From time to time
On occasion
It becomes futile to try
Now and again
To express
The self-same
Ill-defined thought
Just an idea
I feel
Ill-conceived it seems
From time to time
Now and again
On occasion...
Monday, 16 January 2012
What's More...
What's more important? Asking to be forgiven or the need to forgive; saying that you're sorry or wanting to hear that someone's sorry too; wanting to do something or making that small gesture in hope; knowing that you love someone or wanting that love returned; losing the love or feeling it still; saying something silly or keeping silent?
Thursday, 5 January 2012
THE SILENT GRAPHITE WEIGHT
What is the role of the poet
In a world crippled by greed
Ruled and corrupted by might of arms
And diplomatic impunity?
A world where
Form has been perverted
Where beauty is seldom seen
Thriving within the decay.
What is the purpose
Of rhythmic, rhyming verses
Subjective, measured observations
About innocently metered nothings.
What good is poetry
In the belly that needs to be filled
Or in the unrecognizing, expired eyes
Of hope and a mother.
What is the point of trying to make clear
What so few seem to want to hear
So the poets perish in their graphite prisons
And the silence of the virgin page.
In a world crippled by greed
Ruled and corrupted by might of arms
And diplomatic impunity?
A world where
Form has been perverted
Where beauty is seldom seen
Thriving within the decay.
What is the purpose
Of rhythmic, rhyming verses
Subjective, measured observations
About innocently metered nothings.
What good is poetry
In the belly that needs to be filled
Or in the unrecognizing, expired eyes
Of hope and a mother.
What is the point of trying to make clear
What so few seem to want to hear
So the poets perish in their graphite prisons
And the silence of the virgin page.
CROSSES AND DOTS
Just lines
Twisted and bent
With crosses and dots
Forming letters
Lined up in sequenced
Unchanging patterns
Of vowels and consonants
Each word a meaning
Each its place
Each sentence a necklace
Illuminating my intent
To share
With you
The entrails of my thoughts
So that you will know
The madness
And the lines
Twisted and bent
With crosses and dots.
Twisted and bent
With crosses and dots
Forming letters
Lined up in sequenced
Unchanging patterns
Of vowels and consonants
Each word a meaning
Each its place
Each sentence a necklace
Illuminating my intent
To share
With you
The entrails of my thoughts
So that you will know
The madness
And the lines
Twisted and bent
With crosses and dots.
DOES IT REALLY MATTER?
Another year has passed
Unseen I sit and watch it go
Observing the multitudes
Frivolously parading
Inebriated smiles
And fire-cracker laughter
Toasts to good cheer
Reciting a song
Otherwise forgotten
Unthinking into another year
Of business as usual
A tired vision despoiled
Of how to make another million
How to save another million
How to climb and clamber
Onto the backs of the downtrodden billions
To mark the progress
Of indiscriminate destruction
Distractedly focused
Making resolutions
Clutching desperately
Onto the re-used wishes
Taken out and dusted
And polished by a new speech writer
At the end of each new year.
Unseen I sit and watch it go
Observing the multitudes
Frivolously parading
Inebriated smiles
And fire-cracker laughter
Toasts to good cheer
Reciting a song
Otherwise forgotten
Unthinking into another year
Of business as usual
A tired vision despoiled
Of how to make another million
How to save another million
How to climb and clamber
Onto the backs of the downtrodden billions
To mark the progress
Of indiscriminate destruction
Distractedly focused
Making resolutions
Clutching desperately
Onto the re-used wishes
Taken out and dusted
And polished by a new speech writer
At the end of each new year.
Tuesday, 20 December 2011
SOME DAYS
Some days are so familiar
Hard as I look there is nothing to see
No compassion, no heart, no change
Just a distressingly arrogant contempt
In the best interests of those who will not think.
Some days I just want to lash out
I want to shake things up
And scream at the top of my lungs
Or just curl up and cry
Sometimes I just want to die.
Some days there is nothing to smile about
The laughter is forced and insincere
The freedom song strangled in my throat
The martyrs crucified in vain
As I look into your eyes and see the disdain.
Some days I need so much to behold beauty
Yet all I see is the growing decay
As you wipe the dirt from your feet
Leaving it behind as you enter your fortress
Mouthing your patronizing platitudes.
Some days I have all the answers
I know what it is that I need to say
But the sentences falter and remain unspoken
Silenced by the desperate clamour
Of distracted indifference.
Some days the sun just won’t shine
There is no daybreak and no gray light
And try as I might there is no respite
No understanding or acceptance or desire
Just an interminably desolate moment.
Some days your greed leaves me empty
Needing so badly to feed my dream
Needing just to dream; of a better place
Of justice and equality and a future
Of my next meal without worrying about starving.
And some days I do feel the love
Of an unknown brother and a sister far away
Of a fellow traveler passing on their way
A stranger with a heart and mind who is able to see
Reminding me to stop being indulgent.
Hard as I look there is nothing to see
No compassion, no heart, no change
Just a distressingly arrogant contempt
In the best interests of those who will not think.
Some days I just want to lash out
I want to shake things up
And scream at the top of my lungs
Or just curl up and cry
Sometimes I just want to die.
Some days there is nothing to smile about
The laughter is forced and insincere
The freedom song strangled in my throat
The martyrs crucified in vain
As I look into your eyes and see the disdain.
Some days I need so much to behold beauty
Yet all I see is the growing decay
As you wipe the dirt from your feet
Leaving it behind as you enter your fortress
Mouthing your patronizing platitudes.
Some days I have all the answers
I know what it is that I need to say
But the sentences falter and remain unspoken
Silenced by the desperate clamour
Of distracted indifference.
Some days the sun just won’t shine
There is no daybreak and no gray light
And try as I might there is no respite
No understanding or acceptance or desire
Just an interminably desolate moment.
Some days your greed leaves me empty
Needing so badly to feed my dream
Needing just to dream; of a better place
Of justice and equality and a future
Of my next meal without worrying about starving.
And some days I do feel the love
Of an unknown brother and a sister far away
Of a fellow traveler passing on their way
A stranger with a heart and mind who is able to see
Reminding me to stop being indulgent.
NAMIBIA
This journey is rich with memories
A trip overflowing with my snatches of history
From the thick cream to the warm milk bread
The hot-springs and skin peeling sunburn
The sweltering city and the misty coast.
Now I return with another purpose
To shoot the breeze with a father
And siblings who now have partners and kids
To feel their smiles and taste their tears
To listen as they try to disguise their fears.
I needed to come once more
Just to meet and maybe to say a final farewell
To look out at their hazy horizons
Shimmering bright in the distance
Where new dreams are born.
A trip overflowing with my snatches of history
From the thick cream to the warm milk bread
The hot-springs and skin peeling sunburn
The sweltering city and the misty coast.
Now I return with another purpose
To shoot the breeze with a father
And siblings who now have partners and kids
To feel their smiles and taste their tears
To listen as they try to disguise their fears.
I needed to come once more
Just to meet and maybe to say a final farewell
To look out at their hazy horizons
Shimmering bright in the distance
Where new dreams are born.
WHEN WE WERE US...
It’s late at night as I sit here thinking of us. It’s minus ten outside and in here it’s minus you. I remember that first time we met we flirted; touching, kissing; fingers exploring. Even in the absence of a snapshot, the images are clear: I remember sharing a soul, the first time we made love for ever; the first time I broke your heart. I came back to you and you to me, that night of wind and fingers entwined and promises that would be broken.
The intensity of your gaze, the urgent pulse; an electric shock, you became I part of me and I of you. I will never forget.
The moments shared in obscure places, the rare public proclamations, the coffees and whiskeys and the sound of your voice as I listened, before I turned away again.
The intensity of your gaze, the urgent pulse; an electric shock, you became I part of me and I of you. I will never forget.
The moments shared in obscure places, the rare public proclamations, the coffees and whiskeys and the sound of your voice as I listened, before I turned away again.
20 FACTS AND AN INTRO...
I am often amazed at the way in which people choose to interpret life – or more often, misinterpret it; but having said that I must hasten to add that I am under no illusion that how and what I think is the only valid view. I have to admit that my interpretation of reality can be – and often is – interpreted as lacking. I know this because I fail to take into account so many of the factors that so many people are convinced, is indispensable and integral to having an informed opinion.
By the same token, I am convinced that much of the complexity is merely presented to confuse and needlessly convolute issues which are in essence exceedingly simple.
Perhaps it is the simplicity itself that becomes the problem because we cannot believe that this life that the greatest minds through the ages have never completely unraveled cannot be anything less than bogglingly complex; or at least that is what we have been told to think.
One and one can create endless permutations – endless components of the complex, misdirection and confabulation.
We become the masters of our own delusion simply because we are unable to accept the truth, and we all know that truth is open to interpretation, or misinterpretation as the case may be…
1. We are all prejudiced
2. We are slaves controlled by corporate puppet-masters
3. Politics is a whorehouse under surveillance and politicians are the whores
4. Freedom has been reduced to a personal space
5. Religion is a foil that keeps the masses blind
6. There is no ultimate truth
7. Neither knowledge nor education guarantees intelligence
8. History hasn’t taught us how to be more human
By the same token, I am convinced that much of the complexity is merely presented to confuse and needlessly convolute issues which are in essence exceedingly simple.
Perhaps it is the simplicity itself that becomes the problem because we cannot believe that this life that the greatest minds through the ages have never completely unraveled cannot be anything less than bogglingly complex; or at least that is what we have been told to think.
One and one can create endless permutations – endless components of the complex, misdirection and confabulation.
We become the masters of our own delusion simply because we are unable to accept the truth, and we all know that truth is open to interpretation, or misinterpretation as the case may be…
1. We are all prejudiced
2. We are slaves controlled by corporate puppet-masters
3. Politics is a whorehouse under surveillance and politicians are the whores
4. Freedom has been reduced to a personal space
5. Religion is a foil that keeps the masses blind
6. There is no ultimate truth
7. Neither knowledge nor education guarantees intelligence
8. History hasn’t taught us how to be more human
NEW NOISE
I listen intently to this new noise: running water, birdsong, insects and dogs; random snatches of passing conversations; an occasional car or tractor or horse; and the valley breathing.
The story shifts to encompass wide-open spaces and the rushing inanity of urban threads are reduced to a receding mindlessness.
My thoughts slowly calm and the assimilation begins, one moment at a time I become accustomed to the crisp, clear air and the smells of things barely tainted by the decay and destruction.
The fatigue of the journey weighs heavy in my limbs, but I know that I will soon be revived. I smile as I wonder how the story will begin.
The story shifts to encompass wide-open spaces and the rushing inanity of urban threads are reduced to a receding mindlessness.
My thoughts slowly calm and the assimilation begins, one moment at a time I become accustomed to the crisp, clear air and the smells of things barely tainted by the decay and destruction.
The fatigue of the journey weighs heavy in my limbs, but I know that I will soon be revived. I smile as I wonder how the story will begin.
THE ROAD
There is a road down which I used to walk
Many, many years ago in amazement and wonder
I used to see the other children playing
Care-free and with abandon
Under the watchful eyes of doting parents
And I wondered about mine.
There was that road down which I walked again
Many years ago in confusion and rage
Observing the crumbling facades
Corroded by time and neglect
Under the bitter yoke oppression
And I wondered about time.
Now that self-same road upon which I tread
Has been restored to it’s never before glory
As I am overcome by the familiar smiles of the aged
Mere children grown old before they’ve matured
By the blinkered wisdom of experience
And I wandered on, down the line.
Many, many years ago in amazement and wonder
I used to see the other children playing
Care-free and with abandon
Under the watchful eyes of doting parents
And I wondered about mine.
There was that road down which I walked again
Many years ago in confusion and rage
Observing the crumbling facades
Corroded by time and neglect
Under the bitter yoke oppression
And I wondered about time.
Now that self-same road upon which I tread
Has been restored to it’s never before glory
As I am overcome by the familiar smiles of the aged
Mere children grown old before they’ve matured
By the blinkered wisdom of experience
And I wandered on, down the line.
Mosselbay - 24/12/2010
I awake to the sound of the Indian Ocean lapping lazily at the sandy shore. I’m still trying to fathom the journey that brought me here.
Thoughts of a full breakfast reduced to coffee and juice by an onslaught of cereal.
I sit looking out over a pristine white beach quietly observing; after a few wine-glasses of tepid Limousine brandy with gassy Coke Zero and only yearning thoughts of ice, I speak to a member of the staff and am given directions.
I stroll along the beach slowly filling, smoking on my way to town which is familiar even though it is my first visit. Holiday-makers!
Bananas and peanuts; and a roast chicken with fresh, baked bread; and vodka with juice and ice: the afternoon passes sipping away, watching. So many toned bronzed bodies; as many flabby and pale; everyone has children. Holiday-makers!
Scrimped and saved all year maybe; or more likely just saved or blowing the annual bonus; privileged, not in their whiteness but in their ability to afford a holiday at all: and yet they don’t see themselves as being privileged any longer, just holiday-makers enjoying the seasonal migration of the herd to dip their manicured and wrinkled toes into this salt water of their content.
A tipsy and toasted Christmas Eve drive into the unadorned heart of the community where old friends and neighbours become new acquaintances over a smoke and an uninspired conversation: the old days are alive in the dying moment, dying because the passage of time doesn’t ever change the grinding reality of impoverishment and drugs and the bemoanable truth of apathy.
The stars are dulled by ambient light as I lay in my narrow bed, drifting to the crash and thunderous hiss of the surf pounding away at the shoreline beyond my open window.
Thoughts of a full breakfast reduced to coffee and juice by an onslaught of cereal.
I sit looking out over a pristine white beach quietly observing; after a few wine-glasses of tepid Limousine brandy with gassy Coke Zero and only yearning thoughts of ice, I speak to a member of the staff and am given directions.
I stroll along the beach slowly filling, smoking on my way to town which is familiar even though it is my first visit. Holiday-makers!
Bananas and peanuts; and a roast chicken with fresh, baked bread; and vodka with juice and ice: the afternoon passes sipping away, watching. So many toned bronzed bodies; as many flabby and pale; everyone has children. Holiday-makers!
Scrimped and saved all year maybe; or more likely just saved or blowing the annual bonus; privileged, not in their whiteness but in their ability to afford a holiday at all: and yet they don’t see themselves as being privileged any longer, just holiday-makers enjoying the seasonal migration of the herd to dip their manicured and wrinkled toes into this salt water of their content.
A tipsy and toasted Christmas Eve drive into the unadorned heart of the community where old friends and neighbours become new acquaintances over a smoke and an uninspired conversation: the old days are alive in the dying moment, dying because the passage of time doesn’t ever change the grinding reality of impoverishment and drugs and the bemoanable truth of apathy.
The stars are dulled by ambient light as I lay in my narrow bed, drifting to the crash and thunderous hiss of the surf pounding away at the shoreline beyond my open window.
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