I am the Weary

I am the weary

I am the weary
All of them
My eyes burn
The sick forces up against my will

I am the weary
Each time I close them
They rise up in agony
They rebel against me the buggers

I am the weary
I trudge through life
Toward the something
I’ve yet to find out what

I am the weary
I see the disgruntled youth
History tears across their beaten faces
As if today was yesterday

I am the weary
One bullet, one boer
Is death right?
The lines aren’t even there or are they drawn onto your face?

I am the weary
Strike a human
Strike a rock
The Black Sash, The White Sash, The same Sash

Its for peace
If we even know what that is anymore
What color are we?
Who knows? Who can see?

The fundamentalists cry apocalypse
The majority assert themselves
The new kids say they don’t notice anymore
They are veiled by false liberalism

I am the weary
Is Ben Trovata laughing?
Perhaps he will write a letter
Some joy for a nasty state.


Have I forced you onto that bench?
Have I called out “DOG!”?
We killed Terblanche
Who’s to blame?
It was a wage dispute

No, it was a long time coming.

Agora

Bad spelling poem


The love that bent
The love that broke
It built me up from foetus
To flesh and bone

An instant that travelled
Through countless eternity’s
And made its home
In a hollow shell

The insides weave a web
One that never dissipates
That cannot move
As if it was bound by a leaden rock

Not thunder
Nor hooks
Could capture it
And move it from its anchored place

It could not be confined
It rose up through the skies
And miasemed into atmosphere
It traveled light

Its full authority
Tricking through several universes
Its power bound
And trapped the humans

The thought provoked
Slipped seamlessly
Across the world
And landed everywhere

It did not move
It did not waver
Although it was clouded in
Lies and destruction

It lingered long
And settled like a dew
On every forest
Real or not

It covered light
It spread through sound
It tunneled earth
Its voice so loud

They beat at it
They tore its skin
It bled for eons
It birthed an army

A Prayer for Glory

A Prayer for Glory

A working woman
Raises a small son
In the confines of a two bedroom home
With a man who throws dirty socks on the floor

What does she get for her troubles?
Her time fits neatly into little boxes
But often spills over
It’s rather a frustration

She pushes paper
To make the paper
That will save their lives
Engrave their path

Is this her destiny?
To clean a splotch of food off the rim of her shoe?
Or do as the man says
Before he has said it?

Where are her fancy heels?
Where is her week in the Maldives?
Her fabulous jewelry collection?
Its gone with her thoughts

They say her reward
Lies in the face of her son
In the look of appreciation
In her husbands eyes

Of course it brings her joy
The little mind that squirms into a consciousness
In her hands
Right before her very recognition

A burst of feeling
Few things can inspire
The growing plant
Its beauty exponential

Even through the spill of urine
Light shines through to catch its reflection
Defecation is a thriving sign
It is life

For child and love
For a job well done
A proud man gleams as he views her
He takes her in as though he is thirsty

The floor so clean she sees her face
The face of a woman who does
The potential
It screams out loudly

“Are you listening?
One tiny step toward me
I’m yours for the taking”
The step is labored
Obstructed by the must-do’s

“Engage me!” it bellows
But she strikes it away
The wound searing across its face
You are needed

What if she dies?
What if she dies today?
Remembered as a lady with a mop.
Remembered as a rumored creative

Remembered as a rumored legacy
Remembered as a rumored activist
Remembered as a rumored politician
Remembered as a rumored heroin

For it is only that
Remember as a rumored human.
The leader of the world…
And his hat.

You are the finest accessory.

Our Fish May be Dead but There's Hope for us Yet

You with your cigarettes
The smoke winds unto my lungs
like you have
Slowly filling every part
Until there is no room for air

You with your tweed exterior
Small blue and green squares
The four corners
Photographed on the back of my skull
They wallpaper the curves of brainy memory

You with your boy next door smile
Yours eyes whispering something frivolous
Your toffee skin
It runs along you, an accessory to your insides

You with your delicious dancing
Spiralling around my living room
Your wild moves
They have planted themselves inside me
You, who is still there when I open my eyes.
You, with your me.

I am a simple creation
But I am yours.

The Tempest

The storm. Tempest.
Thundering through speckled shades of Earth,
Square blocks of lightning slice through bolts of ice.
Beating the roof it says: “I hate you but you are mine!”

Light running into ground,
Burning soil creatures
and bringing tears to the eyes of plant roots tangled in winding worms.
Let the Lord remind us of His existence.

The split skin of the Earth shows something beyond,
And as I tumble into that silver,
My breath is taken and put to better use.
The jolted hum of land things,
Swept into the air and whipped with nature’s instruments.

They cascade like falling stars,
Meeting obstacles for the first time
And screaming through the collision.
Until…one hits me,
And I lie quietly, breathlessly, on those bloodied tiles.

The storm moves.
The murderer.
The omen.
The wire in the air.