the weight

the weight

of emptiness

flows like history

through the rocks

and gravel

gurgling

silence

in bones

of salmon

and raptors

teeth.

"it is a grizzly affair,

but i love you anyway."

--

another entry at allpoetry dot com. the prompt was along the dry riverbed in late summer.

like a wave

like a wave

the train kept coming

it's shadow

a thousand rhino

slashing forest

spraying gravel

you said something i could not hear

tears welling

in your eyes

reflecting

my silhouette

our world eclipsed.

--

this is another attempt at image - although there is narrative which blurs the line somewhat. the space at the end of the poem is to allow the final line to linger - hopefully adding to the drama of the moment.

quiet among fresh mounds

quiet among

fresh mounds

and

plastic flowers:

from shacks

next to the

cemetery

i hear

a baby

cry.

the rim

of the hole is

polished copper and

green velvet:

grotesque

against the pine coffin,

the rope handles,

the silhouettes of mourners,

afterall, he is a believer.

tethered

girl with

tethered

balloon:

beautiful world

dogged by

featureless moon.

"while we walk,

would you hold my hand?"

too much talk or enough said?

beauty is

a butterfly.

butterflies

do chaos make.

chaos is

womb of life.

life

from chains

is born.

chains to death

hold us fast.

death dies on

your red lips.

--

this was an entry at allpoetry dot com. the prompt was can someone truly understand God - well this pretty much sums up my feelings on the subject.

after reading a poem

i've read you

and yet

all is calm(ing)

with the distant

roar of words

sweetening at the back

of my throat:

too hoarse

to speak

or summon saliva

from underground rivers

that so carefully avoid

veins and such

where eyeballs

lie so that

vaccuous stares

placate onlookers

and i feel

the ferrets

made of moonlight

burrow and finally

blast through

the surface

of my skin like

reversing comets,

and i feel

perfect.

you were

you were there

and i said our story would be told:

when strangers smiled across traffic, bus to bus,

when winter held doves as they fell dead from trees,

when a daughter pried her father's hand open to leave a kiss,

when the full moon separated from the branches,

forever.

a headline reads 'Boksburg Stripper Dies On Job'

at the Sandton City Mugg & Bean

a young couple

order an early breakfast

he's chosen a corner

but not an alcove

he looks mediterranean

she's an indian girl

he's a football fan

she's in jeans and a knitted

jersey with hair loose

over her shoulders

at a table for two

he sits next to her

they exchange glances,

smiles, quiet words

when the bill comes

he leaves to find an atm

when he comes back

she smiles again

as they leave

she clutches her bag

with him walking two steps

behind her

you can tell

it's not quite love.

--

a little slice of life i was privileged enough to witness.

finding things to say

her eyes are blue, yes,

like a piece of sky after a hawk has passed through it.

her hair is blond and fair,

as flax ropes splitting from a freed gazelle.

her skin is milky alabaster,

when the day cools over white sandstone cliffs.

but her smile is the real treasure,

shining with wisdom from the beginning of time, fearless.

song with you

bring me your sadness

and i will paint for you

a river that runs through a dry land

where families and loves have died

i will etch your travels and searches

like white birds against the azure sky

you will remember the water

when you first drank from

its pleasurable coolness

it is the green bird that brings

you this far - promises you kept

against the fear and doubt of others

from horses of courage

you will string the bow

and from it free the songs

your now hear

into the hearts

of your enemies

that they may love you

now, you will see

so that others

may see you.

--

Another AP entry. The prompt was this song which is hauntingly beautiful.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wvTYJSOpRwA&feature=related

wake up, i have to show you something

my cold knuckles rap

against your window pane

(mere pebbles could not

have summoned you)

to open up and look

into this face -

see what i have brought,

i have some of it

here in my hand.

it's dust, yes,

not the common garden variety,

but older than this world.

it has stared at the sun

(without blinking)

since the beginning.

look up, follow my finger,

there, in the velvet night,

hanging above the world

like a carnival balloon:

i've chiseled the moon

into a heart, for you.

--

Also an entry at allpoetry dot com. Man, there seems to be a lot of these. ;-)

The prompt here was: The Shape of a Heart - obvious first thought was the classic Sting song '(That's Not) The Shape of My Heart' but sanity prevailed and this came out. Managed to get the set up going quite well before the conclusion. Really enjoyed writing this one.

the deal

i should make a golden sweet

and print poems inside the wrapper

i could sell it and millions would come

and i would search the crowd for you

then we will buy an island

without predators or tsunamis

only tiny sharks and jellyfish

i call it 'rhymes with lozenge'

--

Yet another contest entry at allpoetry dot com. The prompt here was: "I choke on words & they taste bitter". I wrecked the curve a little bit. I did enjoy the pun at the end, though.

whatever this winter

whatever this winter of words

my darkened smile in the mirror

handed to me - again i am alone

in absent justification.

whatever this winter of words

freezing lakes and trees in my wake

i have yet to fault for fodder

the smiles of the rogue

whose sprouted wings

have torn through this coat.

whatever this winter of words

i long for the sunlight as breath

to unrope my lungs

that i may sail again

the waves of your hair.

whatever this winter of words

damsel flies and lillies

pout against my mind

spewing forth smiles like spring.

whatever this winter of words

as i love you i write

in code in blood in tears

in laughter,children, wolves,

doves, waves and startled crayfish

among the debris of our ocean.

--

This is another contest entry on allpoetry dot com.

vultures are circling, again.

last night's carrion,

a yellowed contract

on the four post stage.

hyena and lion,

our children are bastards:

heartless mules.

we used to be gazelles,

when did we forget?

the swallows painted

the swallows

painted arcs

across my days

and sewed hellos

to goodbyes

like punctuation;

swiftly, leaves

turned brown,

their nest emptied

into the wind,

leaving hollow

where smiles

used to be

--

this is an entry in a contest in allpoetry dot com - quickly written and then pummeled by Igor.

1nn3r b3aut4

i have seen my base algorithms,

they are beautiful as expected

but i must say there is

some

thing

quite

pe li

cu ar

about the fact that they seem

a little too simple in their

execution - the rate at which

they were derived may have been

somewhat steep at times but

then again, this could

all

just

be

my

i n a .

m i t n

a g i o

the home maker

a need for bread and milk takes

me to the supermarket

where parking is precious

and cars bathe

like wedding dresses

in the smiles of happy people.

i find a spot, park and glance across.

before i get out i watch

a man and a woman

shyly smiling,

exchanging glances

in the car next to mine,

oblivious in their seclusion.

the guy is not old enough

to be my dad but close,

the woman too:

you can tell she used to be stunning.

bread and milk later

they're still there:

her hand on his collar

her words making him blush

while her eyes trace

the details of his face.

he's holding a brochure

for a thrilling getaway

of mist-covered lakes

tall grass

stony fireplaces

scented sheets

and sweet surprise.

a little embarassed

by my own voyeurism,

i start the car and complete the simple quest.

later i remember

seeing a woman

in a stationwagon

around the corner,

contemplating the road ahead.

Lisa

like a little submarine

she trawls

the only home she knows

her hiccups sound

rooms and hallways

until she finds me

to scuttle me with a smile

the window washer

a lazy clutch muzzles the engine
and i slow at the traffic light.

in the afternoon sun
a dusty silhouette splits into
paper boy and window washer
and i say no thanks with a wink and a smile to both.
the soap and rag are hard of hearing
but i am too tired
to start a fight
and the windscreen could do with a wash
(so could the rest of the car).
the man is singing
in a local language,
it's a children's song, i think,
at least judging by the rhythm.
i fumble for change
in the recesses of my car,
among receipts and flyers
i find a silver coin.

i look up and see
the sunset ahead of me,
through the clear glass
lies joburg in bright honey
like a medal on a heaving chest.
i still hear the singing
of the man through my dirty side window
which i drop

to see a child maimed by fire
drawn across the body of a man,
whipped and licked
by hot hungry tongues
until he cannot walk
without shuffle or song.

mute, i place the coin in his hand,

'my friend,' he smiles, 'today, you are my best friend.'

dissing comfort feels good

dissing comfort feels good

against my skin

i used to drink the poison

and swallow the match

to feel warm

within these four planes

but now i'm outside

wishing for a flood.

if i think it right

i can be anything

and i well just might

change the colour of suffering

or become an eclectic eel

swimming among the few

feeding on things they knew,

remembering things they feel.

from the crowd an old man grips my hand

"i am you with dreams of sand," he whispers,

"i too wanted to be king, but only know this:

a beginning is a very fragile thing."

--

The prompt for this poem comes from a quote by William Faulkner, "The end of wisdom is to dream high enough not to lose the dream in the seeking of it." and is an entry in a poetry competition on allpoetry dot com

failure

you are so young now

that you will never die.

these lines will not taint

your immortality,

in fact it may be a specular feature,

a heads up to the solar flare

you will become.

in time

they will find words to describe you.

i will not attempt that here.

my role is simple

and dangerous. i am the wolf

in your shadow. i am eyes

you do not have yet. i am ears

that listen to the outside. i am

the terrible consequence. i am here.

always.

my mouth has cradled you

from before you were in this world.

long ago

my arms encircled you against the night.

my heart beats a poem you can keep.

i hope. i hope. i hope.

you will be happy.

magnolia

memories of iridescence gone
the tree stands
alone in the courtyard
surrounded by a hundred years
of stony solitude
displaying the slow advance of mildew and scale.

birds rarely overhead.

clouds lid the sky
so that breezes scarcely stir a leaf.
around the base
the ground is never shadowed,
only darkened.
the stones are only moist
but never wet.

stale and dying in a cold box,
one final message is given:

a single white blossom.

ink flowers in a paper vase

through these pages i have thumbed
(see my history of paper cuts)
to look for flowers in vases

but all i've found are crumbs
of feasting kings or sluts
and questions in reluctant spaces

i hawk by day and owl by night
i tread the bare bark of trees
to hold the limits where

i hang upon the breeze
and nail my solemn purpose there:
find the words or lose my sight

restful on the page

words graze like carp
restful on the page

the shadow of a hawk
hurls them into
desperate cycles
of crowding and scatter

an old hand waves
with sinuous rhythm
the rod and twine
to animate the lure

ripple and blur lulls panic to the horizon,
curiously silvering around a delicious ...

BITE!

I can idly

I can idly bide time
pirouetting knives on thumbs
or wrestling crocodiles
in ponds for crumbs

but for all these things
inside it is the bee that stings
to contract the fleshy brain:
my barnacled heart

here the wretch convulses
between paper cut and paste to
salvage gallions from impulses
and dredge my rainbows dry

against internal brine
the whale thrusts at the wall of air
to find metaphors there
to leave the carcass behind

theirs is sleep

theirs is sleep that sleep now
in the non-darkness of an african city

where the sky is bolted with promise
to a history of poor delivery

dreamers enslave flagpoles
to ceaseless wave hello

while distant rumble is not rain
but blocked drains far below

optimism of sunflowers unquenched
sprouts to gaze at passersby

and a ruby river steady flows
against pearls of the evening sky

through the trapdoor

velvet clowns line my streets
like rows of bouquets
stitched onto tarmac sheets

buildings reach like quills
to scribble on the sky
birds sprung from window sills

cotton pillows blanket the moon
the sun is lost in traffic
I shrug and escape in a balloon

"Fragile.", she whispered
and pointed to me.

"But I get to choose."

"You've seen so much," she smiled,
"it's over for now."

Her hand held my face,
"Your hand is mine, give it to me."

She kissed my palm and died.


--

Images intended to emote a response. The challenge is the right ones, the right order.

"My rainbows are worn."

"My rainbows are worn."
"Watch this.", she smiled
and with her brush
painted a thorn in my side.

"Now I've nowhere to hide!"
I ran for soap or rain
but slipped and broke to surrender.
She offered a knife for the pain.

Whatever the wound
I knew it would stay a while.
Her gift glinted in my side,
in my hand. I smiled.

sommige

(met vae apologie aan ee cummings)

afrikaners is geniepsig en eie wys
hulle glo in christus en totius
(net een leef steeds)
op sondag blink die braaivleis tange
en klap die bottels teen hul tonge

ten minste verkeer hulle vreedsaam
voor die vleis met ertappels en rys
more vlug hulle werk toe op die N1
om iets te verkoop ('n arm of 'n been?)
sodat hulle mag hoop (lotto kaartjie of reen?)

afrikaners is al te gemeen
hulle roep klein groepies byeen
(al leef slegs een)
om die derde mag te bejeen
of te gons oor finansiele droogte (en die reen)

--

Afrikaners are not known for their tendency toward self deprecation.

Ons mors baie tyd
Ons oefen blind-, doof-, stom-wees
Hy vra Heiligheid

You dog-ear books

You dog-ear books so beautifully!
They look like happy Alsatians
read by an afternoon of surprising rabbits
and leaping from fish to fish
in a clear stream.

--

An attempt at image. Rather than framing concepts through the use of a narrative, image strives to evoke an emotive response.

wrist watch slowly ticks
24 shovels tunnel
and find tomorrow

--

The classic structure of a haiku is 5 syllables followed by 7 and then 5 again. More importantly the concepts conveyed should stand alone and form a whole. I enjoy opportunities to stretch the definition at the risk of falling outside the boundaries.

Conversation

I see Leonard waving in the distance,
‘You were older before you got here,’ he smiles,
‘this is the land where they make eyes
from ancient butterfly wings,
where you live in the valley of Forever
and make and find brilliant things.’
He shows me his horse
and he shows me the reigns,
‘these are what’s left
of my triumphs and pains’.
I don’t always understand, I say,
where must I go to find my way?
‘She’s always with you,’ he sighs,
‘and she hides in the lines,
she runs with your heart
through deserts and forests and mines.’
Leonard looks to the future
and shows some marks I’ve made,
‘Go build a life with you wife,
learn to use the chisel and the spade,
be gentle, sharpen and sheath your knife,
when you get offered for your soul,
be careful not to get paid.’
Then he gives me a vial
to fill with my laughter
and shows me the shore
and the way to my daughters.

--

I have been a fan of Leonard Cohen for a few years now and continue to marvel at his genius in the use of image. I enjoy the pursuit of balance between narrative and image apart from my obvious tendency toward 17 syllables at a time. Ultimately the act (of writing) is still the most important aspect of the affliction.

wet shifting sand shores
white hot sunfilled shrieks laughter
night hush tide moves in

I am the poet
God of this scrap of paper
drat! my ink is up

Mosquito mosque
Eerie fairy muezzins pray
Curse my sleep away

Wise men always say
To be or not to be, be
Careful when wishing

From this cage of bones
Butterfly millions burst
Into paper flames

Die Bloeisel (na The Flower van Roy Campbell)

Laat geen mak woord jou swye skend
uiter slegs een rooi vlam
tussen begeerte oud en nuut
'n enkel punt van vuur
die aarsel van 'n ster
tussen skemer en die dag

So ryk die stuifmeel van jou asem
genoeg is dit om stom te wees
wetend soos die oomblik glip
met die skei van ons lippe:
die uur fel 'n roos wat sterwend
al ons dae sal kleur

eyes like morning mist
silver through the day to sky blue
sunset amethyst

rhymes are exquisite
metaforest animals
burning tiger bright

you are one of few
absence forgets boundaries
your silence is loud

The beautiful

The beautiful are happy
And the beautiful are sad
The beautiful are in my life
About the beautiful I am mad

The beautiful shine
The beautiful whither ‘pretty’
They say ‘you are mine’
And ‘you are cute and witty’

The beautiful drink clouds
And the beautiful make rain
The beautiful close their eyes
And breathe pearls from my pain

tread the thin water
where shadows of seabirds swim
feel what faith is like

ev’ry little thing
from her tippy toes to her
nippy nose, hmmmagic

for your guileless love
this simple violin plays
for your guileless heart

To D

Dear Dulcinea,
Windmills remind me of you.
Yours, Don Quixote

in afrikaans..

U skud my los -
murg uit been uit vlees uit asem:
breek die hekke oop,
spoel na buite
oor klippe en harde woorde
nietighede onversamel in die son
blink ek verdof ek droog ek
dunner as 'n wens
'n vlek in plaas van ek

a circus and a zoo

Elephants are home in either,
tigers make their beds in both,
crocs will range no wider,
you'd rarely spot a sloth.

Snakes are restricted (save a boa!),
chimps walk erect and aspire
unlike lions who unlike clowns
will jump through hoops of fire.

Horses, mundane, run round in rings
where rabbits from hats are pulled,
magic canes into doves beat wings
while apprehension by whip is lulled..

Unfit for hoops or balancing on drums
the polar bear to heat succumbs,
sliding into a pool in the midday sun.

Dripping ice cream on opposable thumbs,
hairless apes scream and run
pointing at cages, spewing crumbs
in the sacred sweet name of fun.

Hurling coughs and shrieks and squeals
the jungle hums its broken lullaby,
with digits extended reaching feels
the cold limits of an iron sky.

Always a captive, they fail to remind
of a story, once played, just won't rewind.