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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

treur van die korhaan

uit die oggend mis van ‘n gryse verlede
kom daar ‘n geween van mense van mense
‘n getap van hotnotsnot en trane,
voer aan ‘n ontspannings-vraatsug,
ont-land en ont-tong as onding gedwing
en verdoof met verwronge geloof,
verkondig deur besigheidspriesters
met ‘n smaak vir land en liefde
vir die evangelie van rasisme,
verlam met beste wense, leë kliere
en droeë krane, verwoes met buskruit,
die gekringloop het tot stilstand gekom,
die wereld is omhein en onheilig
die lippe van seisoene blom van dors
diepe verlange brand van die honger
die korhaan se lewenslyn dui rigting aan,
vervalle volke weerkaats in vlakwaters
van gif-poele en borrelende wolke
leeg van water, landsmense ontneem, dros
en wentel in kampkassies, omring
met skerp draad en gruwel daad,
in tronk en kerk gekonsentreer
met geweld van opvoeding, gekonfronteer
nood trek strop om ‘n bottelnek
op aandag en gewillig op die uitbuit
van lewenskrag vir die belofte van kos
en gerief vir altyd op ‘n ander dag
dis aan die hand van ‘n god
wat hulle sterf vir liefde,
sonder kus wat hulle sterf met liefde,
in die mis van ‘n oop graf wat huil
sonder om ‘n traan te kan stort
!gda

op 'ie jop

op ‘ie jop
kopgebuigde blomme ve’lep in stow’rige vase
groente en vrugte ve’rot op ve’koelde rakke
briekgoed groei swamme in vetterige wasbakke
‘n lyn klere ve’muf in bondels swart wasgoedsakke
etterigge goed hoep op op die tafel en onne
die vloe’ is bestrooi en besmet met rommel en kak
die kat hang vas aan die voorg’dyn
en die brak vrek stilletjies onner’ie mat
ou-baas is boos en van bed belet
en ‘n bedrukte ou-nooi bly in gebed
ek is weer op ‘ie jop v’more
my street vacation is kla, ma’ my kop is al seer
sanksies druk en die pap is dun
ou-baas se broeksgulp gee weer probleme
dis onweer, en ek loop suutjies op my tone
but ek check die’s my laaste dag op die jop
fok ‘n nogge slag,
fok die dite met wyn en min wages
sal ma’ aaire ver’e skarrel vir ‘n werk
en vir ‘n way vir ‘ie dag van more
as my niehat net sterk kan bly
en god net by sy woord kan hou
sy belofte kan bly hou
om my nugte’ te kan hou, ai
ou-baas praat weer saggies,
en wieg fluks rond, lyk hie’ kom ‘n ding
hy’t sy naald, garing en onderbroek in die hand
en in die sy van sy langkous is ‘n R100 of twee
sal ma’ moet skarrel v’more
en my niehart sterk hou v’dag
wie kan ‘an tien my wies
as ek god op  my kant het,
as hy net sy woord kan hou
!gda

dream-catcher

a momentary
eye to eye
with a dream-catcher

yielding, turning angle
feathers once ruffled
gently lift
the breeze teases
flutters and quivers
as it weaves stubbornly
in a draught of day dreams

dancing trees
bring fruit to chimes
violently staying in tune
at time tamed the storm
when the hand of mother
nature struck and grieved

a dream-catcher falls
like an empty can
to lay bare
of wish and whim
a floor, a wall
a hand, an eye restored

to allow a momentary
glance, for an eye to eye,
to catch a love poem

!gda