April The Joy of reading and writing poetry

        
       
       
       
It started in the young years        
keeping the vessel alive        
between candle counts in        
birthday cakes and a new grade.        
       
In the early working years        
holding calendar days        
Mother's day, Father's day,        
Christmas, and Easter fetes!      
       
Month to month living after        
marriage. The wage in wait.        
The monthly steak and vino date      
Living the 30 days was great.      
       
Divorced years calling for weekends       
See the kids, hearing "bye daddy"        
screamed to the wind on a Sunday.      
Life's speeds being kept in Saturday.       
       
Friday to Friday dragged the weekly clock        
When love hit the forehead        
with a unexpected wet-cloth        
We lived for the weekly trip to bed.        
       
Hour by hour, started in broken blood        
hard hours of no meds and rashes        
days unable to get out of mourning beds      
Each hours chorus calling a breath.        
       
There comes a time when moments        
are minutes. Holding to what's seen       
in the leaf of a tree. Keeping it together        
is in the minute, it takes to hold on.     
     
     
     
 

    
   
   
Let's discuss the way    
of old hearts    
their bleeding dried tears    
pump away    
While blood cells burn in    
ecstasy    
-lives only they've lived    
   
Let's buy tickets and    
keep the stubs    
in treasure boxes    
at local    
pubs and speak the truth    
days gone by    
in tunnels winding    
true love sung    
   
Let's hold dear the eyes    
that shone through    
square boxes at night    
write the plan    
of tomorrow's land    
play the words    
echoing you-tubes    
halls, so grand    
   
Let's drink, a drink to    
death songs sang    
those wonderers who    
built this land    
cast their names in brass    
parades that never,    
burn, delete or fade    
   
   
   
   
 

            
           
           
           
Breathing thick viscosity          
tonight              
wondering          
if oxygen molecule              
O              
can be multiplied six times    
O6              
or are two little atoms all              
we really choke up         
O2              
plastic lungs      
in brown              
paper              
bags              
gripping finger-nails              
into leather arm rests              
of three seater              
couches              
in dark      
sitting rooms          
             
The freeway is busy tonight              
a Ducatti              
took front wheels to the wind              
leaving orgasmic smoke              
in headlights              
of suburban              
family              
cars              
driving            
Wayz               
to the opera              
             
It reminds me of              
being seven          
strapped to              
a luggage rack              
of grandad's rebuilt            
silver Vesper            
puffing and jerking              
along old-gravel-roads              
singing            
"Grandma's feather bed"              
-harmonising             
wind blowing hair              
while arms knitted themselves              
in ribs;          
knots of love              
burying fear in potholes              
             
It's raining              
enough godly tears              
to fill an Olympic              
swimming pool              
My eyes            
staring at the              
Android screen              
can't tell you              
what I'm reading              
A mind              
walking through              
history and present              
           
Learning to breathe              
custard              
ventilated              
through              
our moment              
in misty              
rising              
gases              
leaving            
one            
more              
muddy              
footprint              
in the new              
first-day              
of forever              
             
             
-x-            
             
             
             
             
 

          
   
   
         
         
we're born into          
fiction          
with no          
book of lies          
and truth says          
its sorry    
   
 the myth's in your eyes          
   
will you still love-          
when the poetry          
dies?          
sold as fast-food          
containers          
(eat while you cry!)          
electric finger-tips          
once           
lit-up-a-room             
-feeling          
hard-rocks          
heavy-knocks          
long-blonde-locks          
         
         
now  
a catastrophic mess          
of nothing          
to play                  
and fiction          
is fiction          
but needs to have walked          
an uneasy path          
to come          
to a page               
never a muse          
or really short fuse          
it was pumping in veins          
of blood          
spilled          
through          
every-day          
use          
         
.          
         
was it an act of God(s)          
I don't know-          
it's hard to say!          
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
 

  
It was never cute love for me
-was the rough love  
the same that  
measured five weekdays  
in twenty four hour breaths  
counting texts waiting for  
your car arriving    
outside my door.    
The same core trembling  
hard love that turned    
a normal average Joe    
into a lock-downed  
cracked concrete pedestal  
in the mountain of    
non-contact we endured.    
as terrifying as it is    
the fighting    
minute by minute    
check up died,  
   
axed by governments.    
a global phenomenon.    
   
yet still we laze weekends    
now, brushing hand skin    
and breaking bread,  
throwing cards out in threes  
glaring into each others eyes,    
finding the old heart
 
still beating  
still loving  
   
   
   
 

  
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
      
     
     
 . wrote my name      
in tongue, over your chest      
                                         heavy breathing      
                                       a heart emoji      
                                            on your left breast      
                                                   san script      
                                                                 lips      
finding the crease in your neck, locking palms      
into heaven      
as I learn to translate      
                                each    heavy    breath      
                                                  s h I v e r I n g      
     
                              .-...- .-....----... I  l o V e   Y o U      
                                                    in morse code ...-.-...      
     
invisible ink      
                           from  your      
                                                  wildest drop      
                                                             of      
     
     
                                                            S w  e a t      
     
     
breathing      
                         sex      
                         before we      
                                  S  t  O  p        
     
                                  to make      
                                                 l o v e      
                                                               eloquent      
written decadent                                
     
                                                          read in sentiment      
     
as your eyes roll back and your toes curl      
a whisper in your      
                               E A R !      
     
"There is      
                 n o t h I n g           to      
                               fear "      
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
 

       
       
     
         
         
The bar-room    
had a saloon air,
some strange country music    
playing background;        
the timber-finish        
- swing doors        
round tables, seating eight    
(Texus-Holdem plays ten        
on a full table        
but the house needs some odds)        
   
they sat in shadowed light        
-all seven          
the dealer had dealt        
an extra Ace        
to the lady          
with an orange bow        
         
the chap in the leather hat  
lit a cigarette        
as they invited        
him to sit        
at the green        
"The game is far in, boy        
but you can comment        
from seat three"        
         
he declined....        
         
The game played three rounds        
- she dropped that Ace        
when the wrong card spun        
         
he breathed        
-held a bullet        
to be honest        
he thought          
RUN!        
-but the lady          
had a guy watching        
from the bar with a gun        
         
As the sun slipped      
under blankets of        
the horizon      
and shade        
covered window panes          
there were none that knew      
how the play ended        
but it's hard        
even          
in          
cowboys        
and cards        
not to leave a scathed        
horse-rider        
when the table folds.     
         
         
         
         
         
 

 
 
 
well,
for one thing
it can be folded
- with a little inspiration
a simple seven word poem
could be a boeing 747
complete with nose cone
(but that's the side note to this letter)
-crafted from ink to paper
then typed word to word
on qwerty and LED
 
and there is much to be said
for our new reality
"the smart life"
- smart car
- smart TV
- smart fridge
- s m a r t...
 
though with a little introspection
I'm left reminded
that the design for the first ever
smart device  
would  
be drawn on paper
with each fine line
meticulously thought
in graphite to grain
 
but this is love poetry
not a tech discussion
an ode
to all the hundreds  
of post-it-notes
birthday cards
pages of music notes
stories in books
cliché' in magazines
death in the newspaper
love letters
and  
poetry  
 
on paper
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

   
 
     
     
Street-lights    
casting rainbows through    
main street
pot-holes    
flickering themselves    
to a dark death    
-while wounded clouds    
pour tears    
at hunger;    
drenching      
the thirst for bread    
     
Thunder screams    
cultural      
war-cries    
with each    
shock    
of electric intent    
shattering      
the earth's silence    
     
Adrenaline    
holds    
the baby against    
her left breast    
while the right    
searches    
her grade school    
daughter's    
voice    
in washed     
death-traps;  
caused by    
a nation    
praying      
for far to much    
     
Christianity
celebrates    
in chocolate    
for one  
-while counting      
the drowned bodies    
un-found    
un-treated    
un-fed    
     
     
     
     
 

 
         
            
             
he'd drink a bottle            
while still              
fermenting glass;            
didn't care            
which labels            
had flavors            
the twenty six            
dealers would              
pass           
             
-his mother branded            
him the city            
ass            
and the law            
called her "the gospel"             
when his jail time            
came to pass.            
one gold tooth,            
skin as worn            
as leather;        
four stars          
live on each          
shoulder        
-in five ounces          
of empire black          
ink.            
the boys in cells said            
he had killed his            
brother            
-while the girls              
claimed to be his            
baby's mother.            
             
in the smoke that floats              
around his head            
is a life that            
reminds a soul            
of his father's              
death.            
             
the sheriff              
called yesterday            
"this kid is rough            
but the boy is            
innocent"            
that's what he said.            
     
evening             
silence held the            
silver-line            
staring that            
sheriff down,            
outside the            
court-house fire            
in town         
that left            
the mayor              
             
           
dead            
             
             
             
 

        
     
     
       
a half burnt        
cigarette        
glaring at me;        
blowing snow rings        
into atmospheric-smog        
between word placement,        
punctuation, font, and form        
collecting        
crumpled metaphors        
origami basket balls        
landing on        
the floor        
       
I lied, tonight        
saying "I'll be alright"        
diluting reality's fears        
in ink-tears        
letting words form        
the script        
of rehabilitation        
       
subscribing to        
another        
breakdown;        
falling apart        
while        
that cigarette is        
instructing me to        
light another        
       
I'm not suicidal        
we've established      
death        
isn't strong enough        
to deal with 2022        
or my internal monologs        
and I've told you twice        
"I'll be alright"        
-needing to get this write out        
landing the page        
without a bump        
strip its ego        
to the moment        
human eyes        
find something        
that inspires        
       
blotches reminding me        
I entered the        
easter daily write        
as a sign of solidarity        
to a loved art form      
-now it's        
unified support        
of myself        
and survival        
       
the sun finally      
awakes        
stretching rays        
through cracks        
in curtains        
I ask the moon        
to stay        
she doesn't listen and        
goes to bed        
-lighting another cigarette        
I swear        
I'm hearing whispers        
as she fades      
   
       
"all that's on your head        
is a war between        
       
fucking        
       
or dying."        
       
       
.        
       
       
       
       
       
       
       
       
       
       
 

   
    
   
     
It's hard to believe    
as I walk      
the 285 meters    
between Newtown and    
Braamfontien    
that this tar    
these steel cables      
the lights    
will celebrate      
20 years of bridging      
the race gap    
next year    
     
find myself wondering    
if there'll be a party    
to celebrate      
the 40 railway lines beneath it    
as I count    
the credit cards      
car keys    
purses    
discarded on the curbs    
     
I remember that a memorial      
would be apt      
it'll be the 10th Anniversary    
of his second death    
it's hard to believe      
that he'd    
have a 105 birthday candles      
had his lungs      
kept breathing      
     
a tourist    
stops and asks me    
after they witness    
their first    
gun point    
"If it's safe?"    
     
- remind them    
that he brought freedom    
to our people    
in 1994    
and that means      
most our country remembers    
being set free to walk    
anywhere, safely    
30 years ago    
     
but many people      
remember      
many things.    
     
     
 

      
 
     
"I'm Baack!"      
     
     
     
     
Putin called on a burner, there's a little issue
in a storm water drain,      
just south of Munich.      
My Russian isn't fluent, it was difficult to decipher.    
 I heard "balloon" and "ice cream"      
militant code words for      
"internet"      
and "a cold, sweet, creamy dessert" .      
I ran to the local drug store, bought a home pregnancy test  
just incase.      
     
My neighbor is a sex therapist,      
she said this dream means      
I need to re-connect with nature.      
     
I've skinned three fish and a carrot      
- the result was still pregnant positive      
So I've sent a personal letter      
to President Ramaphoza,  
congratulating him on becoming      
the queen      
in July.  
     
The local butcher says      
the nightmare means I should eat more bacon.      
     
     
The alarm clock is ringing insistently      
I need to get up.      
     
     
     
     
     
.

 
co-dependence scares
my heart right out
Leaving
it bleeding on the
floor
-there's still a murmur
living in valves
making its pump play
heavy metal
from natural
progression
Much like grade school
inaugurations

Its a change from
everything
from linen to working hours
Those nights
self reflecting
words on pages
to
trips for ice cream
with the little hearts

Technically
see the need for
evolution in living
and flower arrangements
Its weight
heavy
on having taken
eleven years
to speak to myself
with some
mutual self understanding

and of course
there's
chocolate