What Do We Become

If we do not hear our own hearts beating

If we do not notice the seconds fleeting

If we do not see the ridges in our palms or the strength in our arms

If our hands do not feel life

If our lives do not touch the ones we love

If our mouths remain closed when our souls are ablaze

If we loose our way home and no one comes to find us

If we get ourselves bound to waste and no redeemer scrubs us

What do we become if the skies turn green and our eyes remain shut?

If our muddy heads stay hatted under the rains

If when our favourite songs play we do not sway to the beat

If when we are required to stretch ourselves we do not even blink

What do we become if we live outside of knowing;

That the sun shines even when the skies are overcast

That our golden moments cannot be relived once they have passed

That life has begun

And that each day is a glimmering shimmering gift offered to us by the shinning sun

If we do not unwrap our gifts on the pedestal

If our arms remain crossed in the wake of ruin

If our torches in darkened spaces remain dim

What do we become?

source: Here


Going Home – part 2


These motions

remind me of a recurring dream
in it I’m running fast with a tonne of things to tell my mother and with a weight in my chest that only she, Daddy and Tebo can hug off,
in it I am running like never before for a home I never reach.
But then again I am always running home, awake or asleep.

I have a need for familiarity too, I do. the city gets shitty quickly and I feel a little lost when I am lonely.
But on the day I took these pictures I  wasn’t in the city nor was I loaded in the heart, the day was breezy, I was taking things easy and I had myself a heck of a time; some dancing in the sun without a hat until you’re three shades darker kind of fun.
I think might be relearning goodness.

I’ve been thinking lately that to walk in the sun is not the same as to be kissed by it and I see that though I walk outside daily rarely am I truly touched by the sun or by life. But someone showed me that good things can still happen and they have the power to drown out inner conflict. Someone grabbed me by the hand and danced with me in the sun. I was reminded once again how great it is to be young and free and I felt again what it is like to be touched by kindness.




a way in the manager that makes him guide and formulate solutions

a way in the surfer that makes him overcome the strength of the waves

a way a dreamer that makes him tune out pessimism

a way in the seamstress: tact and technique to mend, cut, bend and create with ease something to be used and something to be worn

a way in the playwright: he creates from source tales that tell, tellings that teach  and teachings to be born

the is a way in our eyes which makes us see through all the times no matter how dark or bright

there is a way in everything, that makes anything worthy and wonderful.



Hope Stories: I 

I might hide behind the absence of colour, it might be true- I am not sure

Most times I immerse wholly in the blacks, the whites and the various shades of greys

I see beauty there or I feel at home there

I might hide behind sentimentality too, it might be that I’m a little soppy-I am not sure

I do know that offenses, hurts, regrets, anxieties and other negative emotions unacknowledged tend to accumulate; they don’t fizzle into space simply because we refuse to accept them. Oh no! Negativity takes up our slickness as quick as we surrender it, it knows what it is when we refuse to believe who we are and like a parasite the bold sap will invade all our spaces and flourish on our very blood if we dabble too much with grime. And yes, it will most definitely show, no invasion goes unseen, ever! There are always signs. I suspect my severe romanticism is a symptom of a similar kind of invasion- no, I am sure of it. The end. This is not a defense, it is observation and a worded kindness I have afforded myself on the journey to a full life.

I am human: flesh, blood, bone and other such perishables.

I am vulnerable.

So today I’ve decided to be in color.

Today I will not hide.

I painted my nails, picked pink things to wear, split my fruit open, lit my teal candles and laid out all my bright and shiny trinkets next to me.

There will be no desaturation of anything today I say, only brightness and multicolored kindness,

Bathing in the hues, my vulnerability in living color.


Hope Stories


on an achy fickle paper-heart
hasty with correction fluid
even quicker to misspell and bungle
now a messy, fumy thing ready for the toss yet to be crumpled

and goodness refuses to settle in the gut
a little running on less
less struggling to gain more
substance diminishing in the hold of a deep rut

the vein fluttering might signal death
a dull outlook parallel to ears gone deaf
busy mind
jittery soul
busy, jittery and minding the pressing life goals

and in the room of the masters a fidgety spirit battling stillness
on steady cradles lying down but restless
on quiet nights sound sleep but no dreams
on an achy fickle paper-heart
the thumping pulse is the lyrics that hope sings