kreet van die vishoring

ontketen in die weergalm
van ‘n mis-horing wat dofweg
sein in die blindheid van die kus

weerklink diepe hunkeringe
wat in vergete inhamme resoneer
van liggame ontneem,

teer van verplaasde emosie
en skaafplekke wat erens verset
in die uithoeke van die bewussyn

stom van beskrywingstaal
vir die kollektiewe daad
wat ‘n geestesplek vind in die skadus
wat val onder die blik van lig
wat skyn deur die glewe van verlange

en aanklank vind in die gange
van ‘n wording gevoed
uit die kreet van die vishoring

die fluit van die melkman
die klokkie van die ice-cream waentjie
die eentoon van die smouse se roepstem
die gedreun van die bene-lorrie

die pyn van geheue kwyl
soos ‘n ou hond met rummatiek
as die klokke lui
in die klipkerk toring
en reverbereer deur die wese
van ‘n generasie in onrus
as die mis-horing weer galm
!gda

vraatsug

kakkerlakke vir kos
en rotte vir vleis
oor skroei-aardlande
waar water en plante
volop en welig
soos plastic blom
en hoender tande
die desolasie
en despiraatheid
met ideologie inkleur
!gda

tail of the gatekeeper

set the captives free
set the captives free
unchain their steel cuffs and collars

un-key the iron trap doors
and let them go…
in rows of three

but how could they, be free…
lamed, though untamed
broken apart though toughened

limbs seek warmth and rest
in a bitter place, once home
a busy cold now has step

where to would they, could they, go…
rendered landless, though indigent
dispossessed though much more to give

spirits rejoice in opportunity
to bring care to raw memories
impossible for cruelty or liquor to erase

what memory
what may have occupied the mind
what may have filled the bones

what may have inspired a soul
so completely denied by conditions
at a hand so utterly inhuman

what aspiration
when freedom’s the length of restrain
and heaven’s as high as a look

if to dare look god up in the eye
if only to ask why
why the land a question

which generation
able bodies crumble in cross-hairs
cold-bloodedly eliminated in study

in plain sight of nothing
women and children interned
none spared but the dead

who could not feel the kick
that toppled the tombstone
who could not feel the thud

that ended a child’s life
who did not scream when
a mother lost a tongue

what punishment, what fear
what incentive, what reward
for the unchained man, un-caged

but to un-question his land
to un-do what keeps him hooked
to release the sharpened spike

from the tender knowledge of his flesh
and from the ghost of his ancestor’s neck
forthwith unravel what keeps him ensnared

entangled to a line and sinker
encouraged to squirm as bait
in new-fangled missions of despair

to un-do that deafening silence
that biting of lip that reigns
when questions hurt and eyes cannot but see

that noiselessness that hangs dirtily on the public ear
like soiled bedding waving in the wind
just don’t ask what imagination

have you not seen the rock art
how the aged pigment still moves the figure
of shadows falling in shape

how the etching perfect the stone
how chiselled chips fall like bone
how the rock gong rings with the bow
- !gda

Monk

"I don't know where jazz is going. Maybe it's going to hell. You can't make anything go anywhere. It just happens."
Thelonious Sphere Monk

history ourstory

Take a look at @africanarchives's Tweet: https://twitter.com/africanarchives/status/895298802915184640?s=09

in the hour glass

gulp your jug of hot water
as you sit beyond the pale
sip your thirst asunder
lip a mug of ale
there’s much to ponder
as we savour, waterways for sale

poisoned wells run empty
drip dries a poet’s fountain
oil gushes down the drain
flushes a fool’s mountain
there is wine aplenty
but little to save the pain

despair blindly walks the desert  glare
praying desperately to find rain
delirium flops in the footprints of a rainman
that once roamed the earth freely
the rain-woman’s tracks tell the story
of the decimated man

placed faith in a system of vote
to find truth cryptically revealed
in a suicide note, of a landscape
maimed and enslaved by a thirst
make rain while the sun shines
and while it’s overcast, harvest water

make new proverbs and metaphors
where language runs dry
and meanings start to cave
sip your ale and water
with a mind that’s fully aware
of a thirst deeper than the grave

as a jug drips half full
the mug drips half empty
in a zero sum game of human waste
the abyss an ideological long drop
the eye of a bottomless pit of bones
staring down the human race

a vessel lies hollow with no tomorrow
bone dry and empty, save
for a message on a scroll
marked return to sender
with love
anonymous
!gda

boys die to be men

boys die to be men
tombstones and ashes line pavements
from cradle to grave, a pattern of
lives short-lived and ruined
along the way of men
a fly on a wall
to appease the master-minds
at war, with the minds of boys
in body-bags
dying to be men at war, to wage

with a conscience
conscious of the life of war’s income
the light of love’s embrace
when patriarchy holds flag
and warlords run amok
at justice in daylight, a mob
rewards fear, buys silence
with the blade
pillages the fruits of freedom
deferred, by night
scorching the fields of peace with aid

the earth mourns, the skies tear
for boys dying to be men
at the hands of boys
man-made, armed and dangerous
fighting because they are men
man-made, willing to kill
to keep the peace
dying, killing, to be men
of territory
!gda

storielyn

asyn,
witwyn,
samesyn,
storielyn,

vee die blad
met asyn,
meng die verf
met witwyn,
my land, jou werf
vir samesyn,
en so verdwyn
my storielyn,

verf die landskap rooi
horison met kwas en klei
waar bome bloei en mense gly
en al wat bly van veld is vlei

windverwaaid en ongenooid
kom vind ek self die plek van nood
waar mens lewe vir water en brood
en daar ‘n prys hang op ‘n ander se dood
!gda