Invisible Footprints

Tantalizingly close, a tingle in the spine,

Something lovely and fearful, desired and unimagined,

Wonderful, snow coloured sentiments flaking from the sky,

Looking higher above, at descendants of an Earth,

Ascended beyond whatever they were worth,

Experiences, flailing moments, lost causes and effects,

Changing seasons emphasized in death,

Ancient voices echoing through the bones, they speak,

Passages of the path, ways of the order, you live it,

You live them, loved and alone, you are their crescendo,

The twinkle of the Morning Star, the cheeks of a young one,

A chuckle of an elf, bound in self, expressed nevertheless,

Of being, traipsing wantonly along the path of a thousand,

Thousand invisible footprints, theirs, yours, ours…

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Dead Volcano

That sound is amazing: the sound of freedom is a muted scream

Falling ashes suspended in a dream, where tear drops are rain drops

And life is still.

The heart is still blazing: the heart that gives blood

Black red like burning oil fields, the love, an obsidian flow

Hissing on the surface and simmering on the inside.

 The memory, that memory, is seared: the memory now void of truth

In a vacuum I age back to my youth, blinded by miscomprehension

I see a rigid future.

The sight is a beauty: sight is a cruelty when taken as it is

Dilated pupils floating in their sockets like dead fish, in the sea

 Tired of tasting salt.

Old bones turn to ash: aching bones make that music

In my wake shadows dance looking foolish, with gaping mouths

Like swallowed reflections.

Time is travel: there’s no time like now to go nowhere

The speed of life is a living nightmare, death is the pit lane

The past just a deserted wasteland.

The meaning is lost: the meaning which means nothing to any other

My mouth filled with molten lava, the world is populated with spies

Sabotaging self.

No outcome is fixed: so out come the mixed messages

Every effort effortless, until

We die.

Dead Volcano

People Eaters

Docile Memories
in an unassuming world, Living the life of those untold

Visions of
mastery wisdom unlearned, Glimpses of jagged battle worn souls

Tales of the
fallen tests of glory, Moments unkind at best are gory

Nights spent
poorly devastate destinies, Hurt felt sorely invigorates Memories.

º

 Sounds from wombs travel in liquid silence, Heard
by none the meaning is clear

Nascent findings
unregistered cerebral mileage, Immaculate tidings sins appear

Faith of the
damned remorse of the blessed, Repent for the sake of the comatose message

Naked without
dressing falling from the clouds, Hoping confessions have no Sounds.

º

Searching Merchants
lost in turbulent seas, Oblivious to heights of the natural order

Mysteriously dangerous
danger is a mystery, Who knows what lies across the border?

A truth so evil
it reads like a face, Or a lie so lovely it leaves a saccharine taste

Brimming base
desires unwind like serpents, Fake dreams sold by decadent Merchants.

º

The macabre Details
on tombstones encrypted, Tell nothing of a living man’s delights

Endlessly sought
perversions are shifted, The re-embodiment of incalculable insights

Pave the way for
the sorrows of ghosts, The foes of the merry cannot boast

At most the fabric of humour remains, The sincerity lost within the fundamental Details.

º

The price of a
Lesson is paid in bone and flesh, Forget your change when you don’t own time

Coming or going
you get what you get, Welcome to the now what’s yours is mine

Demand with no
supply is a black market woe, But only if you learn how to let go

The ears on the
wall have only one question, Have you learned your worldly Lesson?

The Death of a Black Rose

Cold
Whispering Shivers Tickle the Spine of Life

Free-Flowing
like Shimmering Rivers that Trickle Out of Sight,

The Might
of the Tremors is Felt in Distant Lands

Like
the Raving Murmurs of Gods with Tears of Sand,

A Gigantic
Hand on a Shoulder couldn’t Steal Misery Away

Not when the Loss of a Black Rose is the Cost of
Each Passing Day,

Finding a
Way through Waterfalls of Crystal Clear Waters

Anywhere
on the Planet where Comfort has no Borders,

Unnatural
Tortures the Body Endures While Donning Brave Armour

Endlessly
Encouraged to Live Life and Die with Vain Honour,

To Take Each Trauma with a Toothless Smile

To
Give Each Hurt Cause by Remembering it for a While,

Who can Find Fault in the Perfect Day of Searing
Sunshine

Or
Make the Mind Jolt In the Perfect Night of Dreaming Sublime?

Walking
the Line Ignoring Both Sides with Foolish Agility

Time
Vanishes Each Dying Second With a Deliberate and Fluid Ability,

During Dark Nights When Fears Abound in Perpetual Flux of Uncertainty

The Flickering Memories of The Black Rose Rain
like Ashes from a Bonfire of a Life Lived Fervently,

With an
Aura of a Colossus Towering Over Kingdoms of Strange Beings

And
Brawny Roots That Descended Straight to the very Core of the Earth’s Feelings,

She was a
Doorway to an Ancestry that Defined the Finer Things

A
Captivating Force Undeterred by the Lies Others Think,

Her Shadowy Velvet Petals Absorbed the Pains
Others Dreamed

Her
Veins Thick with the Venomous Ink Bulging until they Gleamed,

And
so it was Written: The Succulent Poison the very same Blessing

The
Death of The Black Rose Our Subconscious Confession…

       †

The Death of Nelson Mandela: Time Travelling Back to January 2011

I’ve often caught myself at odd moments wondering what would become of this great nation when Nelson Mandela died. After this past week where media reports, internet social networks and everyday trivial conversations were rife with the supposed ill health of the former president I realised that in 2011 I am not the only one wondering about that same question. As a relatively young democratic nation still bundling our way towards a united national mind state we have relied heavily on our former president, using him almost nonstop as an unflagging symbol of hope, as our very own unique icon that can give our previously tainted national identity a bit of a gleam, our very own living saviour capable of fetes never before witnessed in this country – or any other for that matter. There can be no doubt about Nelson Mandela’s stature, his unyielding humanity, his aura, built by years of living a principled life, leading from within, teaching us something about ourselves and greatness that exists.

 

Even the most ardent sceptic or unpatriotic fascist has to admit that the man has lived a life worthy of praise, close to godliness and one that we should all learn something from. I would know because I too fall into this category – no, perhaps not of godliness, but somewhere between what some might perceive as scepticism and unpatriotic idiosyncrasy. You see I would like to think of myself as one of those individuals so obsessed with self discovery, individual endeavour and nonconformity that I am often caught going against the tide mostly for good reasons but occasionally just for the sake of it. In doing this I have become one of those people that dislikes seeing the nation still trying to eke the last bit of hero magic from Tata uMadiba, the original man who over the years just never seemed able to fail at churning it out, whether he felt like it or not.

 

As a nation I think we should be mature enough to admit that we have milked the Madiba cow almost for everything that it is worth. Year after year, event after event we have asked the old man to come out of his private life in order to serve the nation once again. And now it seems he must do it again, when he is ailing, to come and save us from the horror of living with his inevitable death. I doubt that there are many 92 year olds out there living with the demands that this great man has to live with at this late and theoretically golden age when one should be left respectfully alone to contemplate the prospects of the afterlife. It was difficult for me to watch him being driven around Soccer City in a golf cart last year for the opening of the 2010 Soccer World Cup waving humbly at a rabid crowd intoxicated by a special kind of self deluding glee that only Fifa, and the South African media can create. But there he was – seen in short snippets by those of us who watched the poor TV coverage that only showed the last bit of his fairy tale ride around the colossus stadium – producing that same magic we all know him for, inspiring us and making us feel special.

 

This past week as the speculation about Nelson Mandela’s health did the rounds I asked myself a lot of challenging questions about this country, about myself and about my purpose in this life. I found myself thinking about how as South Africans we have become masochistically contented by our own struggles that we have created, and continue to create, long after Nelson Mandela freed us from our previous struggle. We illustrate this continually by our reluctance to let go of our very own world icon, Nelson Mandela, this same reluctance that sees us scared to free the inspired heroes within all of us, who will ensure that we overcome any struggle within and without.

 

I think one of the greatest things that Nelson Mandela gives us as South Africans is that feeling and knowledge that we, as a collective unit, are a great nation worthy and capable of creating great leaders. On an individual level he has freed us from within and allowed us all to dream about a future where we can fulfil personal dreams while helping and nurturing others. I for one know that I am living the dream that Nelson Mandela made possible. My work on the Transnet-Phelophepa Health Care Train allows me to fulfil personal dreams by constantly healing, sharing and being with people while simultaneously learning from them. This past week in Bloemfontein, our first of the 2011 tour, was one where we had to dig deep and find inspiration where there wasn’t none. The flooded station, caused by the tireless rain, where we had to work threatened to disrupt our services and the constant logistical problems made life more difficult than it could have been. But because we as the staff of the Phelophepa have an inspired vision, great self belief and unyielding dedication, just like Nelson Mandela, we were able to stay focused and surpass our targets quite significantly – which in itself is a great thing considering that this is our first week where we were working with basically a new staff compliment.

 

I know that I do not fear the death of Nelson Mandela because he has awakened something within me that can never die. This past week I was fearless – the only thing that might have frightened me just a bit were the huge green toads that were all around the station due to the floods – and held onto the desire to make a difference. I feel privileged to be able to have lived in the same time era as Nelson Mandela and even more so to be able to live a fulfilling life because of his efforts. My wish to him is not necessarily a speedy recovery, but it is that he may find peace in whichever way that he deems he should get it. I do not think that anything will be lost should he not make it through 2011. Even if he does make it, I have accepted that his time will come sooner rather than later. At least he will continue to live in part through the example of humanity that we continue to display in our work onboard the Phelophepa…