Box

Let it burn, without a ceremony
let them rise from ashes, glowing in the embers
let them take on the property of air, unstoppable
let these relics live in the power of breathing
in and out, through the mind, eternal

Legacy

At dawn,
In the summer advent season
The news came
The wind changed, quietly
Perhaps you are this wind spirit
Sweeping through a land
Where not one person is left unchanged
We walk, carrying babies, hats, umbrellas in the rain
From the northern suburbs to the townships
The land has become a living breathing animal of honor
Of reverence
Do you see the millions of people?
putting away their egos
You did not fight in vain
The streets with a shining transparency, illuminated at last
There was a dream
Perhaps now, where your shadow dances
A string of lights draws connections in the dark
The dice of justice will be recast
Watched over by the legacy of your name.

Pilgrim

The world sits firmly
On her shoulders
The weight is unexpressed
There is no panic button
No signal,
Signifying longing
No hotline to her distress call
No homecoming
The door unknocked
The gate still locked.

Calm

A small drop of this quiet
Falling from the dappled shade, carried by the breeze
Is enough to cause stilled ripples
In the reckless mind

Dream Station

A fleeting handshake
rushing past the ghost figure of that one you never saw
but who watched you
I wonder if he too
has a double memory
one of a busy crowd by a train
another of a secret airship floating hove the mountains.

Loud Silence

An unexpressed roar
the confluence of a rushing water flow
building up
a suffocated breath
unanswered question
will be forever captured in the mind
the words will never form
long awaited
I will turn around
leaving the echoing nothing shouting behind.

Whimsical Generator

you and I have a complicated relationship
like a long unbalanced equation
requiring a clear mind in the dark heat fatigued night
when I walk with a torch to flip your roaring switch
plunged into immediate dead quiet blackness
in order to function you require
that I switch off the freezer and fridge in the mornings
before you can resume your power production
no electrical appliances can work together
you will splutter and trip
but in case you overheat
best to keep some lights running throughout the day
you are a difficult companion,
the comfort of your noise easing the days away

Fractals

Chromosomes mimic the shape of the whole
Like crystals
There is no chaos in this geometric beauty
The innate detail determines the repeated colours
the paths of spirals
Again and again
It looks like the view a child sees
When he puts a slight pressure on his eyelids
Unexpected stars, in a strange system
Sea shells become galaxies become ice shards become drops
Internal body cells must look like, bathed in golden oil

A fall

In an attempt to cartwheel
Showing up her younger sister who can only somersault
She loses her balance
Head first into the long grass
The recovery is fast
Gaining composure, brushing off the moist dirt
She shakes her grazes off quickly
And tries again.

Blues

He sees her, becoming so full of cloud cover
 it became too hard to watch
in the end
when she left
asking, look after them
it was a relief to see those sad shoulders
holding their lonely song
turn around
and walk towards to coming darkness

Cockroach City

it was a childish mind
spinning a story behind the dump
no tiny embryonic souls
these hosts eating out our minds
taking clean clear thoughts, darkening them like ink blotting
sucking joy, licking the ice cream remains from these lips
feelers primed to find soft skin, and take hold.

Star Fishing

There are too many to count
She says
Of this fallen sky, these nocturnal sparkles
She dips her string, coiled carefully around a pencil
Gently into the water
The paper clip makes small insignificant ripples on the water

blurred

bar codes become
grey seas
A's become W's
bones become flesh
blood becomes water
words lose all their strength
lost memories
turn to water

Bridge

I am second best
but you remain my number one
chords balance
like a well engineered bridge
join the arrow to the star
a maze of roadworks
multiple lanes, regrets pour from the windshield
waiting in the traffic
wiping water, the wiper blades only on the outside
wiping the mistakes
singing away the waiting
tapping at the time we left between
bridging the raging water of unsolved

Reviving Ophelia

she has gone
wax like, her skin
drowned to madness
almost too sad to be tragic
the madness eventually found her
let her go, left that space where she walked alone
there are many like her, nameless
the case studies, slimming to vacant perfection
self mutilations, masking pain of parental divorce
Pinning plastic cookie shaped identity
we have brought her back, she looks outside
asking the world, how do I look?

Birdsong

The bird, alone against the heat
The call ricochets off the rock face
Persistent
Long after the others have retreated
Resting
Persistent
A nudge, deep, far in my remembering
Buried under the recipes, the equations, the nightmares
The bird continues, uninterrupted
Piet my vrou
Piet my vrou
Long into the afternoon shadows
As I search through the dark pool of sounds
Looking for that same call.

birthday

they raised a flag for you
early on that windy morning
the ocean stayed calm
when you arrived, screaming
blonde, an older understanding look
in you eyes
nothing has changed
time as crept past in silence
a jacaranda has blossomed this morning
the flag is still raised, in the wind
for you, after four years
signalling a salute to your secrets, your dreams
your celebrated strong life.

Lost Memories

Ripples of time
Ricocheting echoes
Without name or number
Betray the recollections under the ice

Sunset

The rays have become irresponsible
they sparkle with a more subtle shine
the colour becomes darker, seductive
as they spread across the evening skyline
waiting for the stars to dance

Water Fragments

They come to me in dream form
These pieces from a mismatched subconscious
The shimmer on a dark sea
A pool, surrounded by rock, quiet green fronds of ferns
A strong chlorinated chill in an unidentified place
Salt spray, gasping for breath under the pull of a wave
These fragments float like miscellaneous glass
Making a stained glass window of my night visions

Heat

It is still dry
The wind blows, the leaves, feathers, grass flies above the ground
Some call this a sickly heat
A depressed lawn, crunching underfoot
A bird call in the afternoon
Solitary cloud
But it is the smell of liberation
Not a fragranced masked scent behind the door
This heat bring my head up, like a dog eyes closed, breathing in the wind
This dust
This breathing living wind with no sea salt
Pulling up the yellow grass smells
This is my freedom
Bringing no moisture, collecting only red soil

Possession

She took the path we were making,
narrow and long
we carved it out in the dark
we removed the rocks
we wrote our names on those rocks
we made this path
sometimes we held hands, sometimes we walked apart
needing space, one would take the lead, the other would fall to her knees
this was our path, a walking history measuring our steps

She stepped between us from the trees
she kicked dust in my face, pushed me away
she took your hand
no one saw the tears falling from my dust drowned face
I turned around
and walked back into history.

I am taking back ownership of this path
I am running through that kicked up dust
towards you

Jungle Girls

We are the jungle girls
they say
we don't need a mother
they say
we understand when water speaks
they say
we hear the wind and the leaves
they speak, they say
in their own language
mixing wind, water and trees
the jungle girls
who defend the garden from the pirate enemy
taking the seeds from the birds,
and sailing away on stolen water from the birdbath

Wind Cathedral

This place is quiet
silence dominates the days
before sunset, a breeze begins to move the sand
lightly, at first
a song with a gentle tune
as the light fades, and the following abrupt desert darkness
the sound of the wind intensifies, reaching a crescendo
until the stars seem to see the song ringing out from an invisible choral stand

imagination movers

They play, alone
behind my closed door
completely content
spinning out story upon story
the popstar meeting the princess
reconstructing the movies, adding other characters
time hides behind the curtain
until the darkness finally releases them into reality.

Urban space

Time has abandoned us
space lies on the horizon like a crossword
stars shoot, neural pathways connect
collectively
a red planet moves closer, like a memory
a memory of dusk, sun sliding down from a deserted sky
the small remembrance of a shared past, shrinking under the new cosmos

Loss

The heart carries loss like a soldier,
stoic, strong, continuing to function
no words, no mourning by the grave
the silence spreads fast after dark
seeking comfort in a subtle cadence
but nothing eases the brutal quiet kept empty space

Skeleton Forest

brittle, broken grey branches
like twisted limbs on the ground
bleached frames of once ripe wattles
dry, empty of life
a skeleton peaceful forest family

Stormy weather

The collecting of clouds, gathering grey matter
behind the blue gum trees
magnifying the bird calls
the rising humidity
before the first hand clap thunder lightning sign
the shattering rain
watched from behind a safe warm window pane
used to be reassuring, a calm sense of water

the storm clouds gathering now
are pressured behind my eyes
car fumes, no trees
no birds
no warning, but a burst of tears
with no hideout, no safe place to watch the falling drops
just a mirror, reflecting
the storm in my head

little swimmer

like a jet propeller
you burst from the water
smiling
a suspected fish
an imagined mermaid
this is your chosen wet world

outsider

my titanium child
who takes her solar light
into the dark night
unafraid of all my warnings
snakes, night predators
strangers
my forest child
with few words on her mouth
with thousands of dogs in her mind
with a kind soul, kept far away from the world

bearable lightness

beyond the need to focus the cross, hitting appropriate target
zoom in, shoot to kill
there is another memory box of dreams in the mind
swallowed by the everyday pressure cooker, hissing steam of deadlines
there are views behind stained glass
 of foxes and birds, elephants made from autumn leaves pasted on paper
of willards potato chips soaking under the tongue
of drooping Christmas decoration chocolates left late around the house
of a ripe pumpkin sliced up at Halloween, purple clouds before a thunderstorm
the box closes sometimes,
with melodies thumped out on sold instruments
leaving a light trail of a forgotten handstand
and a sun warmed Tropitone scented towel embrace

Syntax

agressive in seasoning the sentence
with a specific smell
olive oiled by the but can one simply be
rice sticking with no gravity to the sequence
dropping no meaning,
 only taste

Misheard 2

The rain has stopped
last drops linger on the wires
cold, the dark evening
I am accepting applications
for a road trip
through the mind of your childhood
through the cross roads, the turns you kept secret
places you had to see, shivering, alone
cliffs you tried to jump off,, alone
this time, there will be a witness.

Song

This is a mortal song
a song of a sigh
played out by practiced piano keys
a song of a forgotten riverbed
stretching seemingly effortless lyrics
two girls singing Christmas carols, sunburnt
a song breaking from behind the curtain of departure

Kraal

I often walk now
in the kraal
expired corrugated iron sheets shake in the wind
the lucid yellow dry wind of winter
the swollen rain bellied cloud wind of summer
 the store rooms left
broken glass pieces on the cement floor
and abandoned cattle dreams
I see the cattle flicking flies with their tails
 in front of me
for a moment.

Dichotomy

Dream flutters behind a young veined eyelid
tremors
a leaf falls in relaxed zig zags
light wind arc
in another place
far
sweat drips from a chest like water
like rain in green forests

Every Night

I let it go
I let go of the waited calls
the waited words, coming homes of tomorrow
the whispers of its okay
go to bed


every night
I don't think of someone else
who holds me, who hugs me no matter what happens
with my ripped wronged wrung out heart
with my strung out our tuned out held out too long
worn torn body

Tourniquet

Be gentle on my arteries
I bear them to the drip
bleeding out my memories
bleeding out my tears
bleeding out my steps
rescue the last drops, clamps soothe
the nerves stop their shaking
they collapse.
and slowly resurrect again to pump with new life
rising again

Air

she says
that this is not the air she knows
the air she breathed
the open air breathed in by animals in the morning
she says
she doesn't know how to inhale this busy full space
I say
I used to call this the wrong air too
I went to the desert, inhaling deeply
breathing alone

Witness

A plot devised to keep the numbers quiet
one singled out, deliberately pushed against a dark wall
attesting to the facts
burning the events in a veld fire
memories rising with the burning ash

before, afer

you and I
we used to sit on the same couch
we used to laugh
I waited for you to come home
now I don't wait anymore
or want anymore
the days of incomplete are gone
the embrace is murdered.

Wheel

The tides contain themselves
rhythmic, the ferris wheel has a similar consistency
the people gaze from the arc with a new view
watching the small scuttles below them
watching the waves in slow silent motion
seeing the new waves long before the ground locked others

Post it

This is my fridge magnet
to the world
that shutters cannot shut out the morning sun
that the mist of the Atlantic
can seep into and fog the mind
the ears of a child can listen for missing beats
in a heartfelt hug
a boy can sit on a rock, playing a flute
we can all hear him
the tears we once cried for our own absences
are now the tears cried for that boy, mirrored in our self worth

Stone Soup

Forming the core
drawing down
the basil, the butternut
swirling the nutmeg
is my heart, sinking like a flavoured stock rock
into the warmth of the steaming soup

auditory, visual

When I hear her
eating her peanut butter sandwich
with a blocked nose
breathing heavily through her mouth
your face falls away in front of me
like a thousand burning teardrops

Day dreaming

In this crossword lined with fortunes, Fortuners

I put my head down

and see a singing sea

a tribal dance drummed out 

by the fireside of the Kalahari

clouds gaining grey force over the dirt

night swimming

your dreams are shipwrecked
paint washed bleached
corners sharpened
boxed in the sea, floating unidentified

Autumn

she releases her feet
falls back
into the pile of golden leaves
with complete faith
as is she is falling into a tidal pool
of belly bubbling laughter

Children

Let a word of wisdom whisper
across the roads, across the plains,
across the squatter camps
to every child without a voice
giving them the right
to speak

Silo

He climbs down the ladder
he tries to protect himself
he buries a box deep beneath the ground
he has found a hiding place
beneath the ground
he is from another country, running in the night
to start a new life
leaving behind searing beating, heat, colour
hiding in in the night
in a silo

X Ray

A rib cage roped with a sensory illusion nerve coil
Ripped open, scoured clean
Exposed, helpless
Proving nothing

Today

No one can hold my heart
tired, darkened beating from yesterday
but my love can be crushed between these two magnets
leaving no space for a vacuum of thought

Departure

I still breathe
as if I am walking around your rooms
like a person you sync my breathing with yours
far away now at the rise of a mountain
a house becomes a home becomes a heart

Paths

The wood beneath my feet betrays me
I have followed the wrong forest path
I am looking for a dose of every day
I am looking for a dried up seahorse
collected on the beach by the old sea house
fallen from the trellis where I had my shell collection
I have strayed too far from the course of yesterday
from the bay with the fynbos
to the inland autumn leave table clothed forest

Unwrapped

I was seven
small, stunned and shy
when the school took a day trip to the zoo

I sat on the bench with my lunch
I forgot
we were supposed to bring plastic bag lunches
that day
I watched the other girls happily throw away their packets
cheeks burning, I wasn't hungry
I threw my lunchbox away quickly, my sandwich still wrapped in wax paper
no one noticed.

Diamond

The morning sun
Blinks for a moment behind the trees
The late night stars
Clear cut, more precious
In this cold clean air

The Resolution

The shadows grow long
It finally feels right to forget her
The defense,  available to a fault
Has moved like a fetus
Into my dominion
Shoulders don't have to hang
A good mind can rest
And see a line breaking, like a well worn burnt out branch
Reaching the ground
Finally resting on the ground

Steam

Like a neatly drawn corner
Sharp, clear, defined
The Karvol drops spread into the running bath water
Vaporizing steam acquires the scent
My hands shake
Remembering myself as the child
Sitting in the bath
Waiting for carrots and mashed potatoes
Breathing deeply
Letting the steam ease bronchitis.

Child

My heart was under construction
Ripped, open, demolished to nothing
You walked through the barrier tapes
You opened the new door
This heart grew stronger, more, loving
Seeing your fingers holding mine
Feeling your breathing synchronized with mine
As I held you late at night, under desert town stars
Years passed,  a child grew, a heart grew too

Retreat

I hear them
sitting side by side
crunching on packets of chips
nothing else matters
but the quiet crunch
the companionship
close, sharing warmth
side by side

Here

Nothing touches us
the world becomes very small
there are no others here
to permeate my heart like a thief in the dusk
There is winter, grass slowly folding into bleached yellow
there is a fire, breathing into my face, drying tears
there is a breathing mountain, softly in the morning
deeply in the night.

Perhaps
out in the world there are explosions
wars
people reeling in recession
lines of cars waiting for traffic lights to change
here
there is only a simplified day
a recipe book, butter melting into mashed potatoes
a long soundless night

Playground

The asphalt, where small untainted hyperactive hands
hang on chipped paint swings and slides
smelling of sweat on metal
 and grazed stinging under their plasters knees
There are no lullaby clouds or skipping rope jump laughter reminders
There is a lonely child on a swing
waiting for friend who never arrives

Child Fever

She keeps her mannerisms
she keeps her constant chatter
despite the dark eye ringed, pale, hot face
back, this same stone cold clasp in my heart
the need to take her reeling fever into myself
the need to tear open remedies, real and imagined
to wring out towels of bile and pain
and stroke the hot forehead next to me
watching Disney
watching breathing like a paranoid newborn's mother
until the morning birds wake

Across an Ocean

Today I see you

as if I am looking through the mist of the morning ocean

vague, moist against my skin

a cold, lonely saturated wind

a presence in the sound spray, reaching my eyes, your scent

the pull of the ocean air

is as consistent as your hand as been

spanning countries in long summers

rainstorms soaking dirt roads to mud swamps

you have driven through them

to hold my hand

I see the mist heavy on the horizon

there will always be a light, a ship, a vessel

carrying chicken pies and strawberries, seeds to sow

carrying you.

To my young self

I would bow down on my knees
and tell her
to hold herself
put her arms around herself
to forgive what happened
to stop the running myth of an idealized child
I would tell her to stop running from the pain
I would tell her that she is doing a great job
that she is braver than most
but not made of stone
I would plead with her
not to see her life, her face
reflected off a man

I would tell her to sit
and weep
and curl into a ball
I would show her that few have seen what she had to see
that few have survived the face she had to witness
I would tell her its okay to sometimes just lie in bed
and let the hours pass, waiting for a better day.

Rooms

There are bedrooms in my mind
I cannot access now
My children cling to me like sand
abrasive, warm
unending
they kiss me goodbye
as I send away those night rooms

Fences

The cattle break them down, determined
searching for tall grass
they are struck by innovation
in the dust of the dry season
A border becomes a gateway
they stamp over the barbed wire
moving into a softer place

The fences of my heart are as easily broken
the borderline between reason and loving
stamped over in the dry season

Past

A footpath through the fynbos
I follow you before the  low tide
to get mussels for supper
the past is not another country
it is portrayed in the taste left behind swallowing  the present
visual maps filed behind in the mind
behind the low tide
below the swept in sand where once, there was a footpath.

Moment

She closes her eyes
waits to see behind her mind
the disappearing vapour breath of the earth

Mind Maps

Down the strip road
there are sparse blue lines
signalling the recent map
this mind is shaded with tight red lines
a melting place
bordering on oppressive
the legend states
health and efficiency
suffer
the rivers of this mind
overflow in the dry season
floating with carcass memories
a discomfort belt of thought
not fit for anyone's habitation

Elements

in a field
a breeze blows
in a room
a fire burns
as our collective grief
breathes
like a dog in the afternoon heat
slowly
passively
consistently.

Mirage

Frozen stiff in sweating
caught between the dust
one backward glance could mean the trick of heat
the trick of light, of belonging
of a swept away under the mistaken water life
a displaced image of a girl running to me
wearing her boots, laughing
of a wattle forest,
  under these trees two sisters,  a hair salon in this forest
looking up at imaginary snowflakes
combing my hair
this world is this moment
larger, above any backward glance on a shimmering road
revealing nothing.

Watching you begin again

Where do you catch the fishes of your dreams?

in the classroom of faces and paint

where do you put your face up to hear the wind breathe? 

in the playground of the unknown others

You walk alone, shoulders down behind them

the skip of my heart reflects in your eyes

you don't skip anymore

the curtain has been drawn 

life is beginning again

on a Monday morning

and you have to leave behind the happy shadows

to learn a new way to walk, 

keeping your secret dreaming strength high.

Post Feminism meets the Clan

We are living in the so called era  of post feminism.  Growing up I never felt I had to prove something by virtue of my gender.  I knew the world was open with choices, not that I necessarily made the best ones, but the point is that I was not hampered by the idea that a woman has to work twice as hard or align herself to the frames constructed by the male psyche.  Realistically, this was probably largely due to be cultural and economic pocket.  I am aware that in large parts of this world, even today there are women who not do have the time or space to consider there position in society.  They live traditionally, but many times on the brink of a seeming miracle of survival. Their needs are to feed their families, to escape civil war, to make a life in deep poverty.  Women live daily ducking abuse, hoping that their children or siblings will stay at school, or find a school, or stay alive.  This is reality of our third worlds.

But I write personally, as I always do.  I have seen these families all my life in the rural north west province, and in the cities and towns of Africa I have made my home for months, years.  There language is not of the discourse of feminism, of the rights of women, women's equality.  But what I did see in these communities, most often than not, is just that...a community. A shoulder to lean on.   Traditionally there is a sisterhood, against the odds, a unity among women to raise children together.  This is a generalization, but the majority of mothers pulled together to form a child raising community.  A group effort.

As much as my schooling gave me independence, lack of male competition, close friendships with my school friends (I attended a wonderful all girls school) and a very late interest in the opposite sex, almost a by product of all the other exciting parts of a school girl life, it also gave me entrance into a very surreal world.

A world in which in order to 'survive', the mantra is every nuclear family unto itself.  Until I became a school mom myself, it did not permeate my skin.  But as a mother, I believe in the traditional  almost archaic cultural day to day life of men being hunters, women being gatherers (in a larger metaphorical sense of course), and the village of women, young, and old, sick and healthy, standing together in the raising and supporting of the new generation.  There is no fierce competition between us mothers, us women, the term feminism or even post feminism seems redundant in my world view.  Because the natural human unity between us is paramount.

I chatted on and on to the fellow mothers at my children school and was met with distrust.  It is dichotomous, this modern role of the mother at school.  On the one hand, we don't discuss ourselves or our careers, we are mostly extensions of our offspring.  On the other hand, there is a brutal competition to see who we all are.  Who is she?  Is she prettier, thinner, more glamorous, than I am?  (Smarter doesn't even feature primarily).  Is she going to flirt with my husband?  Is she going to make me look like a less than perfect mum?

There is a such a paranoia and isolation that it make take months to break down.  But I was surprised.  In my world, mothers stick together, we have enough other worries.  Let's not compete.  Forget your kids for a moment, much as you love them.  They will most likely be fine in life.  Even more so if they see an example of women leaning on each other, turning to each other.  So let's talk about ourselves, let our guards down, complain together, laugh together, take an interest in our lives instead of our children's, and have a a glass of wine together.  To toast the the enormously difficult job of raising children in a society where we as mothers don't seem to have the chance to ask for, or receive, a little help.  Again, general rule, there are wonderful exceptions.

night organ

he listens to the breathing of the night
he plays a song for the cathedrals of the sleeplessness
the minds of the awake, travelling towards him
in the voyages of their tears

Monday

the particles of people
fall like dust
two faces turn to pictures
floating in the wind
people become puppets
animated, distant
big eyed, carrying no emotion in their glass stained smiles.

Tapestry

From a line drawn in the sand, swept away by the desolate wind
a patch of light through the summer oak leaves
the sweet aftertaste of a pastry eaten by the Athens harbour
waiting for the ferry, just before sunrise
 to an echo of a baboon calling from the ice breathing cliff
mid winter, serene silence follows
a lost cry ringing from that deserted island
recurrent
these are my patchwork memories.

Words

These words crowd in the corner
at the end of summer
wonder struck
unable to separate sentences