plotte

 die sout van hul snot en trane stort nog en los historiese patrone
wat leef soos los klippe in drome op rots tekeninge vertrap

om te weën, bly ‘n bitter-soet vreugde om te ken as mens wat staan
in lyn vir jou erfenis in suurgrond as jou plekkie in die son

‘n krom lyn van eer vir jou mensereg in ‘n stembus, as pad na warmte
die bloedkruisie trek gou koud, die spoeg is nog nat, ver van droeg
!gda

gnomics

they mastered the art of pushing pineapples
through the grape vine, making a buck on the hustle;
they learnt about daisies pushing up from grave mounds
built without names on pine-crosses;
they were taught to cut their losses while ahead
or to jump at opportunity by kneeling on a neck,
to aim for the leader, the media would see to the rest
!gda

dance of the indignant

 

a dancer in a grave robber’s dream cast shadows on walls
in the wake of her seam, a whirl of serpentine fire licks flames
her skin glows like bone scraped, below as above scorched
earth smokes and mirrors darkened skies, ominously boiling

mists of mission, yet, another hole to plot and loot of bone and marrow
soul be damned in broader schemes, what’s another dance
a foxtrot by moonlight, there was always to be a last dance of the bones
with the dancer on the barrow, in the bone robber’s dream

a heap of sand for daisies, a patch of gravel for a rosebush
a mound to bed a garden, back home, making science of man
saving extra pennies for that inevitable rainy day,
when the bones shall speak where they lie, and ask to dance
!gda

ode to a cape turtle dove

 

in the throes
of a bird life’s here or there
then, could you choose?
with life hinged on one option
out of the violent storm.
could there have  been another?

what other thicket? i know,
the greenbelt’s become
wood in a stranger’s fire.
a tired fight, not defeated
yet, with burners’ memory short
tinder, like embers, have grown eager

so, to a perch, the, that perch, under-roof
with a ,the, that dog drooling
with a taste for bird…

was this all?
no way out, no flight, space
nowhere to hide, sit.
no place in between
bird and dog with hunger
in a storm with no rest

in what murphy’s to offer,
a frenzied flutter would end
in a wet plumed clutch.
insatiable hunger resolved
to eat morsel to the feather
in the beating storm

the weather would subside
to the easy calm of a post-storm,
under roof, the dog licked a paw.
there was no choice, option
to weather the elements,
nowhere else than to die, a meal?

outside, a violent storm
under-roof, a cold and hungry dog
could you have chosen the latter?
in between the violence of winter
and the claw of a canine’s hunger,
you were not driven to the former.
!gda

die kop van’ie hotnotsgot

díe here
het’ie boesmanstaal geklap’ie
sy konsonante gekliek, of liewers, ge-asemsuig’ie
of sy vokale geklapsoen’ie
en in gesang gekringmaandans’ie

díe here
en sy mense
het’ie boesmanseden geken’ie
hul pyle vergiftig of boë gespan’ie
gegaar en gejag’ie, saam-saam
deur hemels-aarde getrap-dans’ie

díe here
en sy mense se mense
kan steeds’ie boesmanstaal klap’ie
of mense van mense se trap-dans dans’ie.
die boesman bid tot ‘n ander here
díe wat boesmanstaal kan trap
!gda

flexing some muffle

like it hurts
in places only
zol can reach

it stays sore
where only alcohol
can bring relief

there's this bubble
i'm fumbling in
keeping strangers out

i wear a mask
and speak muffle, though
fail to hear it well

“muffle” may not
be new as
a local lang

who knows, post-covid19
maybe muffle as
lingua-franca looms
!gda

death looked up

when death looked up
at… the camera,
the world, humanity
coldly in the eye, holding
the gaze of a lens
with murderous skill
and the depraved outlook
of an exercised impunity…
it killed the innocence
of proudly racist society
!gda