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.