Fracture

The poem

Programmed As a young child To learn and understand The matters of the heart — Their impermanence, The engines Of humanity. Dependence On a partner or friend — Something I have never seen Received by myself Or any other being. The world stands still When my heart beats For another. Memories slow down The pace of time — Especially when We are creating them. My world rushes past now Like TV screens When I am inside a fast train. Days blend into each other, Months countless, Years just a thing I see On the calendar. I sit here now, ensconced In the visions of the past, Wading through the impressions Made on my heart. At the top of a mountain, Small against the backdrop Of the mountains around me — But it is My mountain, And The knapsack On my back Still carrying The weight of the loves I have lost Or released — Yet the sack is empty. In the path I have chosen, All of my choices Have allowed me, Creator, To understand This human heart — Its meaning, Its importance To our condition. My intelligence is challenged To understand — My choices now limited On the material planes That now mean nothing On this modest pinnacle I believe I have earned. I want for nothing On most of the levels My limited consciousness Can perceive. Your dual world Shows me — Unrequited love, our constant, Transitory love — Your strategy For our progression. Left only now With your words, Expressed now As my heart's expectations, Continually exposed — Hope, A dashed concept. Love — The only thing I have left To give and Not receive. I accept, Without reservation, Your absolute power — And this path You chose for me In this life. I tried so hard to change my destiny — Yet again I am shown It is your destiny That prevails. And my part in it — Important for moments, I cannot resist any more — And I dive off this mountain, An empty sack left behind, And find no gravity — And float now, Available To your will. I cannot be practical About matters of the heart — I can only be vulnerable now, The way I was born, From the start — Full circle.

The poem

My life falling apart — Or perhaps I just Had one second To see how much I have fallen already. Shades of red, brown, and black Disseminate just above the darkness, Seeing shards of meaning and significance I once held dear Passing before my eyes As I let it all go And float into the ionosphere — Called infinity, Or destiny, Or a blended reality. Clinging to one memory — A death grasp of a man who has nothing, But has so much to give, Asking for a paintbrush To show just one moment Of my aspect For our collective.

The poem

Pain in the mother's eyes As she hugs her eighteen-year-old, Sending him off to war. She prays to the Creator, "Please bring him home again." Meanwhile, the men who cast conscription Have no Creator in their hearts— Acting only in the interests Of the pockets of their puppet masters. Growing the so-called commonwealth With every war, While the boy killed mercilessly, Needlessly and without pity, And his grieving family See the minimum wage for eternity— All for the commonwealth, A conundrum of eternity. This is the human condition: Seeking gratification outside the heart, When it is the hole in the heart They are trying to fill. Using people, affecting lives, Greedy love of money and wealth That has no destination— And only makes them more distant From the meaning of their heart's impulses, Deaf to our Creator's soft, silent words. Finding your heart's voice, And more importantly its meaning, Makes you an instrument of the Creator, Putting you on a path to your destiny— The healing of the gap Between your heart and mind, Your past and its future.

The poem

Walk boldly into the night— not as victims, not as unconscious beings led unknowingly, but as those who have learned to see. For too long: boiling frogs, lambs to the slaughter, while the politically anointed stand apart— unashamed, feeding from abundance they promised to protect for all but kept for themselves. They speak aversion easily, projecting fear onto people whose eyes still carry innocence, whose hearts trusted the vote that shaped their fate. Decades pass— two parties, one illusion. Apartheid persists, only stripped of skin colour, a tightrope stretched over lived despair. This is no surprise to those who are awake. Awareness once felt distant, like promises spoken loudly and kept nowhere— burnt now to the dark rings around a dying flame. Yet the sun has never vanished. It waits for those willing to look long enough to see. Every parent's hope, born years ago, that a child might inherit dignity, safety, and equality, has been deferred— again— by power protecting itself, denying dignity to everyone. Only the faces changed. Skin traded for skin. The mechanism remained— rewarding power for its grip, rewarding families of the elite. Hope burns. Dreams dissipate. Belief smoulders into silence. Ambition dissolves into survival. And when love for the system turns into grief, and grief approaches anger, history warns us what follows. But this work is not a call to rage. It is a call to remember. Enlightenment must lead— not violence. Truth— not the sword. Awakened hearts— not written laws alone. This is the moment where ordinary people say No— not with fists, but with clarity. No to suppression dressed as protection. No to power that feeds on its own kin. No to futures stolen quietly. And in that refusal, hope is restored— not as fantasy, but as responsibility. For ourselves. For our children. For the lives still unfolding. This is not rebellion. It is recognition. A place where humanity can exist in its true form— Ubuntu.

The poem

Burdens. Every man carries one, shifting it from shoulder to shoulder, or yoked across both— heavy, debilitating, a personal frontier. Self-imposed or merely perceived, a consequence of action or of reception, yet lived, manifest in our lives— always. A contest set by our Creator, for what it is worth. A challenge, nevertheless, omnisciently present— a weight upon our shoulders. We are men, designed to be providers, protectors. One leg in action, the other in understanding— unbalanced at the outset, yet balanced in the realisation of the body's meaning, and the reminder of the mind's disassociation from the soul. The unconscious man I am, who holds this burden, fights every day for a world better than the one he was born into. For transcendence from his frontier— imposed or projected. We fight. The burden becomes an engine of consequence— atonement or enlightenment. In an instant, it is here. Or it is a simple adjustment. A commitment to growth, or a reckoning with self-worth. Without the burden, who would we be? Shoulders unladen. Mind free to wander— or to wonder. Undefined. Christ carried his cross and died upon it, only to be free. Meaning: become your burden, and you may become free. Free from self-imposition. Free from the weight of others' positions. A simple adjustment— or a doorway to exponential growth, beyond perception, beyond the written word. Burdens— not merely weight, but gifts from our Creator. Heavy, yes. But also keys.

The poem

Cold winter rain Beats upon the windowpane, Lifting the scent of dust— Accumulated through bleak, silent days. Shadows fade too early In the heavy afternoon. Twigs stand defiant— The distant sun too weak To cast their outline on the wall. Trees, stripped of brilliance, Stand still and omnipresent. Leaves decay in the gutter, Love suspended, Awaiting the return Of a spring sun. I stand inside my heart, Exploring its many facets— Visiting the faded corners Where childhood memories reside. Long afternoons spent in solitude, Too young to understand, Too awake to ignore. Sadness and fear— My first companions. Aloneness— My first acceptance. Choices No two-year-old should face. I saw spirits in the house— Silent watchers, As I stared out the window, Waiting for a human touch. Not expecting violence. Not understanding my place. Fear consumed me, And there was nowhere to go But inward. Sent away, As if I were the blame— The bad one, Exiled for sins I never committed. A sinful step-grandmother. More aloneness. Treated with disdain, Too frightened to ask For food or a hug. Internal scars Still echo through my life Nearly six decades later. Unraveled, Untranscended. Self-worth fractured Beyond repair. Carnage trails behind me— The demons of my past Exorcised through those I've loved. Patterns from so long ago Still play out. The two-year-old boy within Never left that room— Still chooses cruel, distant love, Still creates what he fears, Still watches the rain From a window In a house That no longer exists. But the house is real In my heart. Please— Come fetch me from here, Sixty-year-old version of me.

The poem

My heart pumps sadness into my veins— A knife deep in my chest. Lumps catch in my throat, Tears build behind my eyes, My whole body crying With disappointment. Perspectives of better days— Contrasting the joy of loving a woman. Mistakes are made to deepen understanding, Should deepen love, not remove it. But my mistakes hang behind a pointing finger, Like a loaded gun of judgment. Found guilty for things I didn't do, And for those I did— Twisted and blown out of proportion. It's a hard pill to swallow When the woman you love Spits on your dignity, Attacks your self-respect, Tries to destroy your image of yourself— Building a caseload of reasons Why the relationship can't work. No forgiveness. No encouragement. No gentle loving. Conditions, hoops, and distance. I have my own list of transgressions, Besides the judgments. But my strong feelings and strength of character Help me look past them all— Ignore the jealousy and insecurities, Disregard the lack of empathy, The emotional shutdowns, The resentment and anger— All aimed at me, For loving her. Now my strength and character Are tested— To move past the pain inside, Remove the impact of personal attack. The hate still lingers In my last memory of her eyes. My head says: walk on. My heart says: She needs my help— To face the truth of her life, See the source of her actions, And why they resonate with me. My reflection, just her mirror— The strength of my love Driving her guilt, Exposing her pain, Shutting her down. She is not ready to face it, Nor to be healed. The strength is mine To sit alone and live With unrequited feelings. Perhaps I will find someone new— Who will love me the same way— Once my pain has cleansed me, Run its course From my body Into my awareness.

The poem

Splintered Families We all get what we deserve at Christmas. Many men, separated or divorced from their families. A day of reckoning. The children usually with their mothers, while the misunderstood man spends his time with strangers. A heavy heart. Throat constrictions loosened by the fast-paced alcohol panacea. What creates families when they are splintered? How does love evolve into brokenness— that a man has none of his children at his table on Christmas Day? Is this our destiny— a revolving human condition, evolving through the pain body? Love hurt learning. Separation. Growth. Repeated. Until a man joins his separate worlds and creates, with a balanced understanding, one foot in a woman's world and the essence of a man: creator, protector, provider. One foot alone— an almost forced frontier. The other, craving affection. The affection of a woman and a family. What does it take to be a man? A gentle force. A guiding hand. Wings of Teflon, absorbing the challenges from those he holds dear with love and meaning, while showing strength even when his world is crumbling. More important to show the world the half of him that is a man than the half that looks for meaning. So watching families, their cycles clear— unity in their relative youth, the youngness of their relationships. Trouble ahead. The cycles of life still to unfold. Words only work when they are ready to be heard by the individual. A challenge to our Creator: why must we lose our families to appreciate Your grace? A Man Without a Table

The poem

I light a fire to my thoughts — Dissociated, But drowning in despair. Staring into the flame, Watching them disappear Before they're even strong enough To have a name. I walk boldly into the night, Willing boiling frogs — Lambs to the slaughter — While the politically anointed Stand tall In their chosen minority, Unashamedly proud Of the endless bounty Only they can see. Proud aversions Promulgated with ease Upon a people Still wearing innocence in their eyes, Hearts trusting in the vote That once decided their fate. Now, they swing on a tightrope — Fifty years, Two ruling parties, One living hell. No surprise. Awareness flickers faintly — Like promises of the party, Now burnt into waxy lies Around the flame's dark ring. Look close enough, Past the light of the sun, And you will see. Every father's ambition — Born twenty-six years ago — For his son to rise in equality, Quashed yet again By the political elite. The only difference now? The colour of skin Of those who eat. Up in flames — Hope, Dreams, Belief, Existential promises, Filial ambitions — All burnt into the sky. Meaningless and lost. Silent tears Fall into their hearts. And when unrequited love Turns to hate — Everything will disintegrate. And the same people Will suffer again. And again.

The poem

Cold winds bustling through — Thief of warmth, Marauding aimlessly Across my cheek, Exposing the path Of a silent tear. A stark sun Pinned to a crisp blue sky, My eyes squinting Into the dry horizon — A landscape of death and decay. Dry leaves scatter Like they still had purpose, Yet their usefulness Long passed. Winter blues. Lifeless. Deceased. Like someone Just Stopped the world.

The poem

Oh Lord, I'm drinking again. It seems to be a go-to friend in the storm that comes every day now. Standing with my chest out— just a man, again. A semblance of ego, long understood, long ago. I met people on a higher plane— symbols of the distance gained through pain and persistence. Three weeks in the bubble, and all it revealed was a reflection: the trap designed for the man I used to be. I trust my usher— my pain-body close, a constant companion: cold, secure, bright. Pure fire. A key to the vibrations of the world. Left in the dark, I displaced you without your torch. I tripped on unseen steps, ignored your gentle voice, the touch on my face. I'm sorry, my friend. But here we go— again.

The poem

Cardboard supported the soles of her shoes As she walked 5 miles to work And back home after smiling sweetly at the banks customers all day Came home made dinner And did the dishes afterwards While dad was out drinking Again Bathed us kids homework done Before retiring to her knitting needles Winter was coming Low cost jerseys for us Money was tight Kids got sweets once a month Sherbet, apricot double decker and a fish Just after payday School uniforms from the second-hand shop Shoes from the Bata reject shop She was hard when we were weak or falling Strong when supporting our dreams When I am failing Its her strength I invoke her strong words in my head When I am winning it her encouraging voice that keeps my focus Angels come in many forms Nothing more true than the love of a mother for a child So all mothers who set themselves aside for a child it is our creator acting with you selflessness true love without expectation without a measure without an end

The poem

Bright are the stars across the night sky. Some look like them—but are only souls that mesmerise us, flashes of light, visual and audible ecstasy. These same people speak of love while thinking of dinner at the same time. Quick-witted, slow in consequence. Consistently inconsistent. Recovery reduced to a quick flow of words, once exposed. I reach for the moon, set sail for Mars. I sit on my own, heal my scars. I watch the people of the world running from place to place, learning—slowly—how to be still, how to be free. The place I run to is the place I've known since I was three. It began beneath the oaks. Now it's far away—a simple red planet. My body is not needed where love would not be defended with a life. A love you would not die for is not a love you will sustain. A love that does not challenge who you are is not a love that will endure. A love that does not make you afraid of losing them tomorrow is a love only passing through. But a love that sees your future expanding beyond being a man or a woman— that becomes magical. That is a love to hold onto.

The poem

People in their worlds, ensconced yet free, just as it is planned. Focused on existence, living one breath at a time, one heartbeat in front of another. Simplicity — the key. Driving into the wilderness of unconscious thought. Blind. Truth, pain, and love just moments away. But like a leaf on water, the wind makes a future. Is it destiny, or sequence, or something ordained? Conscious consciousness — or simply a place to be free of what should be done, or might have become. Consciously unconscious: a choice to live on the banks of the river of life while standing in the middle of the stream, deflecting or absorbing. But still — ice skating over the beautiful beings this world has birthed. Experiencing their hearts, their lives, in the instant of a look through my own eyes. Feeling others' pain, hurt, joy, ecstasy — and most of all, the hope in their hearts. Unconscious consciousness. Conscious unconsciousness. The same coin. The same outcome. But different.

The poem

There is a point when the distance between reality and its changing form becomes a real challenge. Especially when you have stabilised your own by understanding its impermanence. It is then a fusion of moment and momentum, rising above its deathly reliance. Freedom, then, is not believing in any reality— but being free to witness the unfolding destiny that is yours, and yours alone. Frustrated by the chitter chatter of beings subscribing to the reality around them— a fixed reality, borne of projection and mostly decay. It is a pivotal moment: Tempted to fit in, not be the outsider, to express the frustration— or to accept that people have their own paths, and be one with them, encouraging them to contest the frontiers they face with grace and the magnification of their dignity.