What makes a salad
salady? It can't be the salad itself:
lettuce leaves
us confused with
fruit salad,
broccoli salad
and coleslaw
(which isn't even a salad - or is it?).
Perhaps "salad" is the scrumpy sound
it makes when you munch on the mixture?
But what about
banana salad,
potato salad,
and tuna salad?

Should we still believe
in a definitionless dish,
or should we better define it?

Dragon in my Closet


1.
I should write a poem
today. Now. But
I just don't feel like doing so.
Instead, I'm going to write
a story
about why. About the Dragon.
And that'll do.


2.
Once upon a time,
there was a To Do List
that needed to be Done.
It had items and points
and notes and scribbles;
she was absolutely the most
prettiest thing.

This beauty belonged to a Knight,
a pilgrim in the Land of Adulthood.
And I'm about to tell you
why, though he wanted,
and tried and tried
he never could
get the stupid List Done.

So, one day while
he was wooing Lady List,
a thunderous roar stopped him
in the middle of his speech.
He smelled the sulphur before
he saw the shadow fly over,
but it was too late
and the dragon grabbed his Lady lover.

The List yelled for help,
but what could Knight have done?
Before him stood the vicious
Merciless Procrastination Dragon!
With a slice of its claws
and just one breath of flames,
the poor List was done for
and could nevermore be Done.

Well, you can imagine
the scenario that now unfolded:
List gargling on the floor,
Knight screaming like a toddler.
The Dragon wasn't done yet, though,
he still had one more goal:
Keeping the Knight busy all day
so he won't rescue List with CPR.

This was the easy part,
and loads of fun too.
Knight had snapped out of his shock,
but the dragon just had to
keep his paw on the Knight's head
and hold it there until
the Knight got tired of fighting air
and became very still.

Then the Dragon lifted his paw.
Knight fell on the floor with a
THUD.
Dragon flew off with a smile on his face,
happy with the fun he'd had.
The Knight scrambled the strength together
to crawl on all fours to his List -
or rather, what remained of her -
and pretended she still exists.

(But she was dead,
and the Knight was broken.
He would never even look
at another List again.
Until he gets lonely and
tired of Nothing,
then another To Do List pops up
that's in need of Doing...)


3.
This tale is true,
believe me, 'tis so.
I have met the very Knight
and greeted the Lady too.
And the Malicious
Procrastination Dragon
made its nest in
my closet.

And that's why
I'm not writing a poem.

my angel’s sneezed
snowflakes
fall from the sky
Their silence, magic, dance
covers me
enchants me
tickles me
The frozen conifers - my friends,
ancient and wise
as mountains they stand -
agree in their soundless chants:
Though the skies a snowy shade of grey,
the words it speaks are worth a million colours

- RW, All rights reserved.

The sky was in her
       eyes - blue with
clouds floating in her smile.
Her voice rushed
       of pines
in a breeze, her hair told of green meadows
  in the spring;
she scented of northern lights...

     And I knew I had met a wildflower.

who is the wind? what
do you know? tell me
who is she?
if she’s a ghost
a wandering spirit
then who was it she used to be?

what is it she whispers? what is it
she says? do you understand?
if she laughs in the leaves
and rages in caves
then who was it
who taught her speech?

where does she come from? where to
does she fly? has she
a secret stead to stay?
has she a bed of pines
or a cloud as home
or is she without a safe place?

what a mystery, beautiful wonder
powerful force is she
who tickles our cheeks
and plays with our hair
and never betrays
her identity

ring² (/rɪŋ/)
verb

1. (of my ears) the thing they do when filled
with another disappointing, wordy silence, especially
when I'd so hoped to hear you say... Read more

• The thing my heart does when it hears
those 3 little emotion-packed words
(never said by you).

(See also, "disappointment")

Phrases: "Did you eat?", "Are you okay?",
"I made you breakfast..."

"I love you"

In between the screens
the typing keys,
the (gradient) lines,
the buzzing phones,
there is
        peace
        space
        silence.

Oh! the walls of might raise voice,
Oh! the halls in white rejoice;
A coat of clouds covers them all,
Its icy magic dances a ball,
Its crystals causes our hearts to sing;
The lights and fires let amenity ring.
Oh! comforts of winter glow,
Oh! the magic of the snow!
Winter would not be pleasant at all
Without the precious snowflakes’ fall.

1.

Pain
when felt
hard enough, ceases
to be just that:
painful





2.

The sensation of
pain sometimes seems awfully
pleasant to my bones






3.

A sting makes my life
bend in beautiful
imperfection


I sip it
like a lollipop





4.

It's like the
grate of yearning
is more pleasant than
the earning,
tasting,
breathing
the dream.

This morning I spotted Dawn
in his human disguise
walking by my window.
He had a bucket of gold
paint in his hands
and the rays of the sun
following his feet
and when I waved at him
he sparkled me a smile back
as if
we knew.

I.

Words can be more powerful than deeds
if you know how to use them.
But
how do you know that you know
how to use them?

Is it
when your best friend smells
the green of your grass,
When your sister remembers her tears
in your poem?
When the stranger tastes the salt in your sea air and
When a renowned poet sees you’re a brilliant diamond? But
When will you believe them?
When would you believe
in yourself?

But
you are just an amateur and are clueless and
you don’t believe

you can do it.
When will you stop doubting
[whether you’re any good/yourself and your skills] and

start practising your art,
start placing down your words.
Know that you know
how to use them.
Believe them.


II.

Your words are like ants
on the paper;
small, few perhaps. But
when you add them all up

you have a legion of punches.
You’re a warrior of words,
powerful, mighty, gentle, defending
and building the people.
Your people.

To them
a hero is what you are
when you share your speaking pictures,
when you show your singing words,

when you believe it yourself.
You are.
You are a writer.
Write your words.


III.

No-one knows you
sees you
hears you.
You have no name
yet. When you
write like you’re not scared
type like your words have power
try different pens like
you have a hundred swords,

you will become
somebody.
When you are just
a nobody who believes
in themselves, when

you are just an amateur and are clueless and
when you believe

you will shake the world.
You will always be somebody,
no matter what.
You will.
Because you can.


IV.

You’re a writer.
You have words.
They’re yours.

You will know when you know
how to use them.
Just believe in them.
Write them.

Here comes Dawn!
that august crown
with lights in his eyes
gold in his mouth
a fresh sheet in his footsteps
pearls in his song -
of which the notes aren’t black,
but silver ring in tone
Whose abyssal blue eyes
have never fallen before,
never wandered off the trail
he has committed himself to
never-

It’s the same Dawn
who has broken so many hearts
and left countless others grabbing
sighing
for an empty, transparent glance
Whose footsteps are traced
by more than Day alone:
the morning brings him thousands
of pulling eyes to pull along

Ladies! Lovers! Princesses!
hear here my advice:
the Golden Prince is a single spirit
an eagle with no eyes
for women or girls or queens or beggars
or damsels of any kind
and nothing in earth
heaven or hell
could ever change his mind
So leave him bear his heavy burdens,
he’s suffered enough, let him be
He can’t be tamed and shan’t be tempted,
forever he will be free

let’s dance
in an everdream sky
Let the stars be our music
Let the galaxies light our steps

let’s run
on the clouds on high
Let the birds be our audience
Let the mountains cheer us on

let’s swim
in the pools of our eyes
Let me float in your azure
Let you splash in my hazel

let’s go
and adventure awhile
Let us conquer the world
Let us live life together

your
silence
silence
silence
would’ve crept me
out of my normal,

wasn’t it for my
patience
patience
patience
that kept me inside

my bubble
of hope, freedom,
brotherly love,
and happiness

in life.

if you are
my treasure, I’ll find you in
a breath of sky
a taste of sun
a splash of rainbow
a drop of moon
a cup of fog

I’ll find you, between
the daisies of spring
the laughter of stars
the whispers of wind
the morning’s gold and
the even’s silver

I’ll find you.
Because where
my heart is, will you be

you ask me
How did you get your sister to be so
deep-eyed, out-smarting, alone-
in-the-world, high-demanding, queen’s neck
You wonder how

I helped her become
a feeling heart, a keeper-upper;
a give-you-upper when
you hurt her. A think-it-over,
space-keeper, knows-your-
thoughtser, love-me-harder-
or-not-at-all.


I wonder how
I didn’t **** her.
I wonder how she
kept her head up,
didn’t **** me.
Because
to create a harder, healed heart
you must break it first.

there’s a twinkle
little star
Will my footsteps lead me there?
The world’s spread out before
today,
colourful carpet under
my feet, my say.
I am
the queen of my road,
I choose
the paths I wander...

little star,
twinkle more
I put my young hands
in that light of yours
Sing to me
the map of Life
Show me the trail
I will to live.

- RW. All rights reserved.

When I close my book,
do the characters get trapped
in time or pages?

As I was soaking in the morning gold
the wind wandered through my hair
stroking my locks
embracing my being
“He’s dreaming of you,”
she said to me, “Misses his sweetheart,”
she smiled
And before I could question or red cheeks
she left,
glancing once over her shoulder in greeting

Why is he leaving
to try obtain beatitude
when I, his Angel, am
left behind
Where has he
gone
to find fortune
when I, his Treasure, am
still
here
Is he
and everything he was
just a memory
or has it never been?

The Pint of a Groggy Moat


“If writers wrote as carelessly as some people talk, then adhasdh asdglaseuyt[bn[ pasdlgkhasdfasdf.”
― Lemony Snicket


There are 2 mornings of types
How I wake up:
1, the glorious morning seeps in my being and
fills me with light for the day.
2, the mornious gloring beeps in my ceiling and
tilts me with fight for delay.

This morning was the second type.

There are a lot of Others out there
trying to make Their voice heard in this world
Trying to let people know Their (shared) sorrows
Trying to tell Their stories,
fact and fiction
about friendship & opposition
loss & gain
hurt & healing
through weakness and pain
to courageous and strong
Trying to.

My voice is just Another
voice amongst so many Others
just like me
Trying to stand out
in a crowd of voices
just as important
needed
as me.
Just as unique and special and
needy of a listening ear
as me.

Will I not? open
my heart to all the Others and
be the listen and care
they need to try on
While my own is
left on its own
strength that
I need to stay strong
for the Others

It will struggle…

… but survive
with the glow that
loving Others brings
Healing
the broken
supporting
the weak
encouraging
the little
igniting
the strong.

It will glow and grow
stronger
For I want to
and will.

The voice of
my angel is carried from me
far
away to the sand, sun, sea.
As I gaze at the waters
his eyes are no more
there, his smile cannot be
sensed over the waters
no more.

Who taught the sea to sing?
called the clouds to dance?
Who let the wind wander around?
made the mountains to stand?

Creation’s beauty
has me perplexed
yet I’m not surprised;
not asking why or who
for I know it was You.

she lifted her head to her friend...

Greeting her
with a kiss
in his breeze and
a smile
in his clouds, they set off on an adventure
in each other’s eyes.

Before you left me
I knew what I was feeling
when I was feeling it
and how to heal
myself
But when you left me...

Now you’ve left me,
my fingertips
have lost their touch,
my soul lost all its
spice and crunch.
Please,
ignite the fire
to warm my heart;
the need is dire -
it’s growing dark.

Let it go.
The headache, the surge of pain-
free medicine through your veins,
Let it go.

Float in the air
fighting your ghosts in a night-
mare of clouded screams and whips
and lashes of
peace

peace

peace.


Sleep at last.

I

On the wings of the Wind
I ride
my hair wavering behind me


II

The Wind swoops down
curious of my song
It is like the birds’
but unlike theirs
has words


III

Ink on paper
paper up ink
Words on wings
wings on the wind
carrying my words,
higher
farther
away to their destiny
unknown to me


IV

I am a stranger among the trees
a newcomer
invader
but the wings of the Wind
take me through the rows of conifer bark
Soon the ancients of Green
shall see me as a kindred spirit acquaint


V

White wings
wide wings
strong wings
of freedom
White wings
silver wings
silver rings
your whicker
Fly me,
fly me far
******* stars away
wings
roam the winds
ride the winds
the wild winds of freedom

I

If dawn were a human
and walked over the earth
every morning
guiding the blanket of day in its path,
would he
one day
decide on a wrong turn and
walk through my street
by my window
and peep through to see if I’m there?


II

If dawn were a knocker-upper
and I his client;
in the morning
would he summon the sun
to rise over me
and rouse me from my sleep?
And
when I open the window for him
nod in contentment before turning
away with a starling smile
to set forth on his mission?


III

If dawn were a breeze
and my bedroom window open,
would he
if I’m still sleeping
sweep through my little space
with swift morning freshness
stroke my cheek with a cool
gentle finger
and leave again after putting
a golden kiss
on my forehead?


IV

If dawn were an artist
and the air
his canvas,
would he colour the skies
with his brush
to paint me
a picture of the passion he has
for me?
Or shape the clouds
tenderly
with his fingers,
each one
to resemble them to a drop
of the ardency he possesses
for me?


V

If dawn were a little bird
and I his human friend;
each morning,
would he perch at my Western window
to sing me awake,
chirping
tweeting
his sweetest notes
in a love song he wrote
for me?

How great and beautiful he is…

When I stare deep into his bright blue
eyes, the world -and I in it- become
like mites: puny, unimportant, tiny matters.
His mighty bearing and profoundness
are the only things that count,
until I wake and find
myself lost in wonder.

there’s a twinkle
little star
Will my footsteps lead me there?
The world’s spread out before
today
colourful carpet under
my feet, my say.
I am
the queen of my road,
I choose
the paths I wander...

little star,
twinkle more
I put my young hands
in that light of yours
Sing to me
the map of Life
Show me the trail
I will to live.

i watched you walk by
the fog on this window
nose on the floor
eyes there too yet
somewhere long ago.

i watched your leather
jacket-back heave as if
holding up a box of lead
but your arms were empty
save for a twitch now, then.

i watched you blend in
with the waves of people
like a squeeze of paint
(or drop of ink)
dissolving in a glass of water.

you biting your cheek till it rips,
your fingers pushing back the skin
on your nails - it stay(n)ed with me
as this smell of ground coffee does.
you are cracking, bit by bit.

... and i am left to wonder
how long till you shatter?
who will catch you when you fall?

I.
Munching on a bowl
of leftover coleslaw;
My jaws feel like they're chewing
12 gumballs all at once.
The slaw from my mouth keeps falling
back to the bowl;
The serving spoon's (heaped)
too large for my mouth.

II.
It's too white to be green and
too orange to be purple,
But (for my tummy)
this bowl of coleslaw
is more yummy than bread.

III.
It feels good to feel good,
good to be healthy.
My food tastes of words
and this poem is crunchy.

Magic Flowers

There's a bug in the house
and a big one too;
has our tummies curl up
and us running to the loo.

I wish I had flowers -
magic ones of course -
then I'd brew us a tea
that'd shoot the bug out the door.

I read so much of herbs
that can heal anything;
flu, pox, diarrhoea,
broken spine, lost limb...

But they grow in deep woods
where sunrays don't touch the floor,
and the books don't speak of maps
or if they exist (anymore).

So till the enchanted woods are found
I'll stay safe at home,
and drink rooibos tea with plenty o' honey
and write another poem.

When the blue ink of the sky
drips into the salt of the sea,
drink of it.
Drink of it like tea.

When your cup is filled with ink - pen
blanket, journal, tea...
spill of it.
Spill your words on this white sea.

When ink pencils speak with colour,
drawing walls inside you & me,
Let's speak of it.
Let our words flow set us free.

When the black blots of ink
write moving letters in your heart,
sink in it.
Sink in the waters of your thought.

When the Vast Cloud of Ink
glows from the depth of your eyes;
I’ll know you drank of it.
You drank the stars into your skies.

I
must
just
trust

Why
doesn't it move?
It seems too
burdened
with all the heav-
y metals
it carries inside
of him.
Poison.

I think
it's got me too.

Fear for the Unknown

  "The only thing we have to fear is
                                     fear itself."



Fish in a pail swim
Anxious circles & they can't see
The waddling bird yet.

Frailty of Life

How quickly is your warm
muscled arm carrying
everything you care for
and caressing my heart
broken.

Never say
anything
you might
regret


it
Means
only speak
words
that have survived 3 days'
chewing,
churning,
turning
in thought.

Dear Sleep,

I haven't seen you since
that night in September.
(when I started to slip away.)

The twinkling lights at midnight
remind me of the good
times we've had
together, before I became
their acquaintance.

At first I didn't miss you.
I was a (wounded) bird
broken free
from its cage,
ascending in wild flight
to the clouds.

Now I'm in the clouds,
and it's misty and
I can't see.
I am starting to see

I am lost
without you. I'm lonely.
I have nobody to keep me company
at night.

And I just want to say
I'm sorry.

I will give up _ .
I will grow my feathers back.
I promise.

Please, come back...?

Yours
missing you,

                                me.

All these smiles
(that could be) -
cutting out cookie dough,
ripping up gift wrap,
snow crunching under boots,
fume of warm coffee grounds,
tender touch of the lips
-

lay (spilt) at my feet;
like the blue ocean
mist flowing on
at the cold feet of the moonwake;
like the eggshells & yolk &
white staring
at the feet of a shell-shocked child.

We Are The Builders


Our most important projects
Are those we never finish:
We will always be building
friendships.

Sandwich by sandwich.