity

How must I restrain my fiends
Imprison giants of creativity
in dark gaols of deliverances

How must I subdue my epiphany
Contour the remarkable enigma
into blasé shams of the known

Deliver my feet to the melody
Stretch out for me a universe
of open and magical unknowing

Reclamation

Letting go in soft slow motion
into the cold black weightless
into the serenity of stillness
into the safe quiet nothingness

Letting go of tauten demands
into a lull of thoughtlessness
into a truth of homelessness
into a chrysalis of awareness

An interlude of breathlessness

Letting go in gentle exhalation
into the brilliant luminousness
into the light of hopefulness
into the hand of boundlessness

Pause

The child becomes the man
and,
the man carries the child.

The future becomes the now
and,
the now grips onto yesterday.

The moment grows into a life
and,
the life unravels in a moment.

The end just another beginning
and
the beginning simply an ending.

The pursuits we sacrifice for
and,
the sacrifices we will pay for.

The pause that creates a bridge
and,
the bridge that forges new ways.

Jakkalsputz

Die mis gooi ń dik vreeskombers
oor die oeroue Jakkalsputz woestyn sand.
Die donker donkerte jaag selfs die windjie
sy moer in, oor ver toorende berg duine.
Velore heimwee neem ń plek by die vuur,
moepanie hout flame dans ń polka dans,
stoei diep rooi teen ń eindelose swart nag.
Mense staar verlore na ń swaar swart pot
plaas hulle geloof in die pot brood en bier.

I’m still here

Your pure cotton shirt catches the wind,
unfurling a sail on a mediterranean road. With a bright sunny nonchalant freedom
you toss away words, happy apple cores.
Be yourself, share yourself, be vulnerable,
each a final testament of an impossibility.
I cast a smile at your brown eagle eyes,
the warrior in me bravely chiseling away.
Faggot, sissy, stop crying, be a real man. The child feebly asks you for compassion,
as he blundering tries to heal old wounds.

Paper Cranes

I hang my hope on the wings of wild paper cranes.
Dancing regally in the wailing white winter snow.
I pray to the gods of the forsaken and the unbelievers.
Living in a darkened land of black and white desolation.
I bend my tired fingers around the folds of a thousand words.
Bringing you back to me in the colourful blossoms of spring.

Picture Credit: Vincent Manier

Lilith

Lilith is the violinist, the violin, the note
stretching like a grant jeté across a stage.
She’s the summer straw hat ray of sun
breaking through sad face winter clouds.
She’s the last grateful smiling hallelujah
in the mournful choir humming a cappella.
Lilith is the steel blue motionless whispers,
of that arresting gaze demanding silence.
Lilith is the hushed interlude drawing you
to the heart of an interstellar black hole.
She’s the winged child serpent goddess
contained in an eruption of angelic power.
Lilith is the innocence of desire calling
in passion to be beheld but never owned.