time that was
puffs of memory
maze of bewildered yesterdays
mistory, — misty, the color of yore
meaning beyond time
meaning as flavor, essence and wine
the touch of love
your look, my sun
rain in the morning
sweat on the sheets
stained is my heart
– but unfazed its beat
parched for life
defining the now
well-nigh a clone
human raindrop or sand grain
from laughter to reason
– a return ticket for life’s season
a packed of rays
instructions in smoke
stuck in the ancestral harbour
– with other anchored souls
imbibing with Nodding Lost & Co, not for rescue,
– but clueless suggestions where not to go
confirmation of mistakes
misses to missus and miss again
lessons of regret
missing, — spot on
regardless, you’re born to be great
align your want with who you are
want not what you are not
come home to yourself
– and find your place taken
dream sans the ego
a collarless pet
yo-yo in freedom
your leash of fate is unlikely to snap
too strong coffee
cream on my thoughts
foam through my pen
sweet words to read
stretching my reach
life in a pill
add tears and soul
try not to die and grow
dilute your ideas and you’ll miss them
deny them not and they could manifest
between forgetting and trying is life
live for no thing but you
another line Snow White?
another dream with you
go not for long
life could end tonight
Lots of wine
Visions in smoke
Search for the fire
Burn me, sear me
Spend me to ashes
Your scent in my fabric
Coffee cup of life
Bitterness hidden in darkness
Revelation at the finish
Rinse me with love
struggle with the night sleep deprived i surmise i will survive but can't jump off this ride hour one past midnight! darkness has turned fake bright second-hand sunlight reflecting institution white flicker-less heavenly neon light leaves play melody trees sway in ecstasy roots feed from soil’s elegy a breeze cools summer's energy life rehearsing in full parody head brimming with rhapsody a jumblesale of mind things confusion brings fresh dew drops offering therapy hour two begs for clemency now imprisoned helplessly by thoughts in hostile territory and sarcastic answers by the enemy the third hour serves a penalty street light loneliness irrupts delusional hopefulness wakes up escape routes barred firmly shut hour four resigns a condition called the borderline insanity: the sanctity of tragedy drowsed but not fine resurrection by the fifth! appearing in strict order: you, coffee, sunlight end-of-torture what was I struggling with?
You’re never alone. Not in the winter season. There’s always a shadow around.
Sunrise is two hours later and sunset is two hours earlier. It doesn’t sound like much but it’s four hours less sunshine a day or four hours more no-sunshine. Whichever way you prefer.
Far more obvious to me though is the path of the sun through the sky, and you can call me a liar, but I’m not far off when I say that it sets in the north and not in the west.
It rises dead-on in the east, shines into my kitchen, skips the centre of the zenith above entirely, and heads straight for the north. In that process the shadows get no break, being stretched to the limit from dawn to dusk, and then they work overtime deep into the night because the lights are switched on early.
For me, there is something incredibly magical about winter here in South Africa. I mean hey, you can run around barefoot, in shorts and t-shirt most of the time and get a tan and hardly work up a sweat. You can make a lunch time braai and relax because the next thunderstorm is still three months away. And no, a braai is not a barbeque! That is some American grill-thingy using gas, burgers, and sausages. We use wood from our gardens to make a fire and then braai on the coals and the carnivores here eat real meat like beef and not that refined supermarket mash of dubious origin.
It’s the best time of year to see the animals in the bush because the grass has stopped growing and the foliage thins out and everyone enjoys the sunshine.
It’s the safari season.
The ancient dust of Africa is like an aphrodisiac to the soul and winter is the druggiest time. The mornings might touch freezing and early afternoons can reach +30C (+86F). Such are the extremes that await and bewitch the courageous adventurer.
Another log on the smoldering coals, an old kettle boiling the coffee and puffing away, woodsmoke, and coffee smell, you’ve come to the right address.
Unbelievably so the Lion’s Tail or Wild Dagga as it is also called here, Dagga being the local name for Marijuana, is a huge attraction for the most magnificent, colorful Sunbirds.Obviously, the flowers are intoxicating because the Sunbirds will visit every day and don’t mind that I sit a mere two meters away and watch and wonder if there is more than just a sugar attraction. But the Wild Dagga has very little if any THC and therefore is legal in most countries.
Winter in these parts of Africa is just summer in another way. It is a Longshadow serenade. Even some of the roses bloom and bees buzz around. While some deciduous trees leaf and the grass might go brown in patches from the morning frost, the sky is a bright, light blue and the clear nights bring infinity onto my doorstep. Did I hear paradise? At least until the next cold front.
South Africa what a beautiful home!
Midnight. Respite from the heat. Coffee, with milk. No sugar. Life is sweet. Naked, sitting in the MilkyWay. Does Sirius care, or Castor wonder or Betelgeuse blush?
It must be an accepted fact then. Coffee, naked, in the MilkyWay.
I realise I am not round. I am odd. All the big things are round. I am small. I do think. I think so. Do they? Are big thoughts round? Going round and round.
Dogs bark at night. They know the MilkyWay. There must be other dogs up there. Why else would they bark? Even on cloudy nights they bark. Prove me wrong. Ask your dog.
Three times I saw the wand of light. Meteors that burnt bright. I soaked my rusk. I bent my head. I bent my fingers. I caught it just before it fell apart. I have to bend. My thoughts bend too. Where does bending go? It comes back to you.
Between one star and another there is lots of space to cover. Even to Jupiter and Mars. The grass is wet. I am entranced by all the stars. Am I just a visitor from somewhere far? Naked on a chair in the MilkyWay. Drinking coffee at midnight. Magic, I say.
The whole sky had moved. It was the deep of the night. The chair was now empty. The stars were still bright. I went searching for you. Sometime after coffee at midnight. Naked, in the MilkyWay.
Neither should make an appearance late in the afternoon, evening or night, lest you plan to stay awake in which case one of them would suffice.
I don’t talk dog, at least not yet, and we certainly don’t seem to be on the same wavelength especially when my unmistakable communication misses its target with predictable inaccuracy. Imagine the aftermath if such communication would hit the target. It would however be nice if I could silence the noise just for myself. Tick the box of ‘no-neighbors-dog-bark’ in my lifes’ preferences. And I have, but there’s a bug in the software.
Strong coffee of course is my choice. Decaf is not, – never.
Then it all changes. The neighbours move. The new ones also have dogs but more evolved ones and coffee is now brewed in the mornings only.
Everything goes according to plan, – eventually.