It's a quiet afternoon Silence sings a tune Summer presses down with heat Far away the bustling city beat Resplendent green and lush the land Like a drawing from an artist's hand Tonight the light is called full moon Orange circle drifting in the sky Every star is faint and shy Waiting till the moon has set and on the grass the dew is wet A chance to twinkle one more time and send a message that might rhyme The rising sun brings their goodbye In the kitchen coffee brews the antidote for those who snooze The day in steps of hours walks but to the time in seconds talks Today the heat has lost the fight thunder, rumbles, lightning bright The clouds the moon refuse Obscured, the moonlight hides away Divergent thoughts like night and day No one knows what all is hidden but keeping secrets is forbidden Sealed is the book, only the title is exposed Unblock the code of fate with poetry and prose Dance on the words without delay Convert to action and to play Hear their sound and what they say Words are the mirror and the soul They tell the story as a whole Inside their heart the meaning waits Once opened up they flood the gates Dance on the words across the Milky Way
I don’t know what and when
It is all hidden in my pen
Memories of forgotten days
are mixed with fears
of future’s ways
And even if the sun shines bright
I might not realize that it’s light
The darkness just like fire spreads
The night is glowing cold, the black I dread
This is the story of my plight
A mind so bent a crumbled string looks straight
Nothing, clueless, lost, I wait
Sometimes my dreams dream that I elevate
another force inside then subjugates
I’m told my worries are man made
The coffee cold, unshaven, and the purse deplete
A worn old shirt that screams of ironing that it needs
A figure sculpted by the thoughts the mind conjures
and by all events that life endures
Continuously I seek and seek
In this reality the hundred meters that I see
must stretch out of necessity
beyond that mark towards my ecstasy
unless I cannot choose my destiny
But, how then could I be me
Why am I stuck as if I’m planted like a tree
Forever in one place, I cannot flee
When I was born what words were put into my crib
“Go sail the seas but finally we sink your ship”
In the clouds I want to be eternally
A told me that I should be B
C told me that I should be D
Eventually then when I was E
They screamed and said I must be G
I turned around and went to P
Flashed them a sign reversed the T
Now I’m the Cuban Susans Whoman He
Nothing, clueless, lost without a key
I am sinking in some sea
To the water I will eventually return
Humans decided that I needed to burn
So hot even my soul in smoke evaporates
Escaping from these dire straits
I will not be put behind some other gates
Spill me, let me take another turn
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!
Greater Double-collared Sunbird http://www.theflacks.co.za
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.