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In seeking search of searching
In hunger pressing on
No rest for the weary
No sight behind of home

With eyes squeezed tight for vision
Rejecting left or right
With head held firm and fighting
For a glimmer of a light

We see through a glass darkly
With the mirror clasped in hand
The map is simply not out there
It’s etched inside the man

Each scrape sees tendons tearing
And blood flows down like rain
The carving tool has stopped gleaming
any shine is lost in pain

Yet there’s a trumpet ahead still sounding
Though it’s tune is faint at best
With hands on ears blocked tightly
The inner ear is under test

There are no crowds cheering
No seconds to spur one on
It’s the pounding, longing heart beat
That fuels the sacred song

Yet the road still seems so distant
With carrion left and right
It costs to walk the journey
It’s weakness that fuels the fight

The eyes squeeze even tighter
With age the vision blurs
self sacrifice and determination
It’s earned wisdom alone that serves

To press on in the darkness
There’s nowhere else to go
Driving on with ears still searching
When we get there we will know

 

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“amandla” punctuates almost every line
and mindless lips respond
a toneless growl
bellows from the pit
and reaches far beyond

when hearts and minds
are filled with nothing
but hatred revenge and greed
there can be no songs of peace
only deafening drums of war
…we bleed

and all who dance lunge
to this vulgar tune
as one they are self-struck
rendered mute and blind
with overfilled mouths gaping
like desecrated graves
a toyi-toyi story retold
…again

fools believing fools
who only believe in themselves
cetacean stranding on a dry shore

democracy in full flight
democracy in full fright
but at least we’re not alone
thank god we’re not alone

between the deep centre of the brain,
and the inner lining of the eyelids
when we close our eyes momentarily to blink
…such is the extent of our universe

the church and the state
the state and the church
the church of the state
the state of the church…

and there we stood,
all melted down
a puddle of murky goo
poor god
poor people,
what on earth can heaven do?

it was all just a dream he said
each night as he laid down his head
he closed his eyes and went to bed
that is how he fell asleep

every rose bush has some thorns
but not every thorn bush has a rose
the ways of life are bitter sweet
to one it’s poison, to another a treat

the brighter the light
the darker a shadow is cast somewhere
what illuminates a path
can obscure anothers dream
to see is not enough
to have enough is not to see

did you see the other houses down Memory Lane?
the time when you wondered
how the garlic and onions smelled and tasted?
the way they said they did when the others first heard of it

did it taste like they said it would
when it was first believed they did
when those who left Kermet,
those people of the Black Land
a land so black and rich
it was a dream so easy to pitch

so tell me, did you see the other houses down Memory Lane?
the last time you wondered there when it rained
and how will it look the next time you go again?
when you go there in their dreams…

we all go there

some of us never leave

This is apparently a quote from Ken Peters, Professor of Economics in the Czech Republic.

“The danger to South Africa is not Jacob Zuma, but a citizenry capable of entrusting a man like him with the Presidency. It will be far easier to limit and undo the follies of a Zuma presidency than to restore the necessary common sense and good judgment to a depraved electorate, willing to have such a man for their president. The problem is much deeper and far more serious than Mr. Zuma, who is a mere symptom of what ails South Africa. Blaming the prince of the fools should not blind anyone to the vast confederacy of fools that made him their prince. The Republic can survive a Jacob Zuma who is, after all, merely a fool. It is less likely to survive a multitude of fools such as those who made him their President.”

the covers are worn
its leather looks frayed
the introduction is over
a new turn is paged

the next chapter begins
and the story unfolds, …again

and of the plot
who can tell?
an adventure delightful
or a horror story from hell?