Unseen

As I stand in my cage,

constrained by walls of dust,

unseen by the  masses.

I, sentinel unseen.

 

To you, I’m but an eagle on a perch,

scanning the horizon –

No thought unturned,

Nothing unseen.

 

To sit, solitary.

To stand, alone.

As time moves –

a silent tide.

 

I eat music

and spew art.

I drink oblivion

and birth poetry.

 

Long nights drip from my pen,

woven stars from silver thread.

Petals of blood, and love.

A solitary heartbeat.

 

I dance pain,

throwing beauty around.

I wear tears

and millstones, like pearls, around my neck.

 

I breathe the dust

of forgottenness,

an unseen pillar.

Guardian of thought, unseen.

 

I am the unseen.

My trails of art,

a veil slightly pierced.

Meagre witness of my being.

 

Tears are naught.

Only frustration remains.

Marks left on paper,

Still cry my silent tears.

 

 

 

 

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My life’s breath

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Slowly I make my way

across vast plains of stone.

I share the benefit of shelter

in palaces I do not own.

 

Slowly I weave my silver chain –

String-of-pearls for no one’s neck.

Glassy baubles, not to adorn.

Lacy cards within my deck.

 

Beauty is my spider’s craft.

It gives me life’s breath.

Perhaps, not to share therein,

I weave of love and death.

 

 

Graceful

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She glides across life,

maintaining the delicate dance.

Serenely, she goes through her paces,

but never showing her cards.

 

The tender thread holds,

never letting her stray far.

A life imprisoned,

sustaining her existence.

 

She dances across the ages,

her petals slowly unfurl.

Of porcelain and silk –

steel and ice unseen.

Om te dig/ To write Poetry

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(English version of poem at bottom of page)

Ek wil dig

van die dag

toe digtery

my gedagtes bevry het.

 

Ek dag ek kan dig,

elke gedagte vaspen,

maar daai een gedagte

sit vas in my pen.

 

Waar dan heen?

Wanneer dan?

Dis waar

wanneer die waarheid uitkom.

 

Soms bly ek staan.

Daar is sommiges, te dig om te verstaan

waaroor ek dig.

So, ek laat staan hulle maar.

 

So ‘n gejaag na wind

wat waai waar hy wil.

Hy waai my

na my wil.

 

Gister het ons nog gedink, gedog,

geweet, maar weer vergeet.

More sal ons weer probeer,

maar dan weet ons nie meer nie…

 

To Write Poetry

I want to write poetry

about the day

poetry

freed my thoughts

 

I thought I could compose,

pin down every thought,

but that one thought

is stuck in my pen.

 

Where to then?

When, then?

It’s true

when the truth comes out.

 

Sometimes I just stand.

There are some, too thick to understand

what I write about.

So, I just leave them standing.

 

All is just a chase after wind

that blows where it will.

It blows me

toward my will.

 

Yesterday we were thinking, we thought,

knew, but then forgot again.

Tomorrow we’ll try again,

but then we won’t know anymore…