write

This
is the online version of the piece about Flickr which was published in the magazine Charged SA along with one of my photos plus a few others I selected from the site.

Am working on another article for the December issue as we speak….

i started a new blog to post my poems and photographs together, and i’m just randomly adding old stuff to it as and when.

a friend who saw the new blog address on facebook read one of the poems from when i was really down and depressed a while back and he emailed me full of concern:

‘sheesh! are you alright? need to talk??’

i had to laugh :)

_{i had a to write a 300 word story for a 4-year old as the ‘creative’ part of my prep for tomorrow’s job interview. i came up with the idea of this while battling a raging fever at 3 o clock this morning… can you tell? :D}

Last Tuesday a small green boy crawled out of a shell at the bottom of the ocean. His skin was the shade of mint tea, his hair and fingernails the colour of sour apples.

Where his legs ended he had fins. He breathed continuous silver bubbles like the beaded chain on a bath plug.

The boy drifted upwards, passing rainbow fish and waving at seahorses till he broke the surface. Looking around he saw a beach nearby. He swam towards it.

He noticed a girl sitting on a smooth rock trailing her toes in the water. She looked sad. He paddled over and said hello.

Ella was surprised to see the green boy. But she did not smile. Her aunt was setting out tea things nearby. Ella shifted her body to hide the boy from her aunt, who might not approve of green people. Her aunt was disapproving of many things.

The boy and Ella made friends. Ella made a pool for him among the rocks. The boy brought shells and starfish to decorate it. But Ella did not smile. He did dolphin dives and splashed her with his finny feet.

Ella smiled.

Then, she laughed.

Ella hadn’t laughed for a long time, not since her daddy had left.

Later, Ella took the boy home in a bottle filled with seawater. While she bathed, he played in the basin, blowing bubbles at her.

Ella laughed.

On Wednesday the boy was sick. Instead of being green he was dark blue. His fins were stiff. He couldn’t swim.

Ella knew she couldn’t keep her friend. She walked down to the beach and tipped him out of the bottle. He looked better right away. The boy and Ella smiled at each other.

He dived and brought up a piece of smooth green glass. He tossed this to Ella, who slipped it in her pocket. She would never forget the boy who had reminded her how to laugh.

Then he turned a somersault, dived under the waves, and vanished.

The End

A poem is playing
On the outskirts of my mind
I feel it. But will not look up just yet -
A sudden move will chase it far away.

Dangle a slow string of thoughts
To lure, entice it closer…
I want it! Perhaps I can trick it now,
Bring it a little nearer in to play.

The poem looks coyly up.
Tentatively takes one step towards -
Then freezes. Melts back to the safe,
Shadowy corners of my soul.

Perhaps if I sink down
And sit quite still, alone here in the dark,
It will come. One sound, one word, one phrase,
And curl up on my lap, and be whole.

You are like
The black coffee that you drink;
With your espresso eyes
And their eternally bottomless stare.

I cannot see
Your bitter mouth but think,
Imagine, wonder, if
There be any trace of sweetness there.

silly me, of course the links won’t work cos the robots think i’m trying to get business… ha, even though i make no money from these sites i just get paid to write the content…

ah well, i hope this doesn’t get me reported on city hall or whatever.

i’ll remove the links just in case…

EDITED:

My work blog is at a site called akuko.

The early posts were not by me even though my name now appears on all of them…

it’s mostly for link building and shit like that, but it’s more interesting than some of the stuff i have to write…

another one i’ve done is called “book cape town”

still busy with that one, and with one called”plastic-surgery”

not the most exciting stuff in the world but i love that i get paid to do nothing but write, and it’s good to know i can churn out stuff at a fairly good rate when i’m under pressure.

maybe one day i can use that for my own real writing…

one
false
step
will snap the slender twigs beneath my feet

one
wrong
move
will send the suspended egg out of the nest

free
fall
to
a
shattering mess below

like a nervous, novice tightrope walker
one look down could lead to
sudden death

i hold my breath.

stop.

statue-still.

the dampened flame is sputtering…
the tower of blocks is toppling…
the brittle bones are bending…

_how fragile we are
how fragile we are_

I can’t reach you.

Can’t make you smile or laugh.

You look through me as if I were not real, or worse -
With blank disinterest.
With disdain.

The more I long to touch you
The more you fade
and
slip
away

My fingers once entwined with yours
Can only feel the final brush of skin.

I try hold on to what we have.

And fail.

Like smoke or mist it curls up, spirals, out of reach, beyond my yearning hands.

Its frailty holds no substance here.

Come back.

Don’t leave.

Come back.

I cannot hold your gaze.
I sense the questions there and have no answers.
I see the pain and can no comfort give
Don’t look at me, please look away and take
My guilt. I cannot live with it.

Last night I fell asleep
Naked in your arms yet far away.
You did not see the tears as they were falling.
Yet now you see their shadows ‘neath my eyes.
I beg you please, don’t look at me that way.

While in the darkened room
We lay together till our passion, spent,
Crept away and left us worlds apart.
Not your face had I seen behind my eyelids
Another’s words had brought me sweet relief.

My heart is being wrenched
Between a love I know and one unknown
How can I choose the way when it lies hidden?
Whichever way I turn I will cause pain
Yet know I can’t go back once I have started.

I cannot hold your gaze.
Please ask me not what’s wrong, for words once spoken
Will spread and stain our lives like red wine spilled
Or blood, from wounds my answer will inflict
On four lives. Take this cup from me.

Inspired by this thread

here is

A Short Story

When they asked her why she had loved him so, her only defence was thus:

“He never used the word ‘while’ when ‘whilst’ was preferable”.