Sunday, 24 April 2016


                                      “They are brave. I can feel the integrity in them. 
                                        There are many I like”.  
                                                                                   Kobus Moolman


                            Some poems have been published by Botsotso, Itch
and New Coin.

Exitus, 2015  

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means,
including photocopying, without prior permission in
writing from the copyright owner!


The old king died
Some kind of dream
Water and blood
A day
The road to mouth is closed
Last room
His hands fall asleep
‘Time continues’
He goes
His creator
Around the corner
Rowing across
Grandpa was a miner
Black shape
Time has succeeded
Ageing, dust on my nails
Watching the truth unfold
God as a witness


Twilight in an overcoat.
Now it’s waiting
for the rainbow.
Or darkness
following darkness.

We never depart alone.
Many fly up
to the skies at
the same time
never really revealing,
meeting intense
like on earth.

               The old king died 

The old king died.
His colours changed.
Colours of another place.
Flag with its own throne.
A man on a planet of ashes.

The clock on the wall consumed him.
My watch breathing,
the world spinning thinking eating.

Heavy dark velvet
put around my shoulders.
This heavy nakedness.
Wild river unconquered.

                               Some kind of dream

I just wish
I could put my hands
on your hands

become fanatic and
not starve in handkerchiefs
doomed to disappear.

The flowers in my garden
lost their willpower to speak.
They appear and disappear
in an awful rotten way like
my hands on your hands.

              Water and blood  

I measure your hands and your face
as if they would change after death.

I see the colour of your face change
from pale to a shade of yellow
melting all around.
No resurrection.

The underworld
in this room of nurses, secret orchids.
Medication to end your circle of light,
inviting the words you cannot speak.

Your silence, words of granite.
I cry like a birth.

Your last movements are carved in stone.
The nurses’ razor removed the first layer.

They slowly stripped you of summer.
Buried your name on a piece of paper.

I have seen all this, blind, crushed.
Where is the water and the blood?

It is between my fingers, veins and sweat.
And you see all secrets like a dandelion.

                            A Day

Sometimes I feel as if I am a table
or a pair of shoes.

I could be a wall
or a Christmas tree.

I could be everything.
An animal.

A tired horse.
An old curtain full of dreams.

My metal is melting.
I’ve been bitten. Asleep.

Sadness can be burning like a tree,
cursing, sweating.

Talk to me.
We have each other.

The road to mouth is closed

The road to mouth is closed.  
His travels were a success.
But now the flowers grow on
concrete, down, teeth locking.
Creation has flies to give.

My father had a wife,
a world in her eyes,
a ship blossoming at the bridge.
All her love called contradictions.

Last Room  

I am in your last room,
marsh a bit of delay.

The road to the distance
imagine half a chair
half a bed.

The need to speak, seeds
not enough, a flood.

This circus broke words,
grandma, wagons, hearse.

Remembrances have died.
Nothing. The power of
your lips gone. The dead
don’t return from their summit.


The neighbourhood is a petal.
Courage has shrunken.
It has become a wound and smoke.

I can give the wound any shape.
Joy is too delicate to be used.
I brought it to your hands and feet.

He took it with him in his face,
the yellows and greens.
The sinking of two hearts.

                             His hands fall asleep  

His brittle hands fall asleep.
He’s at the speechless door
shining dying animals,
breathing a cliff.

His wing skin says goodbye,
his feeble light.
I am there.
You are so silent.
So sleepless.

The morphine takes you away.
Your eyes dry.
Your long sigh.
You have not enough brain
to put feathers in my hands.

Mysterious water
crossing the river, distinguished,
your flesh never, as if ever.

              Time continues.  
Strange smile
trapped disappears.

Mercy a spoon falling
from a table.
Mercy me being alive.

                            He goes

He goes  
out of his bones
longing for sun.

But his last sigh
will rest
behind the sun.

Your shadow
will ooze forever
out of my skin,

drops leaning heavily
on my shoulders.


In the still of dark
loves seems far away
the sun still a baby
puzzled by darkness
crying at each sign of life.

His Creator  

Was still creative
and locked His truth
as I closed his eyes
on their way to a garden
with thorns,
no flesh boundless.

Now I wear my words.
Blow my nose in them.
Do you want to see?
Read it as if tea leaves?
It is part of how a life
is made, create.

There is nothing else
to feel to see, arguments
grown up.


In mourning with a begging bowl
to retain the warm moments and love.

I brood all day backwards
feeling his voice so strongly before the dark.

Gleaming silence like snow asks for footprints
for childhood the way back.

But flames have stopped a singing bird
and the moon is a factory. Isn’t it?

Around the corner

It was late.
He told me:
‘The scythe is just around the corner’.

In the midst of his flight lightening hit.
His last attempt to say a word a frustration.

He knew this day would bring no salvation.
Sleet would take him covering our windows.
Trees would be trees and make us feel lonely,

abandoned by slumbering death.
Roaring like the wind in a sail.


Is there death in Christ?
Is there a tunnel or is it an alley?
Gloomy motions in space.

When we are rescued from the waters of birth
we begin to polish the slimy silver coins.
We cut down trees for boxes to lie in,

to let love die a little bit more.
We hack from underneath until we
hack our own feet and fall to the ground,

the sound of music repeating.


There you lie. Your pyramid not yet ready.
The expression on your face seeing it all

or nothing at all, dark landscape full of errors.
Languages opened by a door of sand, snakes

dying to find the answer to a question which
we don’t know. Teeth see more than flesh.

Working class trance.  You will be recognised
as your body sails the seas, a dolphin cutting

through waves, into the dark pattern of life
with hands of paper and ink.

Rowing across  

I won’t starve, nor will I comprehend
the scattering of those suffocated
in a frozen hole, black paint.

Every hour the soil opens and swallows.
One gulp and we drop our pens brushes
crossing the lake with the beautiful rocks on

the other side, without shadows nor
a trace of silence or sound, except
when we cry on someone’s shoulder.


The shore is like a razor.
It is large and as sharp as ice in space.

Are we going back to being primitive?
Are our bodies going to be gentle

and as blue as a heart beat?
We will find all this blindfolded,

the colour of stars at night
so human as a slow kiss dying.

Grandpa was a miner  

It is evening. People crawl home
to their cages, fires.

Back to the motionless photo’s
on the wall, a broken fob watch.

The power of images live on and on
making a picture of steel the dog begging

for food. The fumes from the chimneys,
heartbeats from the coal dust lungs.

Black shape  

You disappear into the forest.
It is getting dark.
You slowly move forward.
I stay behind.

You become like a toy.
You are no longer there to say yes or no.
Tell me what to do.
I shut your eyes, they open again.
I keep them closed for a while.

It begins to rain in the forest.
An owl flies past us, its silence given away
by the black shape between the trees.

Time has succeeded  

Time has succeeded
as it has since the first breath,
the twelve footsteps we receive
when conceived.

We stretch time with blood and books,
war crime and art
but sleep through the invisible door
as the crows polish their gloves.


The vultures can be seen
from the bedroom window
circling looking through their
binocular eyes.

As they land on his last breath
their nails get a grip,
tainted by the yellow stream
of his lifeless face.

Ageing, dust on my nails

The sun seems attached
to the calendar now.
A string to a balloon.
It flies around leaving us
alone in the snow.

The flowers grass in a coma
surviving after death in a field;
we meet again from
a murmur to
the forests of the world

us its crew and undertaker
slow death since its birth
leaving tracks
deserts visible from space.


Watching the truth unfold

Watching the truth unfold is cruel.
There is no cushion to catch the blows.

There are no dreams in a sinking bottle
or clouds of tales in the joker’s joints.

Where is the mother or father saying
it is enough, stop the punishment?

There are no rules in a book stating
truth is forbidden, a steel claw slowly

entering the tired skin surrendering
wave after wave waking, no sleep,

eyes open, ears hearing. Cruelty is
in my fingers as long as I live.

God as a witness

He sees how
children die
thousands a day
while there is enough
love and food
for everyone
on this planet
we call ours.

What will we say to Him

one day?