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reaching out to beckon to my wife
to join me for an embrace as I lay on my bed
my crippled hands wrapped around her willing body
and the searing pain sent shockwaves through my body
I lay there saying nothing
savouring the moment
forever grateful
knowing that there are so many
who would give anything just to have arms
to embrace those they loved and cherished

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it’s not the cards one gets dealt
it’s the way you play your hand
*
everything is relative …especially immediate family
time and chance happens to all
*
circumstance is defined through observation
to adapt and survive is the most noble of achievements
everything else is vanity
a pursuing of shadows
frantically grasping for the wind
chasing handfuls of emptiness
living dreams without substance
never able to be truly shared
and no real story to tell
*
better a skillful dodge
than a boastful wish

we can speak of these things if we are willing…

if we are secure enough within ourself

to believe or not to believe what is said

without feeling any transactional debt

to each other…

in any way

whether during or after whatever may happen when we speak

*

in many ways not to believe

is as much an act of faith…

which requires as much,

maybe even more strength

than that which is naturally believable to us…

*

…to have this peace within

afterwards

and with the other

and the other’s system of belief

the other’s process

especially if we don’t agree…

*

perhaps this is the true beginning

of a walk to real health?

there’s a poet locked up inside of me, waiting to shut up

I was browsing on my browser
and my browser browsed me
so I asked myself
if it’s really true what I see
or perhaps, instead,
maybe it’s only it who sees me?
or could it be my selfie
who thinks that I see?
but then my vision was clearly confused
and my little brain became somewhat bemused
because my selfie just stood there
still as could be
with those overposed eyes
staring right back at me

There once was a sociopath name Zuma
Who couldn’t fuck up the country any sooner
He raped Kewzi, then us, we applauded, even jumped on his bus
File that in the annals of protest humour

patterns form as experience talks

the way ahead is the sound that walks

but then, in time the trodden path 

stumbles on the aftermath

of ideas that come and eventually go

making progress extremely slow

the paths are fluid, running free

except for the likes of you and me

great ideas of yesteryear

far too suddenly disappear

quickly turning into crutches

when we insist on forming them into structures

*

one day I decided to go to Heaven
when I got there I found no one else was there

it felt like Hell to me

so then I decided to come back to life
and I suddenly awoke again
only to find there was no one there either

I decided that meaning
was neither here nor there
instead, meaning was right now

heaven and hell
and everything else
is anything before or after this

so I abandoned hope and fear
lest I be disappointed
by hitting or missing the target of my own expectations

now each day feels like an eternity

it’s amazing what you can achieve
when you’ve nothing else to do in the day

*

Does he suck his thumb at night when thinking back on the day…
Of the plans and procedures he secretly fudged in so many ways
In fright does he quiver at the pain and mayhem caused
Or does it not even bring even a second of reflective pause
That he filled his own plate and drained his oversized mug
rubbing his huge gut with a full face all smug
While the rest of the many wept silently in pain
For inside they all know it will happen again

The lust for more continues to dull his eyes
And fills his lips with even more filthy lies
So he justifies the abundance of plunder he has seized
Saying “this is just what my country needs”
The few get more and the most get less
And the rest… well it’s all just a godless mess

The once oppressed victim is now the oppressor
The great hero revolutionary is now the slave boss of the lesser
His singing of songs, dancing and casting of spells
Increases in might as it dries out the wells
in the hearts of the people who will queue, longing to be quenched
While it’s increasing poverty and oppression in which they are drenched

But they still seek for their heavenly king to unfold
Who will retell their story with glories untold
Patiently holding hands with ancient tradition
In desperate, blind hope they volunteer…
a suicidal mission

And who will stand up and speak up for the masses oppressed?
The obscenely salaried politicians they say…

…who would have guessed?

*

a child
born in time
just out of line
a misfit traveler
estranged
in a strange land of strangers

who waved the wand
and gave the command…
did someone?
who decided it would be…
or wouldn’t…
did they?
the son of a misplaced son
found in a foreign land
the product of some decision
perhaps made before
who can know why
if even at all?

all is blurred
barely visible
reasons evaporate
answers flee
only questions remain
of plans perhaps made
but in sand, …while the winds blew
with the feet of men…
tramping through
what was written can no longer be read
if it was
we can’t know now
or then

sleep walkers
walking in the deep
interrupted steps
dreams incomplete
partly woken
in a confused state
disjointed, unappointed
perhaps it’s too late?

for some
peace can be found
even on the barren fields of war