The final note disappear into smokey spaces lingering between empty glasses.
Longing fingers reaching out for lonely promises reflected on the tired faces.
We close our eyes to protect ourselves from the desperate truth of the dying light.
Keep the words of our desires hidden behind the walls of many a futile night.

All I can offer you is the soft and gentle touch of a loving warm embrace.
All I can give is the hope engraved on peaceful kind lips touching your face.
All I can be is a small flame in the midst of your wild unpredictable storm.
All I can do is to take your hand when empty heartlessness becomes the norm.

The Namib

There is a vast space inside of me.
Created in the heart of the Namib desert.
On a night so dark that you could feel it.
A night so quiet that you could hear it.
Where I was one with everything.
I could not see where I ended
and infinity began.
Where the stars were so bright
that you could reach into the Milky Way, stir the pond with your fingers.
In this space I stand humbled.
Star dust reaching out to star dust.

The Knight

The knight, weary and battle scarred
Drops his heavy armour to the ground
He builds a fire without a single word
Exhaling, bends his tired knees to sit
He waits
No more will he go out from this place
No more bloody battles will he fight
No more conquering and subjecting
No more creating of wealthy empires
He waits
One by one they come and sit
Staring at the old wrinkly hermit sage
Speaking soft words of quiet wisdom
The fire reflecting in his eyes

The Truth Of Things

In death lies buried the seeds of life.
In darkness the light revealed.
In defeat the written history of victory.
In brokenness the truth about love.
In gratitude the bent knee of humility.
In my end the first steps of your beginning.

I feel the breath of a messenger,
spreading over my human skin.
Drawing from the pool of forgetfulness
the memory of this moment.
Yet again time bends in on itself,
the past becomes the future.

I join the fire circle dance of humanity.
I hold the hands of many destinies.
I embrace the dissolution of knowing.
I dive back into the pool of creation.
I whisper softly into the ear of an angel.
I know, I see, you can’t hide from me.

The Cot

“I carry the bars within me.”
― Franz Kafka

It is a very peculiar thing, how some seemingly inconsequential memories will not fade with time. Simply refusing to let go of the grip on your mind long after the context for their existence had faded into the gray mist of forgetfulness. Holding on for dear life as if to say “Look at me, look at me. I’m important!” without giving you any explanation as to the why.

That night was tranquil and hushed. Not even the distant howling of brown jackals that normally disturb the silence was heard. A faint light from a clear African sky, filled with bright stars, dripped in through the open windows, curtainless. A small child lays outstretched on the modest pale brown wooden bed that was tucked away under the window in a corner. The frame of his naked chest slowly rising, falling in complete peace. In the other, darker corner, stood the cot. It’s sleeping occupant as oblivious to the night.

A large shadow appeared in the door frame of open bedroom door and pierced the silence with a loud bark, “Wake up! Come and sleep in my bed!”. The small child jolted, rolled his legs off the bed and sat up straight in a sleepy confusion, staring at the now empty door frame. The occupant of the cot dragged himself up against a side railing with the use of his tiny hand. Chaotic sounds filtered in through the dark. Male and female voices, some older some younger.

“What happened?” asked one of the voices, bewildered. “Terrorists through the window … your sister … shot … dream”. Words kept on stabbing the dark but made no sense at all. The small child disappeared through the dark door frame to join the voices, leaving behind his brother, standing inside the cot silently looking, waiting not understanding, alone.

Although the child in the cot did not understand the meaning of all the words that swirled around outside his bedroom a feeling settled on him as he stood there by himself. A feeling of dread that continued to grow as the night exaggerated seconds into infinities, until he could do nothing else but cry in terror.

The voices started to drift away into different corners of the house, he could hear his brother ask, “Why is he crying?”, “Because he is scared” came the simple answer. But nobody came for him. He cried, like most children do, until he fell asleep inside the pink cot with the Bambi print and mattress filled with red horse hair. A cot bought for a baby girl.

Loneliness covered him with a blanket, planting a seed within whilst silence returned to the night. The seed that would take hold and grow over many years into a tree of aloneness, bearing many fruits. The child in the cot waits to be valuable enough for someone to come for him, include him, rescue him from behind the bars he carries within, him.

At the rise.

Where should one start a story? Start, because it’s neither the beginning nor the end but simply the parting of the curtains and story, since we know there are as many truths in the play of life as there are actors on its stage. Let us not even contemplate the views of the audience in the event we get overwhelmed by the infinite possibilities of, truth.

We could start this story with another word instead, peace. Some might say that it is the brother of truth. That they hold hands and to find one is to find the other. It is such a small and in some ways, insignificant word, peace, yet its profundity drives so many of us to do extraordinary things in its pursuit. It has the appearance of an ever-shifting mirage, one we chase in vain across the plains of our lives. We look at those who find it with a kind wonder and even some unspoken envy.

So then, let us start the story with peace or the lack thereof on the Dark Continent that is Africa, a farm in some small corner of its vastness where a bloody war is raging and the child that stood crying amongst it, terrified.

“Perhaps he knew, as I did not, that the Earth was made round so that we would not see too far down the road.”

― Karen Blixen, Out of Africa

Winter Blossom

In the whitest winter snow,
on the darkest withered branch,
there grew,
a blossom as red as blood.

I paused and held my breath,
to behold this sight,
a miracle,
in the land of black and white.

With gentle loving hands,
I reached out to touch,
my fingers,
to the satin petals light.

On the whitest winter snow,
a blossom as red as blood,
dead at my touch,
lost forever to the night.


Words fly away on the white wings of a peaceful silence.
Dark storms are finally overcome by a colourful horizon.
A clear note rings in the quiet aftermath of chaotic destruction.

I exhale and my breath takes the hand of a winters breeze.
Dancing passed the brown and yellow leaves of yesterday.
A warm loving sun throws its arms around my shoulders.


Home why did you abandon me?
The words of my soul whisper.
Calling across the endless waters,
reflecting glass hiding healing love.

Home where are you?
The arms of my heart outstretched.
Reaching through the grey mist,
a blanket hiding hopeful belonging.

Home why are you silent?
The trembling of my body echoes.
Begging in the darkness of night,
a cold touch hiding warm comfort.

This shore is not your shores.
This home is not my home.
This love not our love.
This belonging not belonging at all.

Return to me
Allow me to return