Features 20/02/2011 – Softly, gently

It’s foggy out there and all the sounds are muted, which led me to today’s theme.

Laurie’s beautiful image is all gentle and quiet. I love the colours and soft feel of it.

Be Still, My Heart by © Laurie Search

Be Still, My Heart by © Laurie Search

Here’s a little something we do well to remember now and again by Rishani.

A breath by © Rishani Sittampalam

Life is but a breath … a whisper in the wind
Here today and whisked away so suddenly.

I love the simplicity and colours of Peter’s lovely shot.

...seedling… by © peter holme III

...seedling… by © peter holme III

Another gentle reminder of what is important by Hollyann.

one drop by © hollyann

one drop
dries up
all alone
but mixed with others
becomes
a puddle
a rivulet
a river
a flood

feeding gentle fishes
tending the sea weed
crystaling salt
and playing tide music

an ocean of beauty
you know
we can’t do this
on
our
own

I’ve always been a fan of Dorina’s art, and this one is special. I love the title and the way she executed this painting, full of questions and doubt and beauty.

Daisies…and doubts by © dorina costras

Daisies…and doubts by © dorina costras

And here’s another of my favourites on RB – Lisa’s poem is mysterious and magical.

mercy by © Lisa Jewell

her alabaster lip
pouted
seductively

her tangled spirit
rolled
achingly

her desire for touch
spilled
into waiting hands

her tears
washed
all the feet that walked into her heart

her heart
broke down
the truth had been lost in lies

her shadow of a vessel
slipped silently
back into the alabaster jar

A little bit more heat now from Randy. I couldn’t resist this clever image – full of fire and passion and more.

Embers by © Randy Monteith

Embers by © Randy Monteith

More passion, even if it’s of a sad kind by SimplyRed. You can’t help but be touched by these words.

Burning of the old Homefire by © SimplyRed

He walks silently through
pristine snowfall
each footstep…. beating crisply
in time with his heart

pumping heart of lonely
but chilled to the very core
the homefire burns
with thoughts of her

there will be no greeting
of warmth nor doorstep of comfort
no welcome mat
of open arms to make him smile

three winters now
since death stole her
creeping in through
night times darkness
swooped away on
wind of ill fate

vacant empty rooms
filled with memories
their love dusting tabletops
and chairs of comfort

footsteps deep and crisp
homeward bound
life now barron
as winters landscape

his breath fogs
as a single tear
tracks an icy cold chill
upon his cheek

Rebecca’s whimsical image brings new hope.

Rays of Sunlight – Morning Mist by © Rebecca Tun

Rays of Sunlight – Morning Mist by © Rebecca Tun

I couldn’t resist this poem by PJ either. For me it’s full of light.

the colors of lightening by © ShadowDancer

He asked her
“Have you ever seen lightening
before it leaves the clouds?”

She softly smiled
and shook her head in response.

(never daring to tell him
that it has 8 colors
and she sees it
every time his eyes meet hers)

There’s something sad about Ruby’s image, but it’s a gentle sadness, one that has almost given up. Touching, very.

God Help The Outcasts by © Ruby Del Angel

God Help The Outcasts by © Ruby Del Angel

Finally, Mohawk Man’s poem. It seemed a fitting match to Ruby’s image and a fitting end for these features.

the insanity of inanity by © mohawk man

Trapped
in all my freedom’s glory
not a care in the world
nor a worry
save the love of my lives

Caged
by the very uselessness that set me “free”
with too much time
to ponder
the what if’s of yesterday

Hopeless
seems tomorrow
regardless of the dreams
of a young man
with the world in his hands

Enjoy!

touched by fire – may 16, 2010 features

It’s that time of the month again… at least for me, a time to share this week’s features, handpicked by yours-truly (Duff). Enjoy,

I ran to the woods (t-shirt, hoodie & stickers) by vampvamp

I ran to the woods

Firemoon by BiographyofRed8

At night
The mice run away
With the tin-colour lights
And are we are back in our room
Twilight stars and comets
Scattered over the ceiling

Cuando la luna entra e ilumina el altillo (when the moon shines in and lights up the attic)

Y tu Gabriel (and you Gabriel)
Have walked the creaky floorboards
For we keep finding
Your pure white feathers
Dropped all over the floor
In cracks
And in the spaces between
The floorboards
Where we push our eyes
Through like characters
In a cartoon

I will bring down
A star kiss
For your eye-brows
For You have the most perfect geometry
Even if I am a thief
Of words
And feel the sting
Of the barb of a bumble-bee’s kill

You who is fire –within- fire burning
The orange-yellow-crisp-energy-beams
Falling in –streaks
in -patterns over my skin

As I write this
The noises of stupidity bark
Like a roosters call

And I am afraid
Of the moment
Where I let go of your hand
Like mothers fear
The first day of school.

Titiritera by dmcart

Incubus by Lisa Jewell

paralysed by a polished mantle trophy
a summoned demon crushes my joints
feeding off my amber marrow

his brimstone tipped tongue
laces scorching saliva swirls
onto my less than pure flesh

the will of Hedone
grants a silent screaming nocturnal spell
smothering my wretched loneliness

Hannah. by Willow Wyles

Mr. Testosterone by HollyGoLightly

What i thought was love,
was just a phase,
love isn’t something,
you can just erase,

though with you,
it went away quick,
finding the prestige,
behind a bad trick.

I felt like I’d fallen,
and hit the ground hard,
but now i feel I’m left,
completely unscarred.

When you were there,
i felt so very alone,
it isn’t my fault,
you’re Mr.Testosterone.

your macho side,
was always your worst,
so incredibly fake,
a terribly perverse.

You can’t show emotion,
something you’ll find you need,
so i wanted so badly,
to just see you bleed.

I know I let go,
so easily and hassle free,
but from the depths of my heart,
I’m so not sorry.

“…this heady quick world of kick-shot hearts” by Rebecca Tun

Heart Knowing by lianne

The heart has an eternal language of its own.
Though I must silence my mind to hear it,
it thinks better than my head and remembers too;
this perfect center of my self-knowing,
is an ever faithful guardian of my truth.
The heart listens, hears a voice in the silence,
attending its ear to a word no other hears.
Attending its sight to a vision no other sees,
at the farthest edge of my hermetic solitude,
the darkest shadows of the moonless nights,
my trusting heart is lighted from within
with the incandescent flame of love.
My heart knows what my logical mind
cannot begin to even contemplate,
recognizes the sublime where my eyes
see too often a world both stark and cold
or the desolate dry expanse of the desert.
Only the graceful heart can truly know
another shining soul with loving intimacy.
T’was my heart that knew you first,
a love my head could not have known,
and my heart that felt your inner beauty
pass through my very being like sunrise
through stained glass windows facing dawn.
My heart it was that named you Beloved,
Anam Cara, soul companion of my life,
my heart that takes its comfort, its very purpose
from the hopeful dreams of exquisite longing
for your heart, your body opening to mine.
This heart I offer you, my love, this mystical portal
through which we might together enter heaven’s gate;
is my simple gift of joyful, true “heart knowing”
after a graced and lifelong apprenticeship of love.

© Lianne Schneider May 2010

Roboxer by frederic levy-hadida

I cannot remove my tie by Cock a Doodle Doo

Wary of the Ides of March
Detached from my collar
Blue and starched
Fat cats stitch in time
Designer underwear
Mine is folded, clean.

Politicians, preachers changing hats
Checkered under watchful nose
Of open roads that must be closed.
Out of date yellow coats
Dusted then, handed over.
Followin’ suits can’t hide the fat
Guide dog tailors hang right back
Weeds climbing through the window still.

While I do pity any given refugee
With whom I lie
All my children swiftly black face me
Then turn away, busy dying

I cannot remove my tie.

Harbinger by Berns

blind spot by greeneyedlady

i wasn’t stupid
i wasn’t gullible
it wasn’t even my fault
she was just in my blind spot
that’s all
and i couldn’t see her coming
no shame in that
i wasn’t stupid
nor were you
you knew too well
how to manipulate me
and keep me in the dark
you blindsided me
so i wouldn’t see it coming
and you wouldn’t see me going
for love itself is blind
and so was i

TBF Group Features – Week of April 4, 2010

Fellow blog/art lovers: it’s that time of the week again. We urge you to visit these talented artists and experience their work more closely.

In the chapel by Auquier

I like trains by ArcadiaTempest

I like trains and the tracks people make in their lives, understanding fascinates the watcher.
Thoughts about life, the picnic, the clean up afterwards and which clothes best fit now.
Surely we must notice each other on the days we wait to catch our train or at least there’s a wait together for a while.

The young women waiting for their train with expressions of derailed love deflecting their loneliness in the busy click clack of their chatter.
“ Love your coat!”
“ Thanks, he gave it to me”
“ The colour really suits you ”
“ He said it would”
“Oh… he must have really really loved you ”
The coat hangs on her frame with rebuttal , the colour scoring her skin a ten in jaundice but she doesn’t mind , he had loved her enough to buy her some warmth.
I watch and hold my tongue in an agitated place wanting to shout “ Get another coat that one is full of holes!”

The dirt chipped old man with his wily whiskers trailing around his chin, the tales of his past evident in the crevices of his skin leather.
His unsteady hand clasps a nurture of today in the warmth of a full swigging bottle. The depreciation of his story slurs more for the passerby that mark him down as lost, never to be found.
His spark that lit the fuse of his destiny may have burned too brightly too soon.
The smell of his life lives a high scent on his skin and it repels us giving us a reason to look away.
We shouldn’t be afraid to sit with him as he waits for his train on the wrong line. He is our father, brother, uncle, nephew and son. He smells of what we hope those we love shall never become.

I wonder if I have a watcher with tickets for my train ride, hope they nudge me and say hello. I do like to ride by myself but I am willing to share my seat even if I seem to be looking the other way protecting my thinking space.

© K S Hardy 2010

Rainy day by Elox


Troubles Everywhere

by oscarelizondo

Troubles Everywhere

What kind of fool do you think I am?
Why should I listen if you don’t give a dam?
Where are the roses I gave you last night?
When you came back did you make it right?

Who was it that you let unzip your jeans?
How did you expect me to take what it means?
Did you expect me to take it sitting down?
Was this outing the end of fooling around?

A fool I am not and to tango it takes two.
You heard daily that I meant it that I love only you.
I picked those roses from a garden in the flower shop.
Your promises meant nothing because you never stopped.

That person that takes your clothes off uses his passion.
Because many of your friends do it, it doesn’t make it a fashion.
When you return the next time I wouldn’t be here.
Your sexual encounters will not be a reason to cheer.

What kind of a person makes a fool of someone who cares?
Why do you neglect to hear my words and continue the dares?
Where am I when you flush the roses down the commode?
When I saw you riding around did hiding make it a cleaner rode?

Who will pay for those jeans that are dirty with filth?
How did you expect for my eyes not see your stinking guilt?
Did you expect for my job to sit and wait to be done by someone else?
Was your last outing a sign that the gases pedal you plan to rescale?

Only a fool in love with themselves finds reasons to throw away a life.
A husband listens to troubles that dare a couple with respect from a wife.
Providing the things you want keeps me busy at work to buy you roses.
Keeping a city safe is an occupation that you shouldn’t rub the people’s noses’.

The money I make pays for the bills and for the children’s many needs.
Watching you take advantage of their time and mind makes my heart bleed.
Someone has to work since you don’t even raise a hand to pay for the gas.
And I shall take the children with me and find a place because this is the last.

Copyright © Oscarelizondo Sunday April 4, 2010 12:12 PM

Vinyl Nut by Myn B


I makcufehtohwneht ©

by Hector A. Encinas

If the things you own inevitably own you.
Then who the fuck am I,
With nothing to give.
Pipers here,
What now?……
What now?……..

What now..


God’s Benevolent Love
by Rhenastarr

Looking down from heaven
God sent his radiant
Light of love
To his mighty creatures
Beneath the waters
His touch of love illuminated
Their liquid world
Instantly connecting them to
The wonder of his power
They swam in happy circles
As the warmth of his light
Caressed
Beauty was alive in their
Domain
Colors floating to them
Magnified in the glory that
Was gifted from above
They played in complete
Abandon
Feeling a security they
Had never felt
A peaceful feeling
Encircled them
They sang their joy
And appreciation
Sending it high into
The vortex created
By the light
Tonight the ocean was their’s
Alone
The water had never been
More clear
More relaxing in it’s calm
They knew this night was
Special
Their creator had given
Of his love in this glorious
Night of rapture
They savored the electric
Elation as it rippled
Across their bodies
To human ears
The songs they sang
Would be likened to
A psalm of praise
Of thanksgiving
Of glory personified
A blessed revelation
Beneath the blue waters
A gift from their creator
A cherished interlude
With his all encompassing
Light of love

Marie Harris (Rhenastarr) April 2, 2010


Couple
by Angilellajoseph

Have you ever watched a young person die? by wildwomenlove

Have you ever watched a young person die?
Watched them go by inches?
Way before their time?

Well I’m telling you
it does your head in
cos you just can’t rationalize it away

Your brain can’t file it
it just keeps going and going at it
like a shark
on a whale carcass

Usually we file grief
with the thinking
she’s had a good life…
she’s fulfilled her dreams…
she died quickly, it’s a mercy…
she was surrounded by those she loved…

and that golden oldie
time will heal…

But not at 6, 12, 27, 43, 52, 63
.

Its not about the death
its about the natural order
it’s about a life expectancy unfulfilled
it’s about marriages
and babies
and parties
and love

It’s about being robbed
and broken dreams

See parents expect their kids
to outlive them
partners make plans for combined futures
friends grow lives, with friends
and when death breaks
the natural order of things
It does your head in

as well as your heart

There’s just no rationalizing it away
Time doesn’t heal
there is no timeline for emotions

Go on play that song
you know you want to
the one you heard at your first heartbreak?
You’re 16 again
am I right?
in a nano

No time doesn’t heal jack shit
you’re just learning to live
with a broken bit

have you ever watched a young person die?
I have and it sucks…

© wildwomenlove poetry
20.03.10


DuskyPink Encircles Her Heart
by Anthea Slade

Dusky pink encircles her heart
Deep brown of his eyes
warms her with iridescent power
Her rose bud opens to heat of his stare
Her blue eyes smile as she feels
his eyes see only her.

With grace she follows
the contours of her heart.
Listening to that still soul voice
an alchemist she weaves the threads
of her life into a tapestry of redemption.

In style she moves with
the magnificence of a goddess.
Hugging each archetype within she
surrenders to a complete wild woman
raw she dances where shadow and light kiss.

Her woman’s odyssey unfolded
with courage she lives
beyond interpretation
Her mystery laid bare
naked she slides consciously
into total vulnerability –
raw she is the essence of beauty.

A butterfly with dusky pink wings
she glides from giant flowers
to hidden caves.
She expands her heart in
amazing ways.
Her knowing is from living
that she has transformed
to golden wisdom.

Water droplets tease her nipples
as the golden rays stroke her back
Her heart hot rushes liquid desire
as she reflects and reaches for her equal
her day her knight who knows and can holds her.
Finally she smiles.

Her emotions are an ocean of deep passion
she dives into hidden worlds where her red collides
with planets of venus and mars.
She is her inner child at essence and she
never lets pain make her crusty.
She allows her tears of beauty to wash away
all that is not needed so her eyes are free to see love.

She rides on the back of her horse
naked she dreams of her knight who glistens
His heart adores her as his masculine desire
sees her inner child and her womanhood at once.

A natural beauty she swims with dolphins
against the current. She holds her self
possessed, free she dances for her kings pleasure,
She exudes her feminine scent and
she glows of love that she feels unconditionally
for his masculine fire.

Drawn to his male energy,
her feminine intention becomes
fuel of their dance
Happiness at pure connection at the
reverence that they can honour the real
in each other, and it is beautiful.

Sensitivity is her birthright
she picks up the nuance of expression,
the subtle pulse of heart beat
A quiver of pleasure that races
to passion. She extends her heart
because compassion is as natural
as breathing for her.

She flies on the wings of a dove to her lover
With breast exposed she moves towards revolution
Their hearts connect and pulse in time
and he looks down at his beloved beauty
and says Ah I have finally found you my love…
you are to me the beautiful pink flower, the pure
essence of Sensitivity and Sensuality

By Anthea Slade 1 April 2010

XDDD by HollyGoLightly


Serial by Lisa Jewell

i was not going to write. i was going to sit in my green velvet wingback chair and stare into the dusk light and count down the change to pitch.

a random event, housing more voices than i can count, occurred. the voices ricocheted off my soothed chamber walls; disturbing me.

“dazed and confused” (Led Zeppelin)

between a pane and a colour palette, i felt abused.

the best line I’ve read in a long time
forced itself upon me
ripping at my skin
peeling back
the autumn (of my time) leaves

“i’m haunted by humans” (Markus Zusak)

i was not going to write. but how will I chase away. what will I eat?

if I made a fresco out of the words sent to me, i wonder what shape the design would form. would the light and shade be balanced with the colour?

i should not write tonight.

Longingby Tara Lemana

TBF Group Features – Week of March 7, 2010

“A work of art is a world in itself reflecting senses and emotions of the artist’s world.” Hans Hoffman

Michelle, ma bell by Sophie-Berger

A POEM’S ESSENCE by Cosimopiro

If every poem ever written,
since the first scratch
chiselled in rock,
was placed in a wizards pot
and
boiled down
to one last syllable,
can one single grain,
lone letter,
a poem be,
capturing essence
and
feelings
or
does it need company
to give it more meaning?
Can “I”
stand alone
and be read
with self satisfaction
or does it need “YOU”
to stand beside
for conviction
and
recognition?

A breeze came through by Vicki Griffiths

I never could pull off a good poker face by Lisa Jewell

There is no pretence in being contradictory. If I travel from the east then shift course and hitch a ride on the back of the west wind, am I a free spirit or am I flighty? I can wake with my shattered heart curled up next to me; then the very next morning, I have to tightly hold the string of my balloon heart, so it won’t escape out the bedroom window. How is this possible? How can one heart behave in such contradictory ways? My cave is cosy and deep within its walls I feel bliss, but I would be remiss in not confessing. I do long to be held and kissed for a lifetime of hours.

Sense by Manoyla F.

Praestus Proboscis by ianez

snap.

snap.

snap.

snap.
my fingerprints a linger,
upon each shiny little culet.
fondle, then press __ snap…
each pearl so perfectly fits.

your scent has perfected its continuity.
brushing of itself amidst my olfactory.
bringing with it hints of your palms,
pressed paralax to this she.
to me.

© Jorjia Ianez

Fragments by Elox

Soul by Bill Bell

By the sunshine
in the narrow crack below the blinds
I’d judge that I’m late for something
reaching down I find the sheets
and go back to sleep
Then I don’t know
if I’m dreaming in the twilight
people come and go
some I haven’t seen in years
I guess they’re dead to you
out of sight and out of mind until
you either find them in the obituaries
or knocking at your door
between the planes of interpretation
at the edge of the morning light
trying to be real
trying to extend the story
trying to be something more
then merely soul.

I saw her in the grocery store
coming up the cereal aisle
no older then she had been before
until we were upon one another
then she aged in an instant except for a smile
she’d kept intact then built experience around.
She had two grown children and one in high school
she patted me on the arm and walked away
shedding time as she went an old ache
blossomed and died.

Theres a piano playing
someone left the radio on
the voice of John Lennon singing Imagine.
Clouds streaming over
days on rented beaches
feverish whispers on summer nights
with the windows open
hearing other peoples conversations
no different then your own
there’s a muted piano playing
someone left the radio on.

I rolled over on my left shoulder
noticing I was alone without opening my eyes
the void is warm and I go down again
Standing at a bus station
my father extends his hand to shake
and I hesitate
knowing we will meet again under different rules.
Hold on tight
give a firm handshake
your interpretations of other peoples thoughts
are only by accident right
do it for yourself and the rest will turn out
said a voice already in my head.

Trying ot extend the story
trying to become something more
then merely soul
they’ve forgotten what they were
they merely hearten on
an echo
catch me on the dew point of morning
half awake
turn the radio on softly
see what comes to visit.

Alice in Wonderland – 20 years later by MagpieMagic

dear friend… by Siki Dlanga

let them rip your skin,
let them rip your clothes,
let them rip, let them rip.
the cells will grow back the skin you lost
you will have better clothes
but don’t let them rip your heart….
if that does happens,
if at all it does!
then know this;
there is an everlasting promise
of a brand new heart
and that one cannot be touched
by any vile thing.

(c) siki dlanga
05.03.2010

almost up close and personal by wildwomenlove

Where did our love go? by Laurie Search

TBF Group Writing Features – Week of January 31, 2010

“There’s nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein.”
~Walter Wellesley “Red” Smith~

I know I’ve read good writing when I can taste the blood that was laid down to make the words. Each one of these pieces have that element – the raw outpouring of soul that gives them their own life. They each amazed me in their own right and I’m so glad to have the honor to blog about them.

Vagabond Odyssey by Trenchtownrock

I am more than just words
that rain from my tongue
becoming pure fire
that burns passion of pumping fist
removing the callouses from the chambers of heart
reminding feet to get up and march
the dead needs a voice.
I am more than the history of my skin
that provokes my heart to do and say things
causing stares from those who are tired
of this journey and has gotten off the road
maybe someday they will need a hand
of a Samaritan.
I am more than the noose that still speaks
their stories written in my head
searching for a proper ending
my ink has not yet dried
so I am still trying to write it for them.
I am more than fire hydrants’ voices
whose wet bodies are dripping with the sixties
and church pews mercy for strength
they still speaks to me even when I want them to be quiet
their cries still haunt me
waking me nightly
they sit and wait though I feel tired.
I am more than the many trouble I have caused
prompting God to send his angels numerous times
to defend my actions
keeping me an uninvited guest
from Lucifer’s party
I will fall short again tomorrow….it is written
and I hope they will come once more.
I am more than the Caribbean sea
and the death in the ocean from centuries ago
that still walk on waves hallucinating
they can’t find their way back
their cries break me.
I am more than the laugh
and silliness that overcome me at times
wearing that feel good moment
I have learned that peace is good
and tears are tiring.
I am more than the back porch tears
with morning prayers to a God
I am struggling to hold onto
I can feel his fingers peeling away
while my wings rest in a holding room
I haven’t made my case fully yet.
I am more than that knife held with a teenager finger
my adult hands still reminisce the pinch
feeling the love that I thought it held
some days I wonder what if.
I am more than the eyes in my head
that play the memory of bedroom secrets
stealing from a boy who is still standing and watching
I have never recovered
I can’t recover
my heart is too precious to open
it is all I have
a woman’s body I will always love
their tongues I will never trust.
I am more
just give me sometime
to look more deeply in your eyes
and see if your heart and my heart
can walk this narrow path.

© 2010

Umbilical Mother by Wildwomenlove

Looking up
amongst her leaves
I lay quite still
the air I breathe
smells pure

I roll face down
and claw the ground
send my umbilical
spiralling round
her earthen core

I breathe in grass
and shoot a blast
of pent up rage
down my umbilical mast
back deep into her molten well

She adds my rage
to the molten fire
co-creating earth
and my hearts desire
as one

This loving Earth
with great round girth
holds me, and tree
is inter-planetary
and so much more

She lives
she breathes
my rage she sees
clawed to her crust
and sets me free, once more

I hope I didn’t burn the worms…

© 2010

The Poet by Bill Bell

The Poet

I heard you died in Tibet
no doubt dressed in black
the walls of your dispair
too high to climb
so your friends
played music around the walls
and waited.

Your gums turned black
yet you smiled aware
your brothers death
your mothers health failing
you turned the haiku
for in a breath the senses
can confirm
a candle in the window pane.

High upon the snows
high above the world you expired
falling into heaven
falling from the spire
exhausted flame around you
the smoke streams from black to white
I expected a pulling up
but you fell into the frozen sea.

Where one day
like Virgil you emerge
into the wood it was but but a scene
that you had taken me on
the seventh ring
I hear music
and the beating of my heart
you gave me the word
that had always existed
the poet that you were
exhausted
and the light then emerged.

© 2010

Wrap Remedy by ianez

my plexus a mess.
i awoke in unfamiliar spaces.
pressing my eyes around
four walls of some
unfurnished room.
there hung a fervor of estrus in the atmosphere.
i felt every utterance that escaped
my ample tonguesnips.
they devoured the exhausted aftermath
of labored.. … . breaths
and sebacious finger.prints. … .. no.presses.
ten digits tune my facets.
i was alone, ardent in the glow that snuck into my oubliette.
the omnipresent peering of a sickle soft moon.
lunar silent stalker, you do what you must do.

want to scape a for you tonight
feeling lushly
the lusc,
less romance
more; precise decimation.

you are a guided missile.
i am the film of mosquito wings
i am you, as neuroptera.

swoonly into your palms.
penned in the posture of your
plebeian grammar.

© 2010

how many parts walk in an alley by Lisa Jewell

I walked home alone
thinking
what if I turned tricks?
and
what if I licked my lips
while
holding hands with a demon
would
I no longer be sweet
if
I looked for ways home
would the heart of death
point the way
if
I spewed pomegranates picked by winged angels
would I
see the future
if I told you
I
do not
aspire
to be heavenly
I do not aspire to be the burning pit of Hades
if
I told you
living in a cave
is not cold
it is
like heather on a hill
it rides the tiny hair on my legs
if you met me
walking down a dark alley
would
you walk on by, scared
or
take a chance
not knowing
if
I’m sweet
or
dark

© 2010

Permission to be Brilliant (on Mandela) by Siki Dlanga

In a dream I wrote you a speech. I was important enough to be in the same room as you. No, I will be honest in the dream I was still not important. It was the fact that I only had my name which holds no weight that made me feel significantly more important to you in the midst of great names. In your presence was every reason to feel so much more significant because it was dreams of my freedom that kept you imprisoned for 27 years.

I looked at your face and it lit. Lit by dreams that have been fulfilled as you looked back at me. Your aspirations would be fulfilled through me, my friends and grow through our children. I would love to see you but I would rather I gave you rest so that you would greet one less person and have more rest so I visited you in a dream. I remained brilliant for at least 2 whole minutes. My heart spoke a fresh word because I had seen your face in the reality of my dream. I tried to read my speech but my words diminished because your person filled the room in a way that contrarily suddenly made me feel great.

What makes you so much greater is that our country is rich in resources and minerals. We have diamonds and mines rich with different kinds of gold as if it were all not enough, we have you. In that moment my heart realised your South Africanness makes us so much more affluent.

The name Mandela now robes the hills, the mountains, seas and islands of our country with a royal mantle of dignity and honours anyone who calls themselves South African. Your name adorns our many coloured flag with admiration. Your name is no lesser currency or wealth than the gold and minerals of our land.

The children covered by your 46664 campaign will benefit not only for themselves but their children’s children also. You gave us a future. By your life you lifted the lid that kept us in captivity in the land our predecessors had once freely grazed their cattle. By your carefully chosen words as you declared the new South Africa born you made us realise our own greatness. You challenged us to get out of our inferiority complexes’ and gave us permission to be brilliant.

I know there is a God because it had to take a superior-being to design such a master plan. We were a country that was so broken and desperate for a miracle. You are the perfect miracle at 90 you still amaze us.

Last year in the 90 minutes for Mandela, I wrote a poster hoping the camera man might put it on TV but decided to etch it in my dreams. It reads; “you have shown us how great we can be. My gift to you is that you will not be the last great South African because there is nothing enlightening about shrinking back.”
© 2010