I M A G I N E / C R E A T E
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
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.
Skin,stretching over old hard wood,
the slow heartbeat.
Drumming, through rhythmic flames,
in empty spaces.
Exhaling, echoed peaceful breathing,
murmuring nights.
Stars, shimmer bright peace blankets,
the unbounded.
Human, centred blissful twirl dancing,
in serenity.
Blankets, soft encompassing embrace,
singular moment.
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.
All is well
in a sunrise
and a sunset
All is well
in a beginning
and an ending
All is well
in the joy of laughter
and the sorrow of tears
All is well
in the flowers of spring
and the gold of autumn
All is well
in a rowdy gathering of friends
and the solitude of contemplation
All is well
because one is only known
in the reflection of the other
We cling so tightly to our truth
that we miss insight,
wisdom,
nuance.
We long for a world in our image
so we remove different,
other,
foreign.
We don’t want to be wrong,
so we insult instead.
We don’t want to self reflect,
so we don’t listen.
We; are lost.
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.
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 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.
Don’t build a monument at the place of your revelation lest it becomes dogma. Rather pitch a tent in honour of the fleeting nature of ‘wisdom’ & the truth that we are but children in the cosmos.
imaginal 