I sit under the canopy of a well-dressed tree.
my skin finds peace in its shade
A choir of bees hum hymns, I do not know words
But I agree,
I know their song is true
I suppose the truth is felt, is known, seldom understood
the wind lightly conducting this praise
if I forget what needs to be forgotten
then without noticing I hum.

He stands by the door and knocks.
Could it be He knocks within
eager to come out
to play, taste, and try.
Could it be He lives inside
not playing hide and seek
but find and find
could it be
Maybe a door or wall is just the mind
Tilt your head squint your eyes
see anew
see what is true

There, by the garden, by a pond, by a tree
Play with sand and stone build, make
Climb, taste, and see.
Here you are free to be
be is you
Here you are safe
This ground holy for bare souls to dance
puddles sing and splash
trees whisper and laugh
winds caress and nudge
grass tickle and scratch
animals love as love loves to love

you are the joy of a parent
bring tears of laughter to eyes that see you whole
Go play, hear this call go play
the ground prepared with the table
bottomless cups and all
Here everything has a taste
some you might crave others might make you gag
discover them, everyone delicious and gross
you are stunning worth a brag
you are free and the playground waits
waits for you.

All is possible sweet kisses
and holding hands
with a dash of bravery and maybe a splash of madness
lovers love to love
fall and jump
laugh and cry,
bold and brave
stretch out your hand this world waits for your romance
colors dance through the day
go play and see
even the sunsets are written letters for everyone
you and me
go play.

Go play, all is made for you
run your hands on life as a beating heart
this world is a gift to you
shake and listen
rip off the wrapping and see that all of life
is a gift all of life is a gift.
Please listen to your heart.
Go Play…

Go play

Let me not be still
Make noise
let me not sit quietly
shout and distract
let me not breathe
deafen the voices
I plead
I beg
I hold on to sanity
keep me busy
don’t leave me in peace
Make waves and waves
Please
I beg
I plead
For when the surface becomes still
and the waves die
inside rise a rage
My soul an ocean floor
Coming alive with silence
questions crawling out of everywhere
creatures that seek the light
swim up to the surface finally getting a breath
asking me,
am I ready to dive?
Am I ready to thrive?
why do I just survive?
wave after wave you can not see
This ocean inside
asking me when will I come alive?

I beg and plead
let them not stir
give them no air
I drown them in the busyness
it might not be fair
I do not care

When, I am still, I know.

Somewhere inside there
Is a Master of the ocean I dare not face
I feel Him swim
The great I am
When I am still

This Poem will get a rewrite and more explanation and how it came to be in some of the blogs to come, I thought it best to leave it here as it was, a little messy and frustrating as I was at the time I wrote this.

Attached also a performance at spoken sessions open mic night with a friend Marissa Verheij.

Under the covers, we feel safe that blanket is a force field to all hurt for children.
Our beds are the comfort to breakups, hard days lost friends, and tiered lives.
Pillows captured so many tears, heard all our fears. Our beds’ safety.

But how about them?
Sleeping in the confines of your house maybe you fell asleep with a tear running down your face maybe you fell asleep with laughter in your stomach
Forgetting about them the disgrace by day, them who make you afraid to walk around the street at night
Them who make you cringe at first sight
While you cuddle in your blankets starting to dream
It’s them who sleep on a shriveled piece of box it’s them who are afraid to fall asleep and dream coz they might just not wake up
Newspapers for blankets writes grim stories for dreams
Headlining there death

Who are we to judge if alcohol warms there body if it helps them forget the faces
That looked at them with hate
Who are we to debate what they are going to use the money for, to them, it may be the last day the can spend it?
Who are we to say we know what they deserve.
You are allowed at church, are they? Would you frown upon it if they are?
Then who are we to say they do wrong?
So let’s stop poverty we say I believe we have to start with our mindset

Climbing to bed at night with the comfort of a mattress
They have the comfort of tar and brick.
The thought of these drastic differences makes me sick
So I guess its true change does start with you!

Twinkle twinkle little star is not a comforting lullaby how they know what you are reminders of a roofless living.
The tug, the push, the pull, the ruthless eyes ruthless beating weather the ruthless living.
If we are what eat what are they nothing it is easier for our eyes, but
These Lonely ghosts are only seeking warm bodies to live in.
The winter is coming with its shark’s frostbiting at their bodies
Like the flowers, their limbs wilting
The cold so harsh black heart suicide a dream

I saw a man with the audacity to scream get a job lazy, he clearly doesn’t know how it feels to stand in the sun burning at both ends tar and sky, skin being colored by a violent kindergartener brown red black.
Trying to get that job in a haystack on fire broken glass
Their lips erupting volcanos with only ash to show
Bleeding eyes punctured skin.
What happened to their family tree?
Did society destroy it bulldozed what happened to the tree, the branches the leaves the fruit
The apples the lemons they can’t make lemonade, not a drop left.
What is this system? It’s clearly not the solar system of God it the system of broken men
Constellations are falling, Saturn crumbling, the moon is pale, and there is no Sun
Except for some time back on a cross seems like the path to salvation is sacrifice
What do you have to give?
Plant yourself in the backyard of homeless hearts
Grow a tree, grow a branch a leaf
Grow lemons feel the squeeze
It is ok we all fall asleep under praising stars
Galaxies glorifying the Creator
Twinkle twinkle little star how you know who we are
We are lemon seeds
Goodnight, sleep well.
Grow.

I hear and smell the workings of a cook.
A great cook in the kitchen.
The table I sit at does not seem to be prepared by
The hands of the chef that I smell.
This menu seems too dull
Here you only order,
Serve nothing and no one
So I
Wait.
Waiting on waiters waiting on orders dished out

Before me a plain plate
I eat, I chew and swallow
But all seems in vain
On these words, I am never full
I do not see that the chef is good.
I taste and still I am blind
This cannot be what I am smelling
I seek between my teeth but love
I cannot find
I chew long and hard on these dead words
Sent out by death I try and swallow it down
Sipping on this watered-down gospel
I choke on its bones
Why have these heavenly treats
Got the hell cooked into them?

This is not the chef that I smell, cooking
Have I only been blind tasting?
My taste buds hunger to blossom
No longer do I want to sip from a leaking cup
Seek food on empty plates
I know that what I have been smelling
Is a full course meal
Food that fills, overflowing cups, goodness that desires to be tasted.
I know that there is a table with our names on it
All is prepared
I am hungry for an eye-opening, plate of food.
Chef I want to see your goodness

As stars on a burning day
I know it’s there
I know that it is there
Not ever has it gone away
Hope.
Hope not always seen
not always held
Not always sparkling against the dark
not always understood

Always there
Unlike the stars, we need not outstretch
Hope.
Hope is within reach
Inside it burns shy and quite
Be still and feel
Hope
Hope, often invisible on burning days
But you feel the invisible flame
Invincible hope.

Can you not see it?
How my heart has stained your writs
All it took was a handshake
Mom always said I should find a better place
To place important things.
but on this sleeve, it fits
only life bleeds
so I leave it where I left it.

Packing somethings away to protect it
often is the best way to lose it.
I wonder if that is why we can not find her
Why her heart is hidden
But her blood her blood
Is on all our hands.

Shed not your skin,
sliver no more
sturdy sand waits for your stand
stretch out of your
one sizes fits none sin suit
stop.
see the smoke
and mirrors

Stand

Shove shyness
in sand,
swallow salt no more
pure you are
here, by sea and shore
stand
Swim not
stand
Stand in Sea Shepherds shoes
see daddies liquid footprints
walk or skate the ocean swallows not

Stand

Skin is skin
Soul is whole
Stand
swallow not your voice, sing
snake your are not
kin of king
shed sin sight
stand and see
bright you are
the Son suit suits you
one size
Perfect fit for all
burn a new sight
see you are starlight
Suns of a Son
Stand, stand
Stand.

The idea was born out of anger, frustration, and fascination.
I have a friend that has a shop on the corner Church and Oxford honestly it is a magical place where all people come to have some food or snack, I often went to his shop just to sit down and experience the town, I don’t know if it is the braai calling everyone or just the heart of the man behind the counter but all kinds of people walk into his shop, all skin tones, after school energetic children buy chips and play outside his shop, frail old people would snail in and buy some grandpa and cigarettes and shuffle back home, if you would sit in his shop for a day you would see every season of human being, the night calls the drunk a bit closer sometimes the time of day does not matter, weary travelers and opportunistic salesman that want their product sold in his shop, people on their break, even some poets and photographers.
Some time back I was tiered and worn out, I honestly did not know what to do with myself at home it felt as if I was swirling into a drain and alone there was no friends in town at that stage, and I just felt overwhelmed I crawled on to my bicycle thinking I will just cycle around saw his shop and remembered he was friendly maybe I will sit there and write a poem, as soon as I walked in, he smiled a truly powerful smile a smile that has a hopeful promise that better days are yet to come, he said hello, please sit sit sit, he just kept insisting that I should sit so I did, he brought food and drink and we spoke, I told him that I just felt shit and that I was in a negative space and he shared his heart with me and I could not help, I wanted to fight it but I started to cry, he laughed and said oh God oh God (in a enduring way as if he spoke to God at that moment) he gave me a hug customers all around the kids playing, the old shuffling in and out, across from us a man seemingly passed out, or just sleeping, everything happening at once and after his hug and some food that moment passed, I felt no judgment.
This is life in his shop I was just another season that came and passed but he is the sun of that corner where all this good, bad, weird, tired, energetic, and madness spin around.

It has been six or seven posts and it has been probably most of this year that I have made you wait for this poem I have spoken about Church Street, yes and this is yet another post. There are a bunch of tiny reasons why this has taken as long as it has, the two main reasons are fear, and that I was unsure of where to go with the poem.
Where did I want to go with the poem, what do I want to say and what does the poem want to say? The idea was born out of anger, frustration, and fascination. I felt more accepted in this small shop than I did in many churches, I am a little bit rough around the edges I guess sometimes awkward or taken up with caution so I understand, and I hope it does not come across that it is a bullet shot at the church but more that it, was an awakening for me that there is more to church than a building that relationship and religion are not the same and that love and fear are opposites, and spending time with more open eyes I noticed that we all are churches housing a LOVING God, no matter who you are.
When writing the poem at first it was a bit angry and I did not want to make this poem a selfish act, then I felt like I went to the opposite and I tiptoed around what I wanted to say and I noticed that I was not sure what I wanted to say but I know that there was something.

Now I have another idea but it is half baked I will wait before I speak more about it but I have realized that I am not sure where I want to go with it, and I also realized that talking about it helps, (talking to the right people) and action helps it to develop and grow.

mark
Now I am more excited about the small little feelings because I am starting to trust my feelings and this is a special place to be, even if none can see it, you feel it, behind that blank you see what it can be, trust it.
Thank you for reading and waiting patiently
Peace and Love.