If

If I could open my eyes
I would see you walking in the snow
If I could open my arms
I would see you walk into them
If I could open my hands
I would catch the sorrow of your drowning tears
If I could open my heart
I would fill yours with the sun.

Forensics

I cannot walk away
and stop the digging up
the swab of past evidence
of my life.
I cannot stop
childhood files,
I search through them looking for my facts
my height, my tendency to run away,
isolated incidents
I dig,
 the archaeology of my own breath
unclassified matches

wearing a hug

poison trickles out
like an elegant enemy
a watered down memory

Dream

He has changed
from looking down into the dust
making no eye contact
to a walk with purpose
a taxi ride, a uniform
a purpose, working days at the Magaliesburg Co op
he asked  for a letter for the bank
'This is to certify proof of residence'
days become easier to swallow
bank account stamp approval, twenty two years later
approval for a life beyond days of failure,
trees and leaves become valuable again
He sees himself, as someone, for the first time.

Paper Dolls

There is a constant certainty in the chain
there is a knowledge
that there will never be loneliness
a smiling paper cutout solitaire
lost in an odds and ends basket
without a hand

There will always be five in a row
holding hands
connected, perhaps unaware
holding the pattern, folding together as one.

circa 1989

A particular scene
she is happy
with a band of goodwill
geese, one in particular
circling a rock pool


A weber barbeque
he is going to cook a chicken
there is a sought out special found,  their home
there is  a mother, apron, long hair
A peacock call from the roof

a father, turning potatoes on the fire
laughing , for once, happy
a sister following another sister, walking
on toes, laughing joke the antichrist
following Nicodemus the duck
hot breathing green filled grace given
Solitary,
our stamp album
of the world wide Christmas card
long eulogizer
a stamp on the life of the this world
our imprint
us
children'
mothers'
fathers'
caught in a moment,
captured
preparing, for a special night

Corner

Walking, back tired blunt away

mist eyed confused by the present

waiting, holding my breath like an underwater animal

unused to daylight oxygen

I am walking

waiting

the hope of that past, erased in a fire

in a storm, in the recent rain

under the earth

forgotten, buried

cutting out, paper cuts,

all I see..waiting for you

is the better light

and a clear view

a different tinted recollection.

Between

A man sits in the dusk light, beyond a dust road
with a tray of naartjies and a small battery powered radio
listens for news, weather
I cannot reach him
we are caught between mirror image and memory
far away
but in this hour before the desert stars gather
I believe we call to each other
across the dust gathering land between us.

The Storm (for Natty Cayla)

Born older than your young years

Words formed like bubbles

Glass like, shattering grown up throat clearing silences

Four letter syllables, unprecedented quotes

“ Archaeologist”

“Antagonize”

A mind filled with water words from an unknown source

Light, pure water filled cavities of words.

The storm came to your world of words

 In a darkening moment, swarmed by other faces and their words

“Stop, naughty, mine, and mine”

The noises circled your head like a hurricane

Sweeping, drowning away all your beautiful tapestry sentences

Until you were left emptied out and silent

Unable to even spit out a three word call for rescue

“Take    me     home.”

Jewels

You loved shiny jewels as a child

Beads and bracelets, most of all rings

You bought them weekly with saved money

They are all you have left behind here

Ringing in my mind.

You wore them to cover scars

To cover self hatred

To cover lies,

To cover the past

Glittering, masking the unknown secrets

They are all you have left behind here

Ringing in my mind.

So, I write words to you there

To shine in your head,

To dance around your dark dreams

Like jewels, crystals of thoughts

Necklaces of prayers, beads of sounds

They are all I can leave behind here

Ringing in your mind.

Chambers

Not deep beneath the surface of the earth

holding gems the dwarfs  mine, treasures

but tall bookcases

and smells.

The smell of leather

older

the smell of deep carpet

the smell we attached to the watercooler and the plastic cups

the smell, of multicoloured Smarties in a wooden bowl

on his desk

the smell of porcelain dolls

neatly preserved with matching shoes and hats

taken out, cautiously,

scented with books and museum curate awe

on our long awaited Sunday visits.

to Pritchard Street.

Without you

The child view of the horizon
is like a half moon
caught in a sombre sky
unaware of the light of it's full capacity.

Arrival

In the shadow of a suitcase

the map starred, stars calling

back

heart beating

back

history calling

back

darkness, leaving no stain, calling

back

the shadows of the memory

the breathing of the forest

the heating of the rocks

have uttered the heartbeat,

beckoning

come back.

Listen

To those
who tell me that a little child
cannot see the far away letters
on your shining testing machines
that she needs expensive wait your turn specialists
in the streets with fixed statistics and incomes
when
most of the children in this country are
swollen bellied hungry,
vitamin deficient,
smoking drinking beating parents
careful
put your head down
the drums are beating

to those
who tell me that a little child
must please put back the books
in the squeaking clean bookshop
full to capacity with expensive coloured books
she is disturbing the system
when
most of the children in this country
will most likely never have their own coloured book
waiting for the non arrival of a text book
learning under strikes and limited light
eyes strained
walking far to buses and lifts in the dirt
careful
put your head down
the drums are beating

the dividing line is cracking
the dividing line, is cracking.

For Ashlee

Another night
another fright
in the hour without witnesses
where, in the hot breath pillow indentation
do your dreams go?
bits and pieces, what we wore
a letter to Father Christmas
a favourite walk on the dust dirt road
blinked out
blinked in, under stars
swallowed down, the First Picture Book of Poetry
as the nausea creeps closer
the puppet show monster
the world through the wrong side of a daylight telescope

For Natalie

From a rock collecting fairy queen
strong beyond belief
against dark nights, shadows, thorns
my little star child has broken
shattered into pieces, alone
in the never ending traffic lights
breathing down on her
the lone child
the brave one
has become lost
floating in the screaming sea of faces

The Belonging Bubble

The house does not come as a surprise
it is where I would build a house
where anyone would
where a magician would throw down
a brick and mortar casserole
of happiness, paused dreams
no regret, silence
a recipe for the foundations and the finish.

With the ease of an eagle
taking flight from the cliff behind that house
as the border marks a new province
my breath slows
and an identity of belonging
rests easily back on my strained shoulders
like a well worn, familiarly scented
beloved shawl.

A Box of Nothing

I beg an invisible baited audience
to give me time
let the happy recipe
the DNA code of my heartbeat
let the puzzle pieces suddenly shot to shreds
ricocheting around my head with no order
without a structured corner
find their places.

let the collisions of mind and memory meet
let there be a moment of silence
in this box of nothing
let it become a speaking, thinking
plan again.

Oh Holy Night

Not a rain sunk mud road

with the prematurely lighted tree

signaling the space

the grace we have found

but a prickling wind sung road

suddenly,  a carol

incongruous

no decorations

a recruiting,  tired witnesses

a  car , a family

driving to the shops, driven

 another family

dressed for Home Affairs

uncomfortable,  unexpected

but in this strange silence

we hear the magic of Christmas day, radio random

a break in the stifled silence

happysad

goodandbad

the ones on the brink, edge of survival

the ones making small talk, hurting

sharing Charlie and Lola books in the back seat

unfairness, helplessness

guided, a safe place

God bless us

everyone

not just in December.

drowning

help
I am drowning on this air
full to capacity with voices
phone lines
never ending words
I cannot hold this air close in my chest
hold it like a life supply
permitting suffocation
removed from the blue gum trees
from the wind
the universe I chose.

Darkest Hour

I have been holding my breath
for a long time
exact heart drum beat
waiting for the first birdsong
signaling the end of night

This is halfway mark of  winter night
there is no sound
clearing my own throat startles me
and all the unexplained shadows surface
to the top,

The full moon speckles the lawn
prickling quiet
I lie red burning eyed
knowing they are braver,
deeply sleeping in the next room
dreaming of Rosy in a rainbow garden
rose tinted sounds in their minds
I have only pins and needles in silence
waiting for the gentle tread of dawn.

Under this skin

where once a breath was lost
blood short-circuited, searing
without a hotline to the heart


this place, burnt underneath my skin
beautifully, with the fire of the evenings
the sunset, watched over the kitchen window
a bare branch, skeletal peace
a turtle dove calling,
a light
a flight from unspecified captivity
a footpath through the night
longing, loss,
leading my pulse
back to that forgotten, beating centre

Hotel

ground, lift sounds Vivaldi
sliding doors slick, northern lights
smells of another life,
a world of luxury, thick carpeted,
treated behaviour
my reflection in the multi mirrors
becomes thousands
one on one
I see beyond me
a mirror marker of history
my father's sideways glance
my mothers shoulders
my sister's shadow
walking, fading into the refraction,
it seems a logical place
to momentarily kneel
and heal.

My Africa

I cannot write for Africa

my story is

a small stocking story in the winter

behind a swing light

But I can write

Of Bhuti

and Mtusi

and Patrick

of Bhuti,

looking for tracks of strangers

watching, he walks with a stick

waiting with  fire after sunset

waiting for the unwanted,

I am not alone

of Mtusi

walking to his school

not asking a lift

more dignified than a lord

smiling

of Patrick

worrying, wide eyed for us

waiting for my children to lock doors

This is my Africa

a waiting fire on a border fence

waiting for walking tracks

protectorate, unprecedented

guardians of a micro bubble

a candle and a teacup

breakers of the cloud of bone hungry

the gate keeper of the understanding

Holiday Path

Biting into a boiled egg
dipped in coarse lemon black pepper
sticks to the roof of my mouth
swallowed early in morning
roadside in the Karoo
a pebble reminder
thrown behind in a pool of water
I walk away without seeing the memory ripples

Mind Meeting

Double bubbles
in the bath
shared melting chocolate buttons
melting in the soap water
streams of dreams
strained same content
hot fevered cough syrup breath
side by side
in the long ice night
the unspoken sameness
of the little twosome

Retrospect

Running

like wild antelope

for my life

there is little time to turn around

 to look anywhere but down at the ground

When  the flight

the flight between my hands

the adrenaline worn out beating heart

has subsided

I can take a breath

and turn around

Do you see?

in the backward glance

the unfortunate foresight

of hindsight

no longer blotted by tear salt and salt sweat

I see a music box, winding out our lives

 a man walking even when it hurt

 paved out path he fought for, daily

I see a cross fire

a mistake

a broken down message

stuck in the mixed signal
seen from the other side of the past

too far below any wishing well

too far from this new,

gazing down present reflection

too deep in dark, too blurred, fixed

to look again, or change.

history seekers

closed by the tombs
sand, mud, sung by the wind
slowly clothed by silks
the death song beats

the death song beats
in the marble
the death song beats
in the long thought out tomb
painted gold

the death song beats
in the shot out ungoverned squatter
the death song beats in the analysis
of the slow deconstruct
of paintings

the death song beats
in small, unnoticed passing

the death song beats
in the screaming of the undead

the ones without history
or seeming mystery
the ones unfree to fly
away

the death song beats
without help

Paris

Spat out, back muscles twisted,
from the stale saturated belly of a plane
numbed
fed into a Parisian past machine
fed out as a strand
to match their standards

a sudden shift
no red earth,
waking in the cold frosted farm night
blinking in the early morning quiet
a sudden grey humidity
constant motion
heavy air
queues everywhere

but a choice around every corner
the ability to think of no one but myself
no one to look after
walking
being
the forgotten ability
to just exist.

coma

let there one night
be a coma night
not a comma
breaking the night in half
aching with the jackals' laugh
a breaking full stop without half
losing my sleeping on my babies' behalf
a less heart rate
for want of a piano sated
sleep, granted
appreciated
in cold dog barking sated
night

Boshua Pass

Sometimes
when the ache behind my eyes
becomes too much
eyeball burning hot of the fireplace too close
diving into the depth of chlorine water
drowning on air
crying pressure
there is a place

There is a place
where wind never leaves
where no one lives
where the full horizon is a road leading to nothing but space
the grace of that mountain pass
steeped in second gear
higher than despair

Daily Routine

He keeps the car squeaking clean
polished to perfection like his glasses
and checks the handbreak many times
when he drives
when I was the young child
sitting next to him, hands folded,
relaxed in certainty
everything would be safe
there would be no unexpected mistakes
unafraid, I had the constant reminder of certainty
day by day and strength of knowing
this is what I can expect

I have become that person
with the daily routine
now,
I have the same need to know
that the fuel tank will never be below half full
that there will always be a set time
provision for the week, contingency tinged
these two little children
now
sit in the passenger seats
knowing
that this is what to expect.

Casualty Treasure Map

the ticking clock in triage
doesn't mean much
there is no guarantee
we wait

We hear her behind one of the many closed doors
patients only
crying


I have been here many times
waiting, and listening
but she is small and unprepared
and looking for her little sister

So we try to beat the ticking tock
we paint our nails purple
and drink pink milkshakes
pretending not to feel rocks in our stomachs
we look though First Words treasure hunt book
story time, spot two magic wands, and a mermaid,
a superhero and a map
she forgets how long we've waited
she sees only the colours and the details
tracing them, with her purple tipped index finger
I see dry earth in winter sunlight
not the white walls and wheelchairs
we are collectively, momentarily
apart from the tired of waiting, dark eyed making ward.

I have this little girl

Unlike her younger sister
who stormed straight into my heart like a buffalo
she has quietly been nestling there
since she was born


She looked up at me
with huge deep eyes
black doe long eye lashes
she took her time getting to know me
and watched me cautiously

She has become a little girl of five
with those same intense eyes
she follows dogs in the veld
she conquers trains and planes and all changes
holding her strength closely
baking, drawing
pretending
believing in so much more than we see
the older child
the custodian of all our hearts

The Bed

The double bed
neatly made corners and a brass headrest
stronger to unite  man and woman than a ring


Sleep
from  birth a rest of observations, knowledge
awareness
wrapped in tenderness

the single bed
a hostel room
a hotel room
a respite from interaction
a place to take comfort in being
alone

Why can a single bed not have even more meaning
separation but no less affection
no discussion, no need
independent dreams
for some
the necessary break at the end of a day
a squaring off, a safe place
an artist's place with a yellow blanket
why can this single bed be so frowned out
so feared?

Time

He says
we have lost too much time
he says
we are always losing time
because of me

Where does lost time go?
I am sitting in the back seat of the car
confused
in my world
the time is always ten to two
on the plastic pink arms of my fancy new watch.

Interest

In the Best Interests of…

The child

not just in the squatters behind

where the benign abuse is tossed aside daily routine

but in the high walled houses

where that little one

still needs that love and security

the walls façade

it’s not enough

they have nowhere else to look

the filter of the frowns and innuendo’s

is open when they are so small

look to the child drawing

happy family

hand placements temporarily normal

law bound

consider little world fence

close to the bone nailed interests

the mothers

let them speak about that image

that bubble of beyond tired it’s okay

the many lines of perfection

crossed, to the other side of

nothing

let them scream and say no

enough

help

to the fathers

let them be humbled past that ego

let the history page image

the frowned on talking about feeling

go

for once and all

in the world of it’s okay

between the falling from survival

meet the confidence to

be yourself

in the best interests

of everyone.

Garden Lights

Solar powered
gaining light strength all day
for when the sun sets
when she can walk through the garden
of fairy lights
reflected in the rising stars above

School Run

I wonder if we know

how many there are

in the cold early hours of the morning

next to the new Cosmos flowers next to the road

wearing their government issued uniforms

subtle differences in the hundreds I see

maroon skirt, yellow shirt

grey pants, light blue shirt

children upon children

the students

They walk fast

almost a backpack restricted run

some on bicycles

kilometer upon kilometer on this one main road

to schools

The youngest are five or six

toppling over with the weight of the school bag

neater than I am this morning

walking away

to schools

I look down at the pretty steering wheel

hardly able to keep eyes on the road

this capsule car

this life

suddenly feels in-congruent

too shined and polished 

too much

Keyhole

For a few dirty copper coins
you may look through
what do you see?
I ask her

She takes her time
she peers and cranes her neck
to get a better view

It's not easy
she says
turning to glance at her empty purse
worried, her illusive last chance slipping away

Hold on
she says
I see a kitten pushing a wheelbarrow
pushing a wheelbarrow with a stolen star on it
the star I've been looking for

Can it fly back through the keyhole
fly back to me?
she looks back at me

Would you rather

Would you rather
let me drown out my hearing
so that I don't hear those screams
the head bashes
the words I wish I never heard, obliterating my innocence
the seeming silent on off lights of the ER

Would you rather
let me close those eyes of the past forever
so that I don't see that little frame
that couch
the bones, the eyes that got so hurt, every time
the pills took the life away like a knife
obliterated
the wards upon the wards, the misheard faces lined in beds
when they were so young

Would you rather
let me shut out the pain so deep
beating out the bone and blood
I cannot ever find
the sucked out hole that will never leave
the confusion
an undying hope,
seeing
the undefeated magical places we made
hearing the the voices of our own choices
the ever lasting hope to understand
what happened to her

Air Raid

Head down first
 block out the noise
the defeat of the shaking when the bombs drop
splintering words, harsher than shrapnel
in the dark chaos
all the children are saying prayers
calling for mums and dads
she is calling
again
and again
and again
from far across the room
she doesn't stop
we take care of each other, you see
she keeps calling my name..
until she hears me crawl out from underneath the pillows
'hey, I'm okay,
I'm okay
I'm fine.'

Duck, and cover
from the shot down gazed out effects of the air
They never called to ask if we survived
rescue, 911, copy
can you hear me
it was expected like the simplest Morse code
bravo on the delta
she called, 'are you okay?'
over.....

Neutral Territory

You don't say much
removed from the hourly paid
the rate of the undisguised
new natural palettes, views
what goes out of those gazes
fires of alarm
firing like a machine gun


Do you believe?
that those unspoken
gazed words
don't find a spectator
probably in the back row
questioning his own words
full up
not saying much

Refugees

He said
he ran fast
he caught a bus to the border
he paid the driver R300 to let him hide
he made it here
he got a job
he left his three young sisters
still a child himself
he sends them money for mielies
and money for grinding
everything has a price
enough to eat at the end
he gets beaten up
three against one
with a fence pole in the night
because he is different
from Zimbabwe
the country of stone houses
he shouted 'let me go'
but no one heard
he went to the clinic
the police raided and threw many in a truck
they ask R200 to let him go without papers
the system works for both

She said
she walked across the grey Limpopo river
she was told where it is shallower
but they know too
she found the police at the other side
they took her money
they said'close your eyes
she consciously lost consciousness
she shouted 'let me go'
but no one heard
they dropped her down the road
with nothing to start in this country
and three children waiting, wondering,
far away
in abandoned houses of stone
she found a job
they turned a blind eye to her lack of papers
she kept her eyes down
he kept his eyes down
they worked
waiting for payment and passports
in a distant confusing future

Human Curtain

I have drawn a veil over the last year
where the sun felt oppressive
a constant unknown skull pressure

I have done this before
I drew a cloth across the nights
at the hospitals
I was blinking, confused
like a bat in the daylight
still in school uniform
the spectator
the keep yourself together big sister
I drew out
across
Milpark, across Tara
and then when medical aids ran dry
in the lost blood
I blocked out the General Casualty
a confusing numbing
the older sister fighting
unseen, to keep her best friend alive
except she didn't know how

I have tried to draw this veil
veils and facecloths have holes
too exposed
I should have made blackouts
putting out the light
that light of the wards
that will never burn out now.

Titanium

stronger than lead
bullet proof
no sound
no pain
sea resistant
not as dense as the people


let me stay here
without the firing
the falling


here
I am stronger than gold
let me stay
there will be no holes
no downfall

here

I am a  titanium
lead, proofed
proven

don't take me away
shoulder free from shotgun

let me stay
breath inhibiting
plea
stronger than gold

Four Walls

A long time ago
we longed for a little flat of our own
no more war
and living breathing dynamics
too large and misunderstood for four walls
they spread their lack of innocence into our skins

As time passed
you left
I still looked for that place
without much luck
words kept me safe
people let us down
judgement everywhere

I thought it would last forever
every person I loved
had a sense of looking at me with something more sinister
behind a smile

I found a place
the place we dreamed of
there is a golden light here
no one
just me and my children
they know I am not a princess mummy
but they love anyway
and every day
we wake up to a house with only real laughter
those crossed eyed gut sucking dynamics
the history prison four walls have finally broken down
are gone, banished into the past.

Ashlee world

I have a house full of fairies
in the garden,
I helped to clean it
I fought off the boy fairies with a sword
like a muskateer
all for one
and one for all
like me and Natty
always together

Natty world

Hold on....sshhhh
gotcha
what am I doing?
catching Tinkerbell
she's in my hands
in my world
Only I can set her free

The Child (from Ingrid Jonker)

I want to be the child in these poems

I want to sit with a straw hat and a basket

But my maps are drawn with too many lines

hearts lost in tossed water

knocking are the people

a small boy beaten, playing in the wind

an older boy, coughing

needing to get a school registration

my own children needing

Clinging, unlike the farm dust
too stubborn to scrub away in a rusted bath after sunset

Finding myself  lost

I see the pictures on the old walls

the middle earth, peacefully hanging alone

the gemsbok safe in the wind

But the path I walk

is too full of this trail of followers


Perhaps, the find a cleared vision

is to see them all

most likely unchanged,

waking, walking

after a brief hand held out.

Play

Make believe there is only you

what would you do?

I would play the piano again

I would make everything simple

Would you also want to keep all those

things away

when you play 

pretend to be beyond

what the hours shake back and forth

Only me

in a pretend improvement box

There would be grass fields

leading to a lighthouse

a self designed journey to a self faithful place

a light on an ocean 

hearing only the grass

the curtain falls on the dollhouse dream

After all

You strut in a presence
peacock proud
while I wipe tears in the corner
another person
discarded
thrown aside
with an outworn love

X and Y

She was a girl
who danced in the rain
and held her head up to the drops
she didn't know right from wrong
she didn't understand how
to love him
how to run away, to save herself
from that gaping raw hole of need.

He was just a man
who walked without shoes in the veld
who wanted to to be loved
who wanted a best friend
who made a mistake
he didn't understand how
drawing the right lines between them
it was his void, so great
matched to her open young heart.

They never found birds flying against the sunset
the paradise of amnesty trees
and peace.

Twelve o' Clock

Midnight striking
no Christmas ghost
wandering spirit
just a little girl shaking me awake
politely pleading please
mummy help
there's a monster in her tummy
she says
she keeps spitting him out
she feels tired without sleep
in the unknown bewitching dark
of this hour

Two, next generation

Not like The Three Little Pigs
Or the Famous Five
Better than the adventures of a Secret Seven
We only need each other
A double agency, repeated code
double sided tape effective
working
unscrambling
unison

Namib Desert

Bleached, unscarred land
where only the bones
of natural selection
break the line of white dust on the horizon

The Portal

The age when you make friends
with stars
in a moment
you will walk into fairy land
hop on the rock,
twirl once
pick a purple flower
hold the prince's hand

She plays all day in fairy land
never once forgetting
hop on the rock
twirl once
pick a purple flower
to return back to this life