Waiting room

This waiting room of my life
is empty 
sometimes I imagine myself 
in another,
less awkward
loneliness does that-
allows one to imagine the 
Silence before the storm, as
they say,
You walked in
and the song I was singing along to
Mein Schatz 
you wanted happiness
so molded myself into your smile
Mein Liebling
you wanted adventure 
so I spread myself out
Mein Held
you wanted to be the sun
so I learnt to cope with the burn
Waiting room after waiting room 
our story passes by
in a blur
Of happy moments 
until that adieu
Slipping now on the rocks 
we built
I find myself waiting again
this time,
seeing in the way that you stare
that you still care
this crime, 
the waiting room of


Written for a friend in the early hours of the morning when her own self worth was lost to the darkness we had just endured.


Your worth
can’t be scrawled out
on these few lines
In fact
your worth
(begging to have its shout)
can barely be contained

Your worth
(hardly restrained)
can be seen written on the
hearts of
all those who have met
all those who have known
all those who have understood

Your worth,

It matters to me

2012 goodbye


You stumble around from this side to that. Laughing, you throw back your head until you’re quiet and left smiling at the sun. You run and you scream. There are jitters of excitement all around while you begin to talk of the many plans you have away from this place. This place with its skies so blue and its bushveld  still whispering the stories of old when the wind brushes by. This place where the crickets, raucous toads, police sirens, mosquitoes and helicopters all create a lullaby that sends you to sleep. This place is where one man will rob you but his brother will offer out his hand in friendship. You talk of leaving this place. This purple paradise when the weather is right. You talk of leaving. Leaving to a place unexplored by me. A place where the rhythm of your home will be lost to the swoosh, click, slide and mindless chatter of an uncultured world. Leaving your family, friends, park, spaza, veld and the place you call home. Home. Here, that home wraps around your heart with its acacia thorns puncturing it and never yielding its grip. The wild bushveld grows on your chest and right down your arms reminding you of where you belong and fit in. The view you get from the high hill of Fort Klapperkop is ingrained in your mind and you can scarcely let it go. The cattle, springbok, zebra, giraffe, elephant and maybe even the mighty lion will not let you leave for long. They will call you home and like the marimba your heart will beat  and that throb will dance you home. You talk of leaving this place. You talk of leaving. You. You, with those eyes that fit into the sky where stars should be, will leave and find a place where the stars dare not shine shine for you. You will throw back your head and smile at the sun and say “Here, there? It’s all under the same sun. It doesn’t matter!”

It matters to me

It matters to me as this is my land, my sun and my home.