Nonsense Poetry: Bucky plays Hide and Seek

Mucky lucky bucky

Had a

Wobbly Bobbly Woe

Because

Doobly Deeply Reeby

Kept telling him to go

“Oh Go! Sweet lucky Boo”

Before ten counts me to two

If Reeby Doobly

Dee

Nom bobbly wobbly woe

If mucky finds he me

Then bye

 bye

woe

woe

Bye bye

Forever to bed you go. 

The Beautiful Woman

The beauty of the woman is gripping,

You watch as she sits in her marble throne.

Her bare splendour chains you to her bidding,

One glance and she chills you to the bone.

Her blond hair sits atop her head,

One strand falling down the nape of her neck.

Like a needle with a tail for a thread,

Like a cyclone, havoc her beauty wrecks.

With every breath, she whirls her observer’s heart,

For it is a man, caught in her snare.

He was trapped from the start,

Her beauty almost too much to bear.

And still she continues to breathe.

And breathe.

And breathe.

My South Africa

                                                                            

It is the yellow which signifies generosity. It is the white which signifies peace and honesty. It is the red; hardiness, bravery, strength and bloodshed. It is the blue; vigilance, truth, loyalty, perseverance, justice and the open blue skies. It is the green; hope, joy and love for the land. And it is the black; determination.

My South Africa is a country that has one race which is South African. It is a place where every single person knows the meaning of our national anthem and where diversity is welcomed, not chased away by the hate and cruelty of xenophobia. My South Africa is a place where people can invite complete strangers into their homes to eat a meal with their families.

My South Africa is a hospital with a doctor who was the top in his class, not one who was chosen because of his skin colour. It is a school with students who work relentlessly to achieve good results. It is not a crumbling building in Khayelitsha whose learners sit back and accept mediocrity. My South Africa is a country where all students know that were you come from does not define who you are.

My South Africa is a place where a woman can walk down a street, in the dark, safely. It is a place where every household owns recycling bins. It is a country where the white people can pronounce ‘Zimkhitha’ without changing it to ‘Patience’ because of their foolish pride. My South Africa is where every single child owns at least one schoolbook and a pair of school shoes.

My South Africa is not a parliament’s assembly who passes a secrecy bill for the government. It is not the xenophobic attacks fuelled from jealousy and fear of the unknown. It is not the Afrikaans farmers who pay their workers with alcohol as it is not the workers who spend their earnings on a couple of ‘dops’. It is not the many rape-victims or the mangy, starving dogs that live on the side of the road. My South Africa does not divide people in any way.

My South Africa does not have politicians infected by corruption. It does not boast democracy when a great many children and women’s rights are silenced by offenders who go unpunished. It does not shackle its’ population with poverty because of the unavailability of education. My South Africa does not have leaders who use the poor to hide behind. 

My South Africa is a place that I would be proud to call home. It is a label I would gladly wear. My South Africa is a rainbow nation of people who are unique but not selfish. It has citizens who stand up for their rights and understand their responsibilities. My South Africa holds fifty million people who eat supper and sleep in a warm bed every night.

My South Africa is a haven of rich culture and boundless nature. It holds rugged beauty in its landscape and an untamed freedom that crashes on its shores and froths in its oceans.

My South Africa is home.

The Pianist

Her fingers were poised above the keys,
Black on white they bowed before her.
Skin crawling with the expectation of a hidden crowd,
Though veiled by darkness, the whispering was unusually loud.  

However her ears didn’t hear,
The conversations all around,  
Her eyes didn’t see,
The faces that needn’t be found.

Then without warning her performance begun,
She ended the noise, like death ends execution.
This musician becomes a translator,
Interpreting the complex language of her composer.

She threw herself at the piano,
His battle cry rang out,
She could feel the composer’s fury,
She could hear him shout.  

And then as quick as the onslaught, his anger did subside,
Her hands touched and palms kissed as they arrived.
However the reunion was bitter, she could taste his misery,
Tears trickled down her cheeks as she described such agony.

But as the composition came to an end,
She allowed some happiness to filter into the sound.
In this piece he would be remembered forever.
She stood, and applause came from all around.

Give and Take II

I gave everything to you.
You took it without a thought.

My love, my life, the air I breathe,
Everything that belonged to me you sought.

You watched me watch you every day.
You took my will to leave.

I gave you my love; I’m left with obsession.
To that you did agree.

Some take it as infatuation,
They say it’ll die out soon.

But the thing that took my freedom,
Forced me to give everything to you.

Give me back my will to breathe,
No, second thought, do not.

Without you I do not care,
You are all I’ve got.

What I give to you,
Is all I’ve got to give.

I’d rather have you take from me,
I do not need anything else to live.

Some might call you evil,
Some take to you with regret.

Then I too am selfish,
For everything you have I get.

Give and Take I

When you give to the one you love,
You usually give too much.

I guess it’s simply human nature,
To give and give, as such.

And when you give so much it hurts.
What is there to gain?

Some won’t understand why you do it.
When all you get is pain.

So now I ask; why even bother?

You do not know,
You cannot answer.

You simply will not stop.

Gone.

Beautiful baby

With skin as black as charcoal

Eyes as bright as his soul

Belly as empty as his bowl

Is he not worth it?

Big boy

Angry at the world

Innocent fist curled

No education,

No justice,

Just a fatal illness

Is he not worth it?

Monster of a Man

Raping a white missus

Sentenced to a life in prison

He is no longer worth it.

Dead gang victim.

Gone.  

The Man

My class had been given five minutes to come down to the Thomson Hall to look at the Art Exhibition, which was in complete chaos, as usual.

Pieces of art stuck to the large cork boards like beads of sweat on the foreheads of the many labourers who had toiled stressfully to finish their work on time.

I stood before a particular station and examined an artwork with speechless admiration and a twinge of envy because my clumsy fingers could never achieve such a picture of perfection. The background of the portrait was a warm hue of golden light. An orbit of shimmering silver liquid rose to part the hazy morning air.

Beams of light streaked across the dark sky signalling the morning to all the land.

A figure stood in the centre of the picture. Charcoal black skin glistened with blood and sweat.

His body, rugged and powerful, looked as if it had been moulded from Black Onyx. Tendons of muscle and tissue wrapped around his limbs like cord around the neck and tail of an arrow.

He had broad shoulders that could carry the weight of the world if he had the desire to do so.

He was a beast, but a beautiful one. His raw power commanded attention, his naked stance, both daunting and riveting, commanded respect.

His face was hidden and therefore his identity was a mystery. Who is this man? I wondered, A god? A warrior?

His arms were stretched, reaching for the sun. His open gesture welcomed the light. I could tell by the taut muscles in his neck that he was anxious for the nigh to end.

This piece of art was an allegory. It symbolised new beginnings. It pulsated with the eagerness of a better day, a brighter tomorrow.

However, there was another aspect to this emblem. A mountain jutted out of the earth and overshadowed the man. Suddenly, his magnificence shrivelled up to nothing more than an exhausted desperation.

The light, though hindered by this great body of darkness, would continue to rise.

The man understood that the sun did not rise for him. He had no control over the giant star that brought day after day to the land.

He knew that whatever he did, whatever he said or thought, nothing would stop this process of day and night.

Not even the mountain that stood in his way could hamper this transition.

The man watched the sun rise and I noticed a pool of blood stain the earth below his feet. This, I assumed, was the blood of his victims.

His new morning, tainted by the mistakes of yesterday.

A picture really can paint a thousand words, I thought, trudging to my next class.  

Masterpiece of Madness

Thick black paint streaks across a bleached canvas. The colour is suffocating as it clings to the clean material of the canvas.  It slashes the calm white and leaves an open wound of bubbling molten Tourmaline that spits and hisses in a scorching protest.

The artist hears this and smears the paint back across her backdrop. Thin crossed eyebrows create waves of furrows over her forehead as she drags her paintbrush through the throbbing wound in frustration.  

She dunks her instrument into a gooey blob of vibrant yellow and splashes it onto the black before running her fingers through the ugly mess before her

She is a conductor; desperately trying to guide an orchestra of colour into collaborating to produce a masterpiece. But oh how they protest! Oh how they wiggle and squirm across the pale backdrop now soiled by warped creativity. Her expression transforms from dissatisfaction to distress as her vision of beauty slips away from her oily fingers.

She knows what she wants. She can see the idea as clearly as if it stood before her with its hand outstretched beckoning to her. But she cannot capture it. Her mind surpasses her abilities and the limitations of her capabilities are overwhelming as they restrain her.

 She spins around and jerkily runs her hand through her knotted hair seemingly unaware of the trail of sticky tangles she leaves behind.

“Red,” she mutters to herself and grabs another brush that shivers in her grimy fist.

There is nothing serene about this moment. There is nothing composed about constructing art. True inspiration has the ability to possess any who attempt to work with it. Inspiration is violent and desperate and can reduce a rational mind to raw madness if it is fierce enough.

However there is something beautiful to be found in the few measly moments of pure artistic form. There is something genuine and wild and striking about watching chaos transform into flawless design.

It is the talent; the ability to create perfection in a moment, without practice, without help, that is so appealing. 

It takes madness to create magnificence. This truth is found in the bloody ear of a man murdered by his own revolver. It is found in the hallucinations and nightmares belonging to The Scream. It sits under the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel wailing soundlessly. In 1955 it was found jumping out of a building from the 11^th floor which had the most exquisite view of France.

It takes nothing more than a moment to create a masterpiece… a moment of pure madness.  

If

If I could see love, how would it look?

Would it be long, thin, and knotted in places?

Like one of my old, overused, muddy shoelaces?

Would it be soggy and flat?

Like when the dog chewed on my fathers fishing hat?

Or would it look like my thick homework book?

If I could see love, how would it look?

If I could taste love, what would its flavor be?

Would it be the first glass of wine I was given at twenty-one?

Or at the office when I ate my delicious hot cross bun?

Would it be the cake I cut at my wedding?

Or when I was pregnant and ate nothing but packets of that cheesy fling?

I’m almost positive love would be sweet. Don’t you agree?

If I could taste love, what would its flavor be?

If I could touch love, how would it feel?

Would it be like hugging my child before he decided to leave home?

Would it be like holding my husband’s hand as we walked through a flowered dome?

Would it feel like gravel? Or glass?

Would it feel like bone? Or brass?

Would it be the proud-ness I felt when my husband and I kissed our first grandchild, snatching her out of the arms of her dad Neil?

If I could touch love, how would it feel?

If love could breathe and talk, which person would it be?

That question however is definitely the most easy,

It would be the old man, in his worn-down chair, wearing the paper hat he had gotten as a present from our grandchild Kerry. Snoring quietly as the day came to an end.

If love could breathe and talk, which person would it be?

It would be the old man sitting opposite me. 

Blade in Vain

You don’t know what it is like to feel dirty. To feel ugly. To feel controlled. Look at me, what do you see, tell me, what do you see? Because to truly understand this kind of addiction; you need to face the outcome, without fear, without disgust.

So look at me.

I am the result of society. I am the product of human opinions, judgements and ideologies. You look away now, because the guilt begins to tug at your brain. You don’t want to see me, because my ugliness only reflects you. But I ask, look again, and look again you do, because humans, humans are inquisitive.

You see the cuts. Do they make you shudder? Do they cut-cut-cut at your pretty little picture of what is right and wrong? Do they ooze over your contorted version of reality? Have you ever put blade to skin? Have you ever felt the release of blood? Warm and thick. It makes you feel in control, like you have a say over yourself.

But the truth is you have no power. You are weak. We are all weak. Without our technology and our smart books and our petty concept of security we would be destroyed. But what they don’t tell you, is that what we think protects us, is actually the very thing that is destroying us, slowly, painfully.

And you choose to ignore it. Because you can’t face it. Well I have. I’ve faced what all you ‘smart’ people hide from. And I failed. Just like you all will eventually.

So lock me away, 

Drug me up, 

Tie me up. 

Wish to put me down like you would your weak injured dog.

Would that make you feel powerful? You look away now, ashamed, embarrassed. Because your thoughts were ‘wrong’. Not civilised. 

Well. Let me tell you this, our world, our humanity, our lives that we live desperately just to speed up the process of death. 

None of it is civilised.

My, my, now I know I’m making you squirm.  

Here Comes The Bride

Little fingers that belong to small hands are knotted together. A silver bracelet hangs from one wrist. The charm, a tiny oval diamond, sparkles in the sunlight like a beacon of a lighthouse, advising the skippers to steer away from the tower and the dress of treacherous coastal rocks it wears so warily.

Small feet inside little white slippers are barely visible beneath the silk wedding dress. The expensive fabric affectionately wraps around the waist and then falls to the floor in finely draped layers. The bride’s arms, shoulders and neck are swathed in exquisite cream Brussels lace. The appliqué design is painted over her fair skin. The pattern of different flowers in bloom gives this Gibson girl the look of a porcelain doll.

Long black eyelashes curve up to reveal polished sapphire jewels. Each eyebrow has been meticulously shaped to form the perfect arc. Golden blond hair sits atop her head like a halo resting upon the head of an angel. 

She is Cinderella today. Her prince, a modest dentist, stands waiting at the altar. This humble church has become a grand castle where they will dance until midnight. Two sets of aged wooden windows transform into extravagant Picture windows with polished emerald Tiffany glass. The crumbling brick walls become vast stone-cut hallways.    

This Cinderella smiles and blushes slightly. Her cheeks shade pink. Three little mice holding baskets of white rose petals shuffle along in front of her. Their eager little fingers snatch the petals and throw them at the ground before taking a step forward and beginning the ritual all over again.

The band plays hastily but she does not quicken her stride. The eyes watching try to push her forward but she is content at her pace. Everyone is afraid. Maybe she is uncertain? Maybe she will decide to leave her prince and not go through with it? Their thoughts, though silent, seemed to shout at her.

But she does not notice. Because she knows, as she keeps her steady gaze on her soon-to-be husband, that he will wait as long as he must. She knows, as she walks down the aisle, that these steps are the final words of a chapter she is about to leave. She saviours the memories of the characters she encountered. And as she takes the final steps to meet her prince, she feels a page turning. She welcomes the new chapter, excited to begin it.