To whatever we commit, may they die in darkness;
So deep and too black for heaven's eye to ever find us.

To the sound of our guilt, may we bury it in the ground,
or to be flung into space, where it will not make a sound.
And the minds of the curious, may they never take chase,
to preserve a hero's honesty: A life without a face.

"And all this plight in the name of family?"
What else could more earn a savage's loyalty?

The perfect thing to make us into beasts,
guided alone by the thirst to eat,
but in us, a hunger to ever make right
all things we see wrong that hides in the light.

While we hold in the darkness, waiting for their call,
to forsaken our soul, lest we watch them all fall.

I do not want
your blazing orange sunset
or the jewels of false words
to wear as a noose
around my neck
These are not treasures
Instead give me
your darkness
Open the door of pain's palm
and let me enter
For I come bearing gifts,
not tricks
press poultices that sting
then soothe
Words of gentle spikes
that slowly release and remove
those tensions,
that years of bitter
have imprinted upon the rock
of your heart
Your heart, so alive
beats steady under stone
and I pour
hot potions
that melt to the bone
This magick will cure
all of the built-up crust
of falsity's allure
and what we thought was redemption….
For all along we were loved
and just did not know it
After you are empty
and spent, sprawled upon the ground
the remnants of your pain
poured out upon the floor
like gasoline waiting to be lit
only then will I be able
to caress you tenderly
help you replenish and rebuild
place a ripe, moist date
stuffed with almond
into your kiss
and you will be able to
taste it
to the fullest volume
and appreciate
its
sweetness

I wrote a story about April , she thanked me with a
yellow butterfly trimmed in black .. A Catawba worm
busy spinning webs , determined seedlings adrift just above the tall green grass .. I should write a poem for June at the beginning of May , of fanciful
flowers and fluffy chicks , homemade vanilla ice cream with cinnamon sticks . Blue candy sky with a marshmallow cloud , a laughing frog ,
a summer day of boating on a faraway pond ..

Eyes wide open,
mind tightly shut,
we play victims to the postman
slotting news and letters
where little light filters through,
only as he sees fit.

Grotesque, gross manufacturers
spewing out page after page after page
of page three scandals -
of rich brats waxing lyrical,
American hip-hop DUIs,
fat cats cat-fighting.

Media
breast-feeds her gullible men
and milks the misfortunes.

We are part of the orchestra -
synchronised puppets looking to our
Master
to tell us
how
to read the notes.

Outside
there are flimsy flyers
advertising freedom
that have morphed into paper-planes,
but are impenetrable of ignorant masses,
flitting around the heads of the blind -
like cartoon characters after
being beaten up by
fists.

It is injustice.
Peel the scales from your eyes
and open the flood-gates, let forth the criticism!

Ask why an American singer's ten minute jail sentence
is more important than an Afghan girl's sentencing to be gang-*****.
Ask who the ten percent of the South African population are that receive sixty percent of our gross national income and how to alter that socio-economic gap.
Ask what is to become of learners who pass with thirty percent and if that is even possible when books aren't being delivered to schools.
Ask where one can find manifestos instead of accusations from each political party.

Do not let them dictate
your truths as
CAPITALISED LETTERS
with no urgency.
Do not let them confine
your insight to the ink on a page.

We are worth more than glossy sensationalism.
We are worthy of urgent honesty, transparency and enlightenment -
herein lies true freedom.

The liberation of the mind.
The uncoiling fist of a freedom fighter revealing the truth held within.

Amandla awethu.

You big bonehead.

Verily we are suspended
to one another invisibly threaded
gold spun, finely woven
we breathe the air of summer
silken petaled, softly subtle
through these woods treading sun dappled
we come to rest, in a rosy heaven
lose the world of whirling much too fast
to gain the moment, lose the future and the past.

There’s something about campfire;
The scent of wood burning
And smoke rising higher…

I close my eyes.

I blink open and I’m back
With our ancestors of hunters
And dwellers of caves,
Sitting by the flames,

Watching the fire cast
Shadows upon stone.
Mixing water and mud
With an old, cracked bone
In a futile attempt to
Capture on cave walls
The fearsome beauty
Of the blaze that could
Consume us all.

I close my eyes.

Squint open to find myself
In the Rockies on a full moon night
In a circle ‘round a fire, with drums
Pounding and voices raised
In a chorus with the wolves,
Howling praises to the Mother
Of the good, green Earth.

The Elder Chief takes the peace pipe
Inhales the harsh tobacco
And passes it around.

Exhaling smoke, he begins
To recount stories and folklore
Of wise turtles and great Eagles
And earth spirits come and gone.
The young listen to the wise;
Imaginations taking flight
The fire dances in their eyes,
Wide and shining in delight.

I close my eyes.

In the early hours of the morning
When everyone is sleeping sound,
And the blaze, no longer burning,
Is reduced to embers on the ground,

I open my eyes.

Thin wisps of smoke still rise;
Ethereal fingers reaching high,
But disappear in wistful sighs
Before reaching the dawning sky.

I smell the scent of campfire
And something primal stirs;
I am the stoic hunter
From days of caves and furs.

I am a Native in the snowy mountains
Beneath a sky full of stars by the thousands.
And in the silence of the night,
A crackling fire burns in the woods
And under the swirl of the Northern Lights,
You’ll hear me howling with the wolves.

and the moon wraps me in its dust
a cold dust that freezes my sore skin
as the stars twinkle in a warm vigil
over my yearning body ablaze with
the fire of quests still to be satisfied
together the moon and the stars brew
a romance in bloom like wild flowers
starring the open fields with colour
the old moon weeps cheerless songs
    melodies never before heard
by untutored human ears
or played by arthritic fingers
in search of a miraculous cure
as acidic woes from dim pasts and distances **** nascent dreams
stranger than the quirkiest fictional tales
is the story of cold moons in tropical skies
nevertheless i shall lean forever towards that dream
whose promise is a pale shadow of reality