Dawn

This morning
as I opened my eyes
your back wasn't facing me
Instead
your face and hands were locked
in an embrace towards me
Your breathing was
rythmically arousing  my senses
as skin kissed skin

Breathing gently in my ear
I fell
into your awakening body;

gracefully growing into
day

Courtesan

The reflection shows
She smoothes
her stockings higher,
runs her fingers
up her legs,
laces her skin with black.
Intimate assurance
clothes her
silent intent

One last glimpse
at the soul in her mirror:
she softens the eyes
to hide a heart.
She knows just when to run
a single finger down
the lines of another mouth,
when to catch her breath
and meet other eyes

But time returns reality
Maybe her mother was right:
maybe she is just a lowly slut.
She unlocks the door
into her solitude,
tear underwear from skin,
free the reflection from her heart
in his memory
where her soul found her mate.
An unfinished teardrop stops midway

My first poem ever written (Edited version)

DOOD

Daar le jy nou
weerloos tentoongestel
vir alle vretende oe om te verteer,
soos spons vir oulaas op te slurp.
Op ysige, blink, kliniese staal.
Hard - onpersoonlik - passieloos -
onnatuurlik - onvanpas.
en Jou oe?
Soos 'n swaar deur
finaal geslote, gegrendel, gebalk
herinnering van sagte oe deurboor
met wrede sny
jou kop verpulp,
vol donker krummelbloed.
Jou mond pynlik koud
lippe glad, krampagtig teen mekaar, verniel
Mag ek hul nog een maal depper met my mond?
Jou warm hande skerp vasgegespe oor jou liefdesbors
nou leweloos en doods.
jou kop steeds stukkend en vol verkeerde bloed.
opgeswel, onnatuurlik opgepof
asof vreemde vog my ver van jou liefdesbloed verstoot.

Dis nie jy nie, Pa!
nie jou siel, nie jou hartstog,
net jou dooie liggaam
wat eens in liefde my verwek het-
wat Ek liefgehad het.
(jou bloederige kop vermorsel - dis die verkeerde bloed, Here!)

Ek stap steeds deur die strate
met verstarde oe

en wag vir die droom om op te hou

Road Blog

A journey on the road to nowhere recently produced these images…

M & A’s tranquility: In here the sounds seem louder. And different though distant. Geese wake you. Trees surround and shake you bare. It’s as if the world holds this space in a stance, as seconds tick lower and slower. Everything is in its proper place even if it is not in place. The lonely pear completes the daily changing picture. Clock ticking a peaceful rhythm, while dogs and far-far-away traffic hum a rhythmic life out there somewhere.

But in here…life is different. Food flavours touch you from a distant Asian hill. The homegrown Chamomile caresses dreams sip by sip as you slowly, gently fall asleep. The silent sound calms, soothes, invokes inspiration. I stand, no sit, in awe.

Morning routine brings the same need to sneeze. Same urge to yawn. Same morning crispness cools your bones and make you yearn for bed again. The oats smell the same. The coffee is also instant. They also vacuum, also brush their teeth, dress in jeans and rush off to work.

But there is one border-defining image: It’s DIFFERENT.

And I thought Elgin was apples… Beautiful winemaker and wife team, Joris van Almenkerk, is a crisp surprise to bored Sauvignon Blanc sense, with a reductive wine making process which calls for intensive care and love. Their feminine statue shouts freedom as it reflects in a trio of sunlight, water and soil; calling open-armed for admiration. The valley is quiet. Peaceful, with a choir of birds, bees, frogs and rivers which charm through senses to the core. The road is dusty, yet fresh, the air is new and crisp.

Around here, life is a slow process of nurturing minute detail into a palate of ecstasy. Old Mac Daddy’s surprises with old world charm infused with modern-day fantasy. The smell of fresh timber and pine needles envelops senses in charming visions of yesteryear. Childhood memories return of dreams and kisses under pine trees, the soft fragrant bed of nature’s needles. The wind’s whistle through treetops; clouds passing overhead, to awaken the ever present movement of time and reality.

Back to Mac Daddy’s:- I will most definitely return!

There is so much more to write about Greyton, but just a quick image: an older, beautifully manicured and made-up-for-no-one English lady stops to tell me how she has to divide her daily activities between reading and television since her eyes won’t tolerate too much reading; and her senses are being smoothed by love and romance as she watches TV!

With so many roads leading to Greyton, will one ever find peace here?

Somewhere among the stars some angels are watching over me today…

Dassiesfontein, waar selfs die donkies gelukkig en tevrede lyk en ek alles vind wat in my verlede met soveel passie uit my garage gesmyt is. Ek eet groot, dik, warm snye tuisgebakte bruinbrood met eie konfyt bedien op ‘n wit getjipte blikbord. Die moerkoffie ruik soos toeka en smaak soos nou: vol verrassings wat giggelend ronddans deur my wese.

Suurbraak begin met ‘n begrafplaas . En baie deure. Betjie hou van fotos by haar oop deur en glimlag sonder ophou vir my kamera se klik. Ek stop by elke deur en sukkel om te besluit waar is die grootste kunswerk.

The more I venture into the Karoo, the more I know that only Afrikaans will do.

Ja, die ’53 Tretchikoff hang in Barrydale en die skuur-gemaakte-huis ruik na vuur, soos stroois, maar my sop is wholesome. Die wyn is goed en so is my gemoed. Dis soos om in die Fifties terug te stap en Ouma se kombuis met moderne (dis so lelike woord…) gemak te geniet. Die stofie stowe en gesels in knetter-klanke met my denk-patrone-drome.

‘n Bord teen die muur  vertel my dat Rhodesie, Oos-Transvaal en Warmbad in die rigting van Kaapstad mik. Medusa skree my by die agterdeur uit na die badkamer om ‘n draai te loop wat oombliklik vries. En buite? Dis stil. Dis doodstil en die rose geur tussen wingerde wat stadig rus as voorbereiding vir die groei van lente. O ja, en I.D. du Plessis stry teen die muur:  “die stryd is soet…”

Nog nooit vantevore wou ek die seer so uit my keel gooi tot binne in skerwe glas wat teen my hopelose toekoms spat. Dis seker hoekom Barrydale moes suffer. Ek sal met nuwe ingesteldheid weer besoek…’n ander dag.

Barrydale is overrated of erens mis ek dit al is my oe wawyd oop. Dis nie stil – dis dood. Dis stowwerig en die vrouens sit en skinner uit verveling van ander se Swellendam love-affairs. Aktiwiteite sentreer rondom die drankwinkel, met rede… Die dorp bestaan uit wannabees en uitgeworpenes van die samelewing wat kom ry op die magic van Route 62. Die kos is olierig en net te swaar vir vandag se gestel.

Die kleurling gemeenskap, so gepas weggesteek agter die bult het seker die mees geloofwaardige, tandelose vertellings, maar helaas: niemand vra hulle.  Jan lei vir Bessie, wat groot-oog dink sy is die skoonheid met die langste wimpers in die wereld, geduldig terug huis toe aan ‘n tou. Hy trek sy maer rug trots regop vir die kiekie, Bessie knip die wimpers en my honger maag moet die gesprek kortknip.  My tuisgemaakte gort-sop is vanaand die hoogtepunt van my dag.

Tot ander dag se ander-oe besoek verlaat ek Barrydale om ‘n Buddhistiese vrede te ervaar tien kilometer daarvandaan. ‘n Oomblik van Déjà-Vu: die oomblik is te groot, die dinkruimte te ver, die kalmte te kontras met my kop, die stilte te skreeuend op my verlange. Ek is alleen met Natuur en Zen, Tibettaanse prayer flags. Buddha wat staar in tevrede meditasie oor water, wolk en berg in die verte. Ek laat ‘n klip langs hom, te bang om die equilibrium te versteur. Asem diep  en laat dit gaan. Vind harmonie.

Dis nou te seer: everything is hanging in midair. The tender touch of a hand slowly reading a palm with silent intensity, tracing a trail of hope, turns tragedy to tears. Only to find a dead end.