talking in lines

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

mindless blunders

lessons of regret

deliberate future

selective action

accomplished success

another mis(s)take

another miss

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

condensed imagining

add tears and soul

OD daily

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


noir intense


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?

Longshadow serenade

Long shadow


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.

Far away

Far away

Dormant 4×4 vehicles of all shapes, sizes and descriptions rumble into action, get all packed up and disappear for weeks into the African yonder, somewhere far out. In distant places we sit around campfires sipping Shiraz and Famous Grouse while listening to lions roar, hyenas laugh, elephant trumpet, hippo’s snort, leopards bark and baboon’s wa-hu.
Shiraz and Famous Grouse

Shiraz and Famous Grouse

Idol of any cat

Idol of any cat

We heard him roar all night and finally tracked him down early in the morning. He had killed a baby elephant at night.

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.

Old kettle, fresh coffee

Old kettle, fresh coffee

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.
Leonotis leonurus

Sunbird’s heaven, Leonotis leonurus

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!

Greater Double-collared Sunbird

Coffee naked in the MilkyWay

 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.

barking dogs & strong coffee

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.