Moon Child of Myrrh: Circles

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I  AN INTRODUCTION
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Circle One: Elliot and Barkley East, Eastern Cape, South Africa

sometimes
this old house of dreams
runs from me
as if I am a ghost

Baptized

She stood before me deeply wounded, her eyes two burning torches. Who are you, oh tortured Soul? I am Magdalene; I am your Sorrow. And what do you carry in that urn? I carry your tears. My tears? Yes - these tears will feed an Ocean of Healing; waters which will wash away obstructions on your path. You will be baptized by one name: from now on you need no other name, but the name carrying your Sun: Myra.

She took the urn and tilted it ... Water spilled all over the meadows, evaporating to form clouds raining words, raining purple sweet peas hanging down the slopes ... gasping.

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I was born an Old Soul

When I was your age, I was very, very old.  

Younger and younger I become.

Soon I will be born again, a beam into Sun.

I was born an old soul, on a cold Friday night
and was given light years to recreate sight
from the ember of Him as a gift to my soul
I was brought back to virtue by wisdom of whole

And the longer I lived by the clock I turned back
to the sacred soul grown from each burden I lack

once again I will finally stand as his bride
reborn as young maiden on a cold Friday night


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Purple Moon

She stirred and rubbed her eyes.

A slight moonbeam fell into her cot. There was a straight line drawn down her arm, over her teddy bear, over her tjalie* and right over the bed of her parents, where it disappeared in the horizontal lines drawn on the bed covers by the half-opened blinds. Sleeping next to her, the two reassuring lumps in the semi-dark, breathing softly in sound rest, unaware that she was awake.

And then she saw the moon: a huge, round ball, hanging just above the shrub, right outside the window.

A silver mirror, shedding the myrrh of its Sun unto her. Salving her in light.

She stared into the chilly coziness of the silent eye, until she fell asleep again.

That would be the most early memory of her life to follow.

.
so dark the night sky
innocent morning is near
nothing can stop Sun


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Red Berries, Black Dreams


for you i wept
within small hours of my soul
whilst you slept

and now you sleep forever --
to put my heart
awakened soul
at rest


She was wandering around the new home, while the furniture was carried inside.

At the back door she found a shrub covered in red berries, which she immediately plucked and ate. She looked at the closed door. Inquisitive, she stood on her toes and reached for the knob ... She was too short! Of sheer frustration, she started to cry.

Pa Frans came running round the corner of the house. He hurriedly picked her up and after one glance, started to hook the berries from her mouth, angry at the bigger sisters who did not take care of her ...

The red berries were edible. But, she never ate of it again.
It caused black dreams.

.
Soft Moon of Frost

the cold kiss did not stay
it was buried with him that day

he locked her out
into the snow of night

let me in, my child
no words only eyes wild

the fast rub-a-dub of hearts
and souls came apart

tiny fingers feverishly tried
at last the latch gave way

she climbed inside and softly cried
and wiped the frost away

look, the moon she whispered
soon it will be full ...

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Cracked Mirrors

Her father stopped the car on the shoulder of the road.
There was a chilly, but shimmering silence hanging over the moors. Winter grass swayed lightly in the breeze. The sun was a bleak circle, slipping in and out of waves of dark clouds.

"Come, Myra," he encouraged her, keeping the door open. She slid down the front seat of the Pontiac, and stepped with her little black shoes unto the gravel. Her red coat flared around her red corduroy covered legs. Her red pixie-cap showed larger ears in the shadow at her feet. Her hands, covered in red woolen mittens, felt numb.

She looked out over the land.

All of her beautiful moors turned into cracked mirrors ... and the blue sky a cobalt canopy. On the horizon her mountains painted themselves into blank, barren lines ... black crayon curves.

Her father did not speak. He leaned to the bonnet of the shiny, black car, and lit a cigarette. He was a tall, slender man, with an intense, sharp stare and deep lines at the corners of his stern mouth.

She was silent, too.
She filed the feeling of loss forever inside her soul.

It was her first winter in Barkley-East. Her memories were starting to echo ancient dreams.

.
Killing Despair

Sometimes, somehow,
I cannot belong.
With all the effort
in the world ... not.

I sipped
this bitter elixir
knowing
not even the taste
is mine.
Neither is this waste
called life.

I would not heal from it.
I would not heal.
I would not.
Would I?

I
would.

It is lives
that die ...

not Love.

(I will cradle your words
and cry)
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Crayon Women

Late afternoon, with the sun falling in long beams through the kitchen window, into the darkening room. Outside oak leaves were falling, falling ...

She sat underneath the kitchen table, eating crayons. She knew the colors ... none taught her. She knew the kitchen cupboards were grass green. And so were the kitchen table legs. The wooden floor underneath her was brown, old and comforting.

She pulled the paper off the crayons and chewed the tips with her new teeth.

The kitchen was saturated in warmth and the fragrance of wax, for Melory, her half sister, almost the age of her mother, Ada, was melting crayons to make candles.

Dinah, the Xhosa maid, was singing Xhosa songs.

"Come, Myatjie!" her mother Ada's voice, "to bed with you!" And then, alarmed: "Now look, Melory, she ate the crayons! I told you to put it on the table!"

She was put to bed after her mouth and hands were wiped thoroughly.

...

She woke. The room was filled with crayon women. All-color women. Crazy women. They giggled and circled her. She saw the light outside, on the porch, and heard the laughter of her family. She was alone inside this circle of madness.

She screamed.

He burst into the room. Picked her up, held her close to his heart; cuddled her.

"There, there, Myatjie, hush now ...!"

The women disappeared.

"Thank you, Daddy", she sobbed against his shoulder ... without words.

.
Invitation

oh dear little leaf
will you Fall with me?
let's make this world
a memory ...
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Resisting Rules


They were sitting at the table, eating supper.

Dad picked her up, put her on the mantle-piece, stepped back.

"Jump, Myatjie!"

He did this before. It was not a new command. Stepping back, and on the command, JUMP, she flung herself towards him, and he ... catching her.
But. He stood further now. Solemn. Waiting.

She looked at him. Saw the seriousness of his eyes; the open arms; the encouraging, but stern smile.

She slowly sat down, and shook her head. Circles within circles, the orbs of eyes met in locked gaze.
Father. Child.

There was dead silence.

He then stepped forward and picked her up, kissed her forehead and without a word placed her back on her chair at the table.

None said a word. None looked at her.

None ever disobeyed a command by Pa Frans.

She just did.

She was two years old.
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Inside innocent Death

Early morning.

Some commotion. Pa Frans arrived with a buck. He, hunter, proud of his endeavor, spread his prey on the kitchen floor.

She woke ... laughter and some jokes somewhere in the house.

He sat at the kitchen table. Tired, but relaxed. Mug of coffee at hand. On seeing her, he slapped on his knee. She walked towards him, and he picked her up.

Mom is there; Dad, uncle Moonshine. None really noticed her.

She started to cry. Pa Frans, startled, stood up with her in his arms. Threw her up into the air, caught her.

"Ah. Hush, Myatjie".

He then bent down and put her in the empty cavity of the slaughtered buck.

No! she screamed without words, No! No! No!

Mom took her from the bizarre embrace.

"No, Frans, she does not like this".

She carried her to her bed, whispering: "Shhhh, Liefie, shhhhh ... alles reg.**"

Pa Frans gifted Mom with a handbag and a belt made of Springbok skin.


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First Journey

Did someone leave open the gate? She could walk right through ... over the bridge, and then could follow the curve of the train, far underneath her ... Right then she was on her way to the tennis court, which could have been very far or very near: for a small child of three distance and time does not matter.

Underneath the oak trees she followed the winding path. She stepped on a soft whisper of leaves. It was autumn of the year her father died. She came to a small, wooden house, covered with creepers. Fairies! She stood on her toes to look in through the window. Disappointment. Nothing but spades and rakes ...

She felt the mellowness of the autumn day, the shadows deep over the brown of decay. Saw the empty courts, the locked gates. A memory of balls in bounce, of shots' explosion against tennis rackets. How long did she stare, until she remembered to go home? But finally she did turn to go and picked up some acorns on her way back, placing them in the pocket of her red coat ...

On nearing the bridge, she saw a Xhosa man crossing. He was dressed in his traditional clothes: blanket and straw hat. He carried a rabbit in a small cage. He was between her and the house. She, suddenly afraid, sat down, crying. Nearer and nearer he came, until he stood in front of her. Toe maar, Nonnie, he said, ek sal jou nie seermaak nie.* He smiled, turned around and continued on his path. The rabbit sniffed ... his eyes shining, dark circles.

She jumped up, ran over the bridge, down the path, and finally: Home! None seemed to have missed her.

That was her first journey, alone. She was safely home.

.

*Hush, little Miss, I shall not hurt you.

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Two Towers, Two Weathercocks

two towers
two weathercocks
in constant dance

or frozen stance


The Barkley East house had two towers and two weathercocks. One could always see the direction of the wind.

Never fickle nor difficult, she learned to veer with the wind. A placid child, always silent, with much conversation going on inside, she observed and adapted. Where the wind went, she went ... Gale or breeze, with force or with tease, she was at ease.

She knew about snow and howling motion; about sharp, ice cold sun; about twigs drifting on sunbeams. About being aware.

And her soul would forever be captured in twin towers.

It was lonely, there. But somehow, it became comfortably home.

.

Whispers

oh wind!
within your echo ring
soft sighs of mine:
a child forever lonesome in heart's cry ...

I whisper you a poem
as whispers do
so softly in their echoes
twirled around themselves
they sing of hollowness and sound
so beautiful a sigh

a tremor
within emptiness

oh lovely solitude!
oh lovely Mute!
oh hollow sounds of dreams of yesterday ...
how sweet
its nothingness
of whispered silence and Love's lute
now lost within its vastness and its silent hues
forever this rebirth
of echoes echoes echoes
ne'er to die

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The Cinderella Ball

Mechanical engineer, brilliant.

Did the steel cast of the Barkley East Town Hall. Also designed the first bread machine in South Africa.

Mom introduced this machine at the East Londen Engineering Exhibition. She, beautiful and charming, sold many.

The little toddler stood at the dressing table. Ah. A packet of caramel creams: melt in the mouth good. Evening in Paris. Cobalt blue bottle ...

And the full flair skirt ... black, with golden circles, wheels, running on the seam line. The lurex evening gown. The lovely shimmering silver shoes. The black mohair bolero.

Mom could not attend the Yearly Ball. He was not there to take her, anymore.

It was never meant to be.

She later returned the lurex dress ... and got refunded. She needed the money.

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And then ... my father died

midnight inferno
devoured delicate dreams
stars falling to dust


He worked late, as usually. His workshop annexed to the house, but on a lower level: steps leading from the mouth which gulped him in the early morning hours, and spurted him out late at night.

She woke when he entered the house, door slammed behind him. She listened to the sounds of his footsteps: bathroom, passage, bedroom ... Wanting the comfort of a hug, she softly slipped from her bed.

He was in bed already, eyes closed, waiting for her mother who heated his food in the kitchen. She clambered up the bed without a word, and touched his arm gently.

His eyelids fluttered open. "Hallo, Myatjie," he whispered. She leaned forward, resting her forehead on his chest. Suddenly he twisted, gasped: "My arm is lame". gripping his left upper-arm.

And then he slept.
Her mother came into the room, carrying the tray with a plate of food.

Daddy is sleeping Mom, she said without words.

Her mother ran out into the snow, in that Bornman Street chill (she read the name in the Hymn Book, none told her ... she had known the letters half by heart before she could actually read) running to call the doctor, who lived on the opposite side of the road.

On her return, her shoulders and head were draped in snow.

.

the retraced rivulet, which gurgled
during spring my name
was brought to a sudden
! HALT !
freezing in the trailing tracks
of deers etched in the soft
pulps of moist undergrowth
( ... now it is only the lonely owl
sitting in his silence daring to recall
that black winter with short but sorrowful
sounds of foretelling - reflecting circled rings
of twin moons painted heavily in lifeless eyes)
she stepped out in the darkness of that night carrying
the coat of snow like a boa draped around
her shoulders: and then ... my father died.
The red poinsettia at the front gate
screamed in its perfection:
who
with unsteady hand
has painted black frames of pain on white entrances?

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A Monkey and a Ribbon

Morning in the house of auntie Anna. Oats and scrambled eggs, toast. Coffee in white cups. Somehow all managed to eat. She too.

How she slipped outside, she cannot say. Mom coughed constantly and cried ... constantly too. The house felt overcrowded. She found herself in the strange backyard: wreaths stacked in a corner.

She did not know of the monkey.

Suddenly it was upon her shoulder, his one little hand holding unto her hair, the other snatching her neatly tied, white ribbon. Mom replaced the ever-red ribbon with a beautiful, new, white one.

It was the day of the funeral. East Londen. Pa Frans was waiting to be put to rest.

She looked at the monkey, high up in the oak tree, fumbling with her ribbon, sending her quick gazes.

Goodbye, Ribbon.

.

Big, wooden gates, trees and strangers. Flowers on little beds, covered in marble stone. Neat little islands, in long rows.

Mom fainted. Was taken away. How did she get there? Who took her home?

At the gate, the bell of the ice cream man.

She stood amidst a forest of legs and shoes. She knew not what was tears and what raindrops. All the faces were wet in the sudden out pour.

She later learned she was four years old ... not 3 and a half, as Mom always told her. Four years and one month, to be exact.
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Reation

Don't you ever yawn
or frown?
His voice is somewhat sharp.

She laughs.

I cry, my love, I scream,
I howl,
I whisper, whimper and I weep
inside ...
It churns my blood;
it rips my veins apart;
it spasms through my heart ...


But when I'm shot
I smile ...

myra
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II CHILD ASIDE
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Circle Two: Glenheath, Ruiterbosch, district of Mossel Bay, EDEN region, Western Cape, South Africa
in progress


Witness

She observed nothing of the final tears. It simply did not make any difference: Pa Frans was dead and buried. Adults may be monstrous from the perspective of a four year old. Legs obstructed her view like trunks in a forest. None held her hand or paid attention to her. She was forgotten ... a silent witness.

The attorney drove the car to the family farm in the Southern Cape. Mother was fragile; she had pneumonia. They slept over along the way. She did not know the town. It had a hotel right on the national road. They arrived after sunset.

The four children shared a room with Mother. She slept first.

goodnight dear Mom it's time to sleep
tomorrow brings another day
the path is long the mountain steep
this world is not a place for play

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First Night

Oupa Koos and Ouma Issie welcomed them at the kitchen door of the small cottage at Glenheath, Ruiterbosch. All entered at the kitchen door, for the motor path led up to it. The front door opened on the other side of the rectangular house, overlooking the slopes and the mountains ... and the river* lined with white arum lilies. .

Ouma set out soetkoekies and ginger beer on the veranda. She also placed a little tea set on a plastic tray, the teapot filled with homemade lemonade. A little orchard formed part of the garden. The flowers were typical country garden: daffodils, floxglove, forget-me-nots, rambling roses, petunias, Christmas roses, buttercups, poppies, arum lilies, asters, camellia, chrysanthemum, dahlias, and daisies.

That night the four children slept in the pantry on a "Christmas bed" -- the house had only three bedrooms: Mom slept in the back room; uncle Dawid in the room on the veranda.

She loved the darkness. And the fragrance of milk and butter.

She slept until the rooster crowed at 4 am. Ouma started to sing softly some hymns in the kitchen. Later she heard the voice of Oupa reading from the Bible. Then they prayed together: first Ouma, and then Oupa. The fire in the Dover stove crackled. She heard the kitchen door creak. Oupa left to milk the cows.

----

Grandfather drank his early morning coffee bitter and black, and from his saucer. He was sitting in his deep chair on the veranda, next to the front door. He chuckled softly in his beard. His blue eyes shimmered with laughter. She sat at his feet, on the half-moon steps. He poked her with his walking stick until she giggled and jumped up, stepped aside, so that he could not reach her. The other children were still asleep, but she sat with Oupa: silent, content.

It was the first morning of the most important time of her entire life.

She watched the sunrise and listened to the birds: sparrows, now on their way to weave new nests, or to find food for their little ones. The doves were the most gentle birds and she loved listening to them.

They came later in the morning, when she was all alone on the veranda. They looked at her with soft, wet eyes.

She stared back without blinking, until her eyes burnt.

river raise

black rocks
gripped her small feet
when she crossed over

when the river raised
the roar pushed her back
to the whine of pine tree

only the frogs heard her cry
-- clear bird-call dissolved in flood --
mutilated by mountains:


Pappa! ... -pa!



--------

*Nowadays this river is a small trickle, due to the big dam built by the new owner of the subdivision higher up the slopes.This family farm is in the district of Mossel Bay, in the Southern Cape of South Africa.

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White Stone of Scorch

Day departed early at Glenheath. The small cottage, nestling against the slope, swiftly merged with the long shadows of pine trees and hills. Twilight was a magical time: apart from the incredible brightness of stars doming the farm, and birdsong sliding from ecstatic to rueful, Krismistorre (Christmas bugs) buzzed around, often clinging to grass blades and ... hair. She soon managed to locate and remove them, without squashing them in shudder. The small hands simply stripped their shivers from her hair, throwing them up into the air, to see the frantic take off. But they returned again and again, especially during the summer evenings.

The night arrived abruptly after twilight. The one moment a wonderland of mists and sundown's colorful haze, the next utter darkness. Nowhere darkness felt so velvety dark as at Glenheath; nowhere the stars sang so bright. That evening, however, a little fire sparked its flames into the soot of night. A speenvarkie (little pig) and a calf were slaughtered, and Ouma made some boerewors (farmer's sausage). Soon the mouthwatering aroma of sizzling meat filled the air. Roosterkoek (braai bread) with homemade butter and apricot jam and cooked green mealies completed the meal.

Afterward she stood staring at the mesmerizing glow of the dying fire. Why she picked up the ash-covered coal, she could not tell. Children do funny things.

That night she slept on the couch in the living room next to the bedroom of Oupa and Ouma, her right palm soaking in a little bowl filled with water and bicarbonate of soda.

Since then she realized that the diamonds of burning stars, hidden in coal, should best be left alone ...


A Child of Small Frame and not even Full Five

on a morning at glenheath and lost for all eyes
a child of small frame and not even full five
set out on a journey to find her own sun
got burnt for she fair skinned was having such fun

and dawid had preached for the cows on the glen
and the child was all speechless with wonder amen
and the sun had gone down and the moon was in rise
and the child of small frame was not even full five

on a magical night but so blind to all eyes
a child of small frame and not even full five
set out on a journey to find her own star
and she slipped on the ladder and got a deep scar

and grandpa had prayed in the kitchen all dark
and grandma had harmonized hymns by a lark
and an angel caught up and she joined to revive
the child of small frame and not even full five

in a dream at the glen filled with growth and with thrive
a child of small frame and not even full five
set out on a journey her diamond to search
she picked up a coal hurt her soft palm in scorch

and grandma put maize in cold water to sooth
her grandchild all sleepless with eyes wide of blue
and a child of small frame and not even full five
had begun to feel weary and somewhat too wise

had begun to feel weary and somewhat too wise

Author notes

My uncle Dawid preached for the cows after returning from the Second World War ...

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My Woodshed

It was an early day in spring; I was about 5 years old.

My mother visited a friend in Mossel Bay, at that time a small seaside town, about half an hour away from Ruiterbosch, where my grandfather's farm, Glenheath, was located.

The house of my mother's friend was situated on a hill. I wandered into the garden; I looked out over the sea ~ the view was splendid: the sea all around me. I looked down on the street ... there were no houses across the road, except further down I noticed the roof of a woodshed, lower than street level.

I gazed at the shed for a long time ... What would it be like inside? Would there be some place for me to enter? A window? A door? I was pulled towards this shed. I started to climb down the steps and I found myself in the street on the way to the shed, about 500 meters from the house where my mother visited.

On reaching the shed I entered by pushing aside some loose planks. I stepped into a wonder world! It was empty, but also not.
The floor was covered with straw; light was shining in beams through the tattered roof. There was a soft shadiness and a lovely silence which invited me to dance. I reached for the beams; sunlight playing over my arms ... I imagined gliding on the beams ... The sea was far away and forgotten.

It was my shed.

I don't know how long I played there; I don't remember anything about leaving there ... I went to look for it last year ~ I could not find it ...

Whenever I think of the woodshed, I think of me dancing with the sun. I think of the straw; the smell of old leaves; the soft aloneness ~ that magical privacy of a small child, mesmerized by simple play ...

SOFT LIGHT
(seasonal transition
winter yearning for spring
twin tree duet)

there is a tenderness
floating from the sky
a silver light
of memories that slowly die

it is not sun
nor lamp
nor star
it is moments
drifting drifting far

it is the light of a season's
soft
farewell
the twilight sound
the evening bell

ringing remembrance
of sweet jasmine
of frangipani humming
in the dying sky
_________________________
Lollipops and Beautiful Bubbles

Mother Ada had to farm to keep five mouths fed. Her hens delivered enough eggs to supply the market at Mossel Bay; the fruit trees in season kept her busy, too. Often the four children accompanied her on Saturdays, and played in the public park while she sold fruit, vegetables and eggs from the boot of the black Pontiac.

On one such an occasion Uncle Dawid went with. He bought each of the four little ones a wonderful king size lollipop: round, flat, with a swirl of multi-colours, neatly wrapped in white cellophane. The others ate theirs, but she decided to keep hers. It was so huge! She felt so privileged to carry it. But soon it was in the way. All were running around, tumbling on the grass and rolling down slopes; in full sway on swings or jumping up and down the merry-go-round; slipping down the slide; climbing on the climber frames.

She wanted to play too.

Come! Uncle Dawid called, it is time to go!

She needed just that ONCE down the slide! Just ONCE climbing up high and sliding down in gulps and giggles!

Catch, Uncle! she shrieked and threw the lollipop at him.

No, Mya, wait! Too late. The lollipop landed at his feet: shattered.

She did not cry.

She was too eager and he was not ready to catch.


___________________________
Where Rivers Now Run Dry

Where rivers now run dry, fairies used to air brush sky in soft portray and giants mold clay in bold apply, to form soft hills by drawing lines with pigments dug from wet of ground, while water washed in hyaline dye over the banks' embroidered slopes, where creepers, green in eager grope, climbed tree trunks toward golden sun.

Where rivers now run dry, a girl spun garland rings in fun, painted berries to lips and cheeks, sprinted along the winding stream, until the day became undone in crimson dream and coo, and outlines of the windblown clouds of white on sketchbook pages heaven blue, were traced and toned by silvery hue.

Where rivers now run dry, footprints whispered of a happy child, steps stenciled in smooth mud, ingrained moments in stone, wreathed round and round in ancient write by river and by rain's erode; but memory's turpentine has wiped the slate of time to barren cry ... where rivers now run dry.


_________________________

III TORMENT OF VIRTUE
_________________________

Circle Three: Port Elizabeth, Eastern Cape, South Africa
(in progress)

Wildflower Wreath

eyes cover sorrow
with pictures
of posy
blow turns to bloom
blue
to red rosy

quivers of teardrops
on lashes
recall
dew-strung
necklace
crimson of fall

wildflower wreath
hammock
of smiles
higher and higher
sway dreams
in sad while

white floret trumpet
of lily pure
laughter
sunshine forever
winter's
hereafter

Restoring Eden

The garden in Richard Street was no comparison to the orchard of Glenheath. But at least she could feast its fruits.

The little vineyard in the backyard was a lovely surprise. She used to eat the leaves in a ritualistic gesture of folding or rolling, before tasting the green, chewing the memories of grapes unseen.

The bananas came in clusters and fat fingers of short: hands held in semi-fists. Of course she could not climb the tree; the fruit was reached with a ladder resting against the rough garden wall next to the tree. She was not allowed to lift some fingers from the clench. The entire cluster was cut off and landed on the geyser, where it was left to ripen in the dark warmth. The flesh was as sweet as sugar and somewhat creamy.

In the corner of the small garden, there was a mulberry tree, which she could climb. The old fig tree did not carry in abundance, or perhaps someone else also visited to investigate if there was ripe fruit.

Of all the fruit the peaches were the the greatest disappointment. Mother being away often and not able to tend to the tree, and none else caring, it was infested by worms.

She had such a disgust for worms, always.

______________________
Cracked Cup

Mother often asked for tactile things: Mya, comb my hair; Mya, rub my legs; Please Mya, would you make me a cup of tea? How she needed inner comfort -- touch, to feel loved.

The child was silent and obedient. Old beyond her six years. She noticed the cup with the crack while setting a tray for her mother, who suffered depression and was often bedridden. Mya had known the set since she could remember. It was Checkoslovakian, and very fragile: mother-of-pearl colours -- subtle purples and blues and lovely soft silvers -- the rim of the cup and saucer lined with shimmering black.

The cup had a crack yes, but very faintly -- almost invisible. It was taken from the display cabinet in the dining-room and set aside, not presentable enough, for Mother was a perfectionist and somewhat houseproud. The rest of the set of twelve was neatly protected behind glass doors and only taken out on very special occasions. None were allowed to handle those cups.

But that cup, that rejected one, Mya could touch, turn around, look at and dream about. Ever so often she would forget all about the tea water boiling, and Mother waiting, while holding the cup in admiration. It was a wonder of refined craftsmanship: paper-thin and curved in beautiful elegance. Part of her somewhat forgotten German origin.

That cup was hers. She put it in the back of the corner cupboard in the kitchen, a cupboard more than 150 years old, and also a piece of their German legacy. An iron fork, part of a carving set, she hid in her room. It had the word STAHL engraved upon it. It was rejected too, because the prongs were not equal in length, due to age and use. None knew she had it and none really cared. It was but part of all the rejects in a normal household.

For her it held the magic of belonging; belonging to a country she never saw. Belonging to the father that she lost in the frost of Elliot, dying of a heart attack, with her sitting next to him. (Only later could she see the metaphoric meaning: since childhood she stood at a fork in the path -- and the resistance she had to the "forked tongue", so cleverly residing in the heart. And, without the knife, the fork had lesser meaning, as in widowhood or divorce ...)

A cup, cracked, to hold blue dreams; a fork, uneven, rusted and worn by time, to pierce truths. Not stolen articles, for how can one steal something belonging to blood and origin? No, cherished shields, merging fragility and strength: a porcelain cup and an iron fork.

On the day that her stepfather, enraged and intoxicated, broke the display cabinet with all of the cups, she did not cry. For she had the cup with the crack, that held her dreams; and the fork of truth, for protection.

That cup was not broken, due to its rejected long ago. Almost like Mother -- who was rejected often for her beauty and for her honesty. And for the fine crack in her soul ...

It was the only cup left from the entire set.

Mother cried when she saw it.

Keep it Myatjie, she said, it is yours.

It was hers since the beginning.

That cracked cup and iron fork are the only two things she inherited from her own father.
They are amongst her most treasured possessions, up to this day.

________________________
A Gracious Lady

~ Ada Maria ~

mother
i remember
the foyers of your eyes
leading to the chambers
inside your heart

i still charlston
in the dome
of your soul


Mother was a Gracious Lady.

She had only a few ensembles, complete with high-heals, hat and purse, but all were exquisite. She also had a lovely sway when walking: upright, but supple.

The seams of her dresses were neatly pressed, her shoes of good leather. She loved to wear gloves -- short and black, in leather, or white in lace. For evening dress she preferred long gloves, reaching to above her elbows, crunched in pattern. Of course, also black.

She had a real beauty spot, right at the place where stars faked theirs: next to her nose. Neat and cute.

She wore a very fine, gold watch: dainty in strap and in face, which usually rested on her pulse, for her arm was thin and her body frail. It kept time, but time could not keep her forever.

Her hats had veils -- accentuating mysterious eyes, green with gold flecks, but filled with laughter, and a beautiful, full mouth, in generous smile ... not always genuine. For: She could act. It was often such a joy to behold: the soft curve of her neck, the neat shoulder line and the way in which she shook her hair in self-conscious innocence.

Her hair was thick, and curly and shimmering -- dark chestnut with golden streaks. Sometimes she rolled it in a French roll, upstyle she called it, kept in place with a neat pin of dress diamonds.

Yes, Mother was a Gracious Lady. Mya admired her and loved her, as she would love a beautiful Dresden doll. For Mother was also delicate and vulnerable.

On the day that she cut holes into her beautiful shoes, from an earlier era, because she could not afford to have her bunions removed, Mya cried. She could not bear looking. It was even worse than later, when she only wore flat, formless slippers.

Poverty can be so ... common. Especially when one is a gracious lady.

_________________________
But for a Purple Memory

Winter is harsh this year
and summer will be scorching.
Believers and nonbelievers pray
for rain. The dams are almost empty.
They say it is a curse.
No theory, angst or even ignorance
can ignore the fact that our suffering
will become worse.
Hope dances in slow sway
and says:
Prepare for the dying day.

When did you last dance? he asked.
Whatever happened to Mya?

I am still the same. Truth is perverse,
and often ruthless in its mocking echoes.
God knows I will never tire of memories,
or to rehearse.
It gives me something, at least,
to lose to dementia.

But ever Love will carry me.

During the very cold winter months I often gather clothes from my closet for the poor. This act of love goes far into my past. Charity is something seen as shaming to most. I thus can understand why my mother did what she did ...

At a certain stage our preacher -- who wished to place us in foster care for her being constantly in hospital, and my stepfather retrenched -- brought us some old clothes, gathered from the congregation.

We were four children ... and then five. My mother, being very proud and hardworking when not in hospital, accepted this offering with gratitude, and we children rejoiced in each finding an own piece of clothing amongst those discarded by others. I was nine years old. My treasure was a beautiful, three-layered skirt, white, with a soft flower border on each layer.

My mother, however, in an act of love and of protection, dyed every single garment the same purple; she could afford only one sachet of colorant! The result turned out to be, for most I am sure, a ghastly color: almost purple black. We had no choice but to wear those garments. Dyed such, the clothes stood out: a poverty brand.

My poor mother! She so wanted not to have us walking around and someone pointing and say: That was my skirt (or sweater, or shorts). Finally, that is exactly what happened. Because of the obvious color, all stared in awareness of the effort to camouflage.

I will never forget my purple, three-layered skirt, though. I danced in it, barefoot, letting it flare around me like a ballet dress. I was a princess!

dancing in dyed swirl of dress
a memory, dark pleat, a purple flash
a brush of breeze to skin, to flesh
oh dancing in a moment gone
a recollection caught by sun

I will never stop loving my dearest mother Ada, whose efforts often turned out to be exactly the opposite of what she wished to achieve.

Now, after all these years, I recall this, and many other such incidents, with a giggle.
I still love dark purple ... and the poor will always be very near to my heart.

dancing in mortality
a memory, black stroke, a purple pulse
a brush of kiss to soul, a waltz
oh dancing in eternal sun
a recollection never gone

___________________

Beautiful Blue Sheen

She decided to paint a dream, but she had no paint and brushes, no canvas for her picture. She would make her own paint, to softly stroke it with her fingers on canvas gifted by creation.

She went down to the stream to sing:

Oh River of my Dreams
I need soft Sheen

So the river murmured to the bluebells on its banks:

Oh Flowers of her Dreams
she needs soft Sheen

And gently the river uprooted the flowers and brought to her the most beautiful blue flowers adrift in the swirl of its laughter. She put her small hands into the water, to let the flowers gently cling to her fingers. Then she brought it to her lips and kissed their soft petals, whispering:

Oh Flowers of my Dreams
I need soft Sheen

And then the flowers sighed unto the wind:

Oh Breeze of her Dreams
she needs soft Sheen

A playful breeze blew the flowers from her fingertips and dipped it into a shallow pool in a neat round hole in a rock at her feet.

Then the girl looked at the sun and lisped:

Oh Sun of my Dreams
I need soft Sheen

The sun smiled its warm smile and laughed unto the rays:

Oh Rays of her Dreams
she needs soft Sheen

With powerful tenderness the rays started to heat the water in the little pond and the petals gave off a lovely blue transparent ink, which colored the liquid with its lovely sheen.

She marveled at the ink and thought: I need a Canvas of Sheen, so she said:

Oh Clouds of my Dreams
I need a soft Canvas of Sheen

The clouds began to descend and stretched themselves at her feet
and she dipped her fingers into the ink and started to paint her dreams.

Then something wondrous happened: the clouds embraced her and lifted themselves from the earth with the beautiful blue dream in their hearts and took her with them forever and ever to rain the beautitul sheen of blue dreams for all this world to see.

At last: she found her Dream.

_________________________

IV TESTING THEORY
_________________________

Circle Four: Bird Street and Summerstrand, UPE, Port Elizabeth -- How to be a Social Worker
in progress

I am a Rag-doll Fairy

I was a doll
of coarse cloth
butterfly
transformed
to moth

my skin of textile remnants
my wings of webbed gauze
my hair of raffia tatters
my dress of cotton flaws
.
.
.

my skin became smooth shimmer
my wings turned to sheer silk
my hair soft as chinchilla
kiss by a handsome Prince

now I'm a doll
of crepe de chine
moth
transformed
to butterfly
_______________________
Of all the Things Lost

Of all the things lost I remember the blue tea set clearly. It was special. Very fragile, very old. There were six cups, six saucers. The cups were blueish white inside. Like the white of newborn eyes.

It was perfect -- that blue Dresden tea set.

I refused to take it.

But, after she won the case of custody, and after her divorce, she came to me. She stood before me with a little parcel in her hands: Please do not say NO again.

She was small and as fragile as the porcelain; lines of hypertension, sorrow and of emotional deprivation cracked her face.

I was not a Social Worker anymore. I was a mother-to-be: pregnant with my first child; my hands cupped my slightly protruding stomach, cherishing another gift.

Come inside, please.

I let her in without looking at the parcel. I knew what it was. She stood waiting for me to answer her gaze. The words spilled from her soul, and from tearing eyes: Thank you. She handed me the almost sacred gift I previously refused.

Whenever I saw the cups, years later, I thought of the pin pricks with which her husband tortured their two little babies. I heard their screams. I saw the agony in their eyes.

I am thankful that those cups, in all of their beauty, are gone. I know not what happened to the set. Yet, in memories it will be linked not only to delicacy and to beauty, but to destruction and agony ... and loss. And to the bitter cup from which we are all drinking, at one time or another, on this journey of hunger, and of thirst.


_________________________

V NICHE OF NURTURING
_________________________

Circle Five: Summerstrand, Port Elizabeth
In progress

Ballet of Collective Memory


feelings awakened to visible music
step-dance the starlight
of brilliant eyes
newborn these colourful fragments
of memories
dancing on agile and timeless keys

moved by the ballet
of brightness and brush
drifting a-dreaming on clairvoyant sound
six souls on canvas
the seventh is mine
their thoughts in my heart
and my heart in their minds

movement and music and colourful meaning
feelings awakened to visible music


_______________________________
Dreams of Frykenhuis
(for Johann)

what about the dreams
of Frykenhuis?

the wicked wind
is left untamed

the invisible garden

where wishes
nestle like birds
where ibises
echo bygone days
where lilies
lure serenity

fades amongst the forgotten

others will now build
the garden wall
will hinge the door
will listen to the ruffle
of Thor

and from the attic
others will watch
the unfolding

flare

of God




_________________________

VI PHOENIXED
_________________________

Circle Six: Herold's Bay, Southern Cape, South Africa
in progress


Canticle

Show them the wonder of the word.
Reach up, grasp, say:

Air is fair, now near is there

Look out, see, write:

Mountain-high your crest eyes spy

Look down, float, sing:

Rivers deep in hearts you seep


children mine be of divine
air is fair blue near is there
mountains high gray crests eyes spy
rivers deep in hearts you seep

go find the toy within the place
where mice and spiders reign
go find it in the tangled race
where minds are tucked in sane

Look up, look down, look far, look near
see the wonder gone all fear ...!

______________________________
She is Alive


She suffered manic depression -- nowadays, I believe, it is called bi-polar disorder. Yet, she was the most vivacious and lovable person I have ever known. Apart from her sporadic disappearance, when she was hospitalized, or her absent presence, because of ignorant psychiatric maltreatment, she was the soul of any gathering, the core of my entire being.

Of course I am her daughter: alike in many ways. So in my very heart and soul I am a social worker, a healer, a teacher, a preacher (thank you all for your patience in this respect), a laugher and a cryer par excellence. I thus became involved in all things creative and life-changing and vibrant: community development and upliftment, caring for the aged, the abused and the rejected, making something out of nothing, better still, without any money. Yes. I am her daughter.

This specific morning, when I entered Café Wien at 9 am to enjoy my usual on-the-house-cuppa (served especially every morning before opening time to me by my friend, the owner of the coffee shop, Leonora), my mother's favorite Jim Reeves song, True Love, played ... It was the first time since I left for home for University, that I heard any songs of him. I immediately asked Leonora where she got this music, and she could not tell me. She said it was the first time she heard it play ... that it must be one of the waitresses that had the CD ... I listened with nostalgia, for my mother was seriously ill in a hospital in Durban after a stroke. I had obligations that kept me from joining her -- unknown poets, adults and children, counting on me to exhibit their work. My mother would not have wanted it any other way. I had to set up a stall and none else could do it for me.

I found myself busy at a print shop about half an hour later, preparing for the KKNK, the National Arts Festival starting in Oudtshoorn the following day, when my son entered with a grave stare:

Mom, please come outside -- Dad wants to speak to you.

Sorry, Love, this will take another ten minutes; I cannot leave this printer now. What is the urgency?

Please, Mom, just come outside!

He turned around and left the shop.

My husband's face was sad. Mother? I whispered.
Myra, your mother passed away at 9 am. this morning.

It was April 1, 1998.

She was not dead. It was an April-fool joke -- her song playing for me, was a her joke on us for believing she was gone-- so typical of her! And so apt that she died during Easter time ...

When I phoned the Oudtshoorn Traffic Department to arrange for traffic officers to accompany the hearse on April 6, the day of her funeral, the officer said:

I am sorry, it is impossible -- all our officers will be busy -- there are thousands of people here attending the Festival, as you know.

On Monday, however, the hearse was accompanied not by one, but by a few traffic officers, appearing out of the blue. Alongside the entire route to the graveyard, festival goers stood, waiting in silence for her to pass. On her last journey she was honored: men removing hats, standing with bowed heads, mothers with children, teenagers, strangers and family members and friends. All united by His divine love, expressed by her throughout her life -- charming, compassionate, orderly -- greater than all the chaos caused by abuse, illness or sorrow.

Divine humor that overshadowed that April-fool joke.

____________________________
Asylum of your Eyes

Mother
your absence filled my entire world
with emptiness.

I tried to find you
in the asylum of your eyes,
gray, bare,
with neither tears nor smiles,
only twilight in your stare ...

and I, your midnight child,
unlit candles in sleepless eyes,
combing
combing
combing your lifeless hair.

But for a short while
yellow sunlight giggled its shimmer
in wordless wards ...

Mother
are you afraid? I asked
No, how could I fear?
Your answer soft, calm, serene.
I do not fear: God is near.

Laughter cried

when your arms became
womb again
and I was reborn
in joy and pain,

you here!

And then you died --
such soundless sigh ...

____________________________
The Comfort of an Angel

Since my mother died a few days previously, on April 1, 1998, I had no time to mourn. During the day I was very busy at the Klein Karoo National Kunstefees (KKNK). My stall, selling art, poetry on post cards and quaint little selections of creative writing of regional poets, was part of the Southern Cape Tourism section. I often had to tend to the adjoining stalls, too, answering questions of visitors to our region. The days were hot and hectic.

On April 5th, the day before the funeral, suppressed sorrow burst to the surface. I was at the restaurant in front of BOEKE-PARADYS, the bookshop of my friend, Leon du Plessis, when the loneliness amidst the crowd, and my very personal loss, suddenly overwhelmed me. A torrent of sobs followed - unstoppable and fierce. I forgot about the festival, the moment of now. I was a small child, clinging to the seam of my mother ...

Not aware of anything or anyone around me, I suddenly heard a voice saying: Riana. It was a male voice: strong, but gentle. I lifted my head and through my tears I saw a woman, who was just turning around, facing me. I recognized her as the South African writer, Riana Scheepers. Although I attended readings of her, I never before met her in person.

She came to me, alarmed, and put her arms around me, asking: Beautiful woman, what is wrong? I could not answer her. I cried and cried. Daniel Hugo -- poet, radio personality, and at that stage Riana's beloved companion -- questioned if everything was okay. Riana said she would catch up with him later. She stayed with me and comforted me.

After some minutes I was able to tell her my name and the reason for my sorrow. She smiled and said:
Do you know, you are only the second Myra I met; the first is my mother.
This is no coincidence then. I needed comfort.
She laughed. I am the very last person to comfort anyone. This is the first time I can remember doing it.

Who was that man calling you? I asked.
What man? Then she recalled. Oh yes, I heard him; but when I turned around, I only saw you, crying!

Riana ... do you believe in angels?
Oh yes, I do! Her response was immediate, and warm; tears welled in her eyes.

Riana and I will be forever linked to this shared experience of inexplicable wonderment in meeting.

Our God is great.

_________________________

VII JUGGLING LIGHT
_________________________
Circle Seven: Genevafontein, George, Western Cape ... and a world called Internet
in progress

No comparison

my navel is no wishing well
reminder small that I was born
and neatly tucked into a shell
to hold a sensual secret sworn

How the River is Life Itself ...

... and not the flat, lifeless water in pipes. Shimmers of stars falling into its depths at night, water becoming sky: reachable echo of All; a flow of daylight fun, breaking into trillions of tender sparks, sun-kissed transparency of wells from under and above.

Yes.

I love the River, too.

There a bug becomes a buzz of industrious simplicity; mud gives clay to form ocre-brown, grey-black dreams; frogs gnaw at heartstrings. And even the most dull pebbles become lustrified jewels.

Put your feet into the water, Poet, and feel the stanzas tickling your toes with soft, supple, rippling caresses.

Write:

whose toes are these
becoming punctuation marks
for River's fondling finger poem?

whose eyes become the bait
for clear delight?

or:

where do you take the tasty kiss
of skin
oh everlasting kissing stream?

where do you take this dream?

Now see what you have done ... A new write in the making.

________________________

Fourth Wall

Nothing ever brings that back
hidden in the vault, disgust.

Now the very key in lack

may the latch in click adjust.

But ... somewhere on yonder glen
Fairy Fae is dancing still.
Dancing, dancing written pen,
scribbled word on wall of chill.

Cryptic curse in charcoal scratched:
Eeni meeni mini mo ...

bosom where the snake is hatched:

who is friend and who is foe?

Turn to heart in hideous hide,

turn to mind in waiting pride.

Turn to soul in sacred slide:

ask for Truth, encrypt-replied.

Fallen all the walls of woe,

none can stand in Love's approach.

Written on the sky, aglow,

gentle onslaught in reproach.

Cryptic curse in charcoal scratched:

Eeni meeni mini mo ...

bosom where the snake is hatched:

this is friend and that is foe!

_______________________

Tar

.. and there I found it:
a smile set in tar
opposing the war
of a life in exile
without a song

who spilled a smile
in asphalt?
underfoot it giggled
and tried to wriggle it from gray
to become part of a sun-filled day

and my own impish star ...

I knelt down and kissed
the hydrocarbon ground
the smile kissed back
immediately the tar cracked
and a prince emerged
asking:

what took you so long?
____________________________
Alien A la Carte

I'll let you hear
yellow landscapes
dear
yes to your eyes
blue songs

I'll let you taste
green fragrances
dear
red poems
to golden tongue

and served on silver
platters
dear
words dance
to alien
clung
_________________________________
Pip

No, not Dickens, or the cabin boy in Moby-Dick or Pip the Troll ... or another imaginary hero of comics or cartoons; or fictional motions by pranching producers ...

Not the signs indicating ranks of godlike generals, or diseases of birds ...

But: pip as in copy or as in time signals letting seed sprout into new mutations ...

All squarely placed on the dot: multiplying life by itself.

My Muse is very selective.

_________________________________
Dodging Dreams

Watch your step, dodger of dreams!
You may fall in between
sleepless screams ...

Forgotten by tradition or type,
ancient ancestors or heroes
step from stories

to become a surprise ...
not to be evaded.

Do not surrender to a cultural cliché of suburbia;
to fiction or half-truths,
or ideas mocking ideologies:

especially not now
that you are about to find your roots
realizing the myth of Eros.

_____________________________`
Essential Act of Mercy

I wanted to write you a poem tonight ... but then I remember that no cyclamen could ever stay alive after I paid attention to their blooms.

I am merciful.

I shall rather go to bed and let my Muse entertain you.

Do not be amazed if you cannot write one single word; she may turn fingertips
to periwinkle.

_____________________________
One Sentence Only

Our connection could have been
simply an endless, talkative kiss, by parables of mouths,
or a magic pause, held within the punctuation of our eyes
and brows, but we, having the flair of true poets,
know how to extend our intercommunication with appositives,
interdependent and dependent clauses intermingled,
with special care to avoid run-ons,
comma splices and dangling modifiers;
keeping our parallel structures in mind
-- to be precise, to be caring, to be thorough --
our love is being expressed passionately
in one sentence only ...

________________________
Now tell me, Beloved ...

I am neither a user nor an abuser ...
there is a great deal of respect necessary
in handling cleaning agents like soap and detergents;
and non-abrasive cleaners for counters, floors
and showers.

Working with mechanical monsters, like stoves, dishwashers
and washing machines, and electrical appliances --
kettles, irons and mixers -- demand minor knowledge
replacing fuses and rewiring wires ... and so does
fixing the rubbers and fittings of decay
on taps, tubs and toilets.

Cooking cannot be done without ingredients,
appropriate apparatus;
and clean utensils ... and at least a working
knowledge of a healthy diet, vitamins and minerals,
and simple believing that heat and air destroy some
important micro elements ...

I have a pair of razor sharp sizzors. No, not metaphoric
for tongue, nails and teeth, but real sizzors ... able to cut
through thick plastic and thin tin ... I use it to expose
every morsel left in containers ... and spend hours
milking bottles upside-down for the last drop
of liquid detergent or protein enriched hair lotion ...

Now tell me, Beloved:
do you really think I shall disregard your heart
and soul, and the wondrous magical connectivity of your mind,
if I take such great care with saving on
all material levels?

Do you think I shall be benevolent
to that minute moment of an electrified kiss,
not boldly redirecting it
to bliss ...
or not recalling every single
default
of our love,
carefully reconstructing our passion?


Author notes

I am a woman ... but treat me like a machine, and I become ... a machine.
_______________________________
Adam of Eden's Eve

Husband, spoken softly,
as I would say God,
would never look at me oddly
if I should say:

No, I want nothing else for Christmas
but a rose of velvet red ...
He would nod,
and solemnly declare:
For you, my rose so rare,
I have a rose to spare ...

He would not frown
upon me if I pick the first twig
of jasmine, but would crown
me with the fragrant sprig,
while pressing to my lips a kiss:

Sweet September jasmine wife,
you are my spring flower,
my life ...

He would wake me with a lily
in a vase;
he would call me Silly,
and would hug me in embrace
and show me his forever love,
just in case I should doubt ...

See: it is not difficult to be
the ideal husband for me ...

I have no other want or need,
but being the Eve in my Eden,
freed.
____________________________
Off-guard

Open this gate, please. I was smiling.
She was standing behind a security gate, caught off-guard.
Why? The word whipped the late afternoon air.
I want to hug you.
I do not like hugs.

Disappearing into the house, she reappeared at another outside door.
I do not have the key to that door. She unlocked the security gate.

She is slight and simply deliciously insane.
I stood listening to her nonstop flow of words -- weird and deliberate in its shocking contradiction of orderly chatter.

Drenched in smoke, twirling from an ashtray on the carpet in the middle of the room, and afloat within her words, I stepped forward and hugged her. She did not push me away, but I felt the tension.

Shhhh I whispered and stepped back.

Speechless, she stared at me for a long time -- an enormous effort on her side.

Now look into my eyes.

She looked at me inquisitively.

I started to giggle. She joined in the freedom of happy sound.

I hugged her for the second time.

This time she relaxed.

I trust you with my words, she said.

The later summer afternoon turned to talkative silence while we sat together, muted by discovering our differences; finding high ways for the first -- and perhaps the last -- time.

Out of Season
Once there was this plant;
it could have been nothing else,
but a plant.

It grew exactly as predicted:
in early spring it presented
rare blooms.

Its fragrance never changed:
a slight, barely noticeable
reminder of perfume.

In winter and in summer
it bent its frame obediently
to the sun.

Then drought forced it to die
prematurely -- shedding its leaves
to the sterile soil.

Unexpectedly,
surrounding plants
perked up
paradoxically ...
contrary to the guiding paradigm
of growth.

Blossoms cascaded sweet whiffs,
swirling senses into sighs
of long forgotten

blooms in biomass,

breathing structuredness into
new freedom of sharing.

_____________________
Dream Tree

To enter a dream, aware of reality at rest and dream the quest, is a blissful state of subconscious alertness: sheer glee for an inquisitive soul. Thus, expectations arose when I entered the dream, wide-eyed and aware, to set sight on a flourishing, evergreen tree. Reaching high, it towered above the steep slope; in the dark soil, branch of river met branch of tree, when nimble hands dipped green fingers in flow's conversations of clarity.

Thinking of genealogy and of gallows, fig and forbidden fruit, I stood level with the tree -- amazed by my own height -- facing its top. My hair rustled in the breeze ... In tranquility the question surfaced: Am I a tree, too?

They were noisy and boisterous, the group of men appearing on the slope, carrying saws and attitudes. The rowdy discussion cut through serene thoughts. They were about to slay the dream tree! They descended, clinging to trunk and stepping on branches. When the last one joined the waiting group, they began their destructive action.

Rapidly this lofty tree was forced to surrender ... branch by branch. When the final disk of wood fell from the trunk, the men discovered they could not get back up the slope. Silently they began to fit disks of wood into soil to form steps ... Higher and higher they built the flight of steps, while ascending at a slow pace.

I left the dream before they reached the zenith ... utterly sad. But with the deep knowing: the Tree of Life, no matter how deprived and abused, will lead its offspring back to the River of Living Water ...


Between my sheets I found memories of tender, whispering green leaves ...

Author Notes

Real dream. Symbolic of all the efforts on this internet to slay my dream tree ...

___________________________
He brought

He brought to her sheep from
the hills up yonder,
for her to spin yarn
for his coat of wonder.
She sat at the spinning wheel
singing with spindle,
woolen-spun yarn wound in
love and sun's shimmer.

And soft on his skin from
her spinning wheel's splendor,
the cloth of her love
spun from pureness
to grandeur.
Back to the rambling hills
songs rang with whistle,
woolen-clad lad dressed in
love and sun's shimmer.

______________________________
The Fable of Meaningful Rules

He sat back, a playful yet intense gaze fixed upon her serious face.

"I want to ask you something."

She smiled inwardly at his approach. He knows the answer to the question. A probing soul. And she knows the question to the answer.

"You may."

She kept her face straight.

He leaned forward, his eyes receptors leading right into the Universe. He then spoke, his voice merely a whisper:

"The great kings and queens of a great planet ruling all galaxies, but our own, have always asked of their eldest heir before giving consent to that one ascending the throne, these five questions, for to answer one perfectly is to answer all perfectly, and to therefor be upon the threshold of the beginning of wisdom and its children, courage and mercy, who together are justice ... "

He paused.

Inside her a cool Breeze stirred and her soul is alert.

"I am listening," her eager gaze said.

"The tip of a flower petal, end -- or beginning of the sun?
Birth, gather of remarkable sums -- or beginning of death unraveling them?
Consummation of seeds and earth, flowers -- or life itself?
Why do we not sing songs before we have been sufficiently charmed?
Why is to answer one, to answer all?"

Her voice is a gentle murmur and her words rustling parchment:

"All is Love, because Life-Beginning is the King of all of these galaxies, including ours, and death -- with all of its faces -- is but the slave opening the door to Eternal Growth and Songs."

The luster of his eyes crowned her with adoration.

The gesture almost unnoticed, she slid the crown into His own.


M & M
______________________________
Cul-de-sac

A cul-de-sac leads nowhere else
but to the destination
predestined:

end for those blind

or
turn-around;

for some
a home in time.


Afrikaans version

'n Cul-de-sac lei nêrens anders heen
as na die bestemming
voortbestem:

einde vir dié blind

of
ommekeer;

vir sommiges 'n tydswoning.

From Cul-de-sac to Castle's track
Dedicated to all homeless souls

Remember when you walk the path
that leads to never-land,
there is a turn in aftermath
for those by this world banned.

So when you're lonely, tender heart
and shivering in your pain,
and blinded by life's fruitless start:
reach for the final gain.

Remember when you're caged by walls
or doors that shut in cul-de-sac,
there is a way to sacred halls,
castle replaces hobo shack.

So when you're lonely, tender soul
and shivering in your pain,
blind, searching eternal goal:
reach for golden domain ...

Reach for golden domain.


Afrikaans Version

Van Plakkershut tot Glanskasteel
Opgedra aan alle hawelose siele


Onthou dan op jou eensaam pad
wat na nêrens gaan,
daar is 'n ommekeer wat wag,
vir dié deur leef verban.

As jy alleen is, tere hart,
en bibberend deur pyn beklem,
verblind deur vrugtelose smart:
reik vir finale wen.

Onthou as mure jou inperk
of deure sluit in cul-de-sac,
daar is 'n weg na vryheidskerk,
kasteel vervang jou plakker-shack.

As jy alleen is, tere siel
en bibberend deur pyn beklem,
verblind, soekend na ewige heil:
die goue akker is afgepen ...

die goue akker is afgepen
__________________________
Hunter and Hound

in this life of hunt and hound
the tenderfoot
in amble
wanton and bare
may step into explentive
propensity to care
a guide dog
unaware

but nonrestrictive
natter
the fountainhead of twaddle
may separate mundane
yap yap
from resplendence yawn
of show dog's timeless fame

and graceful big borzoi
irritated and insane
may choke without admonition
the sleeping lapdog

yes, the nimble
bold
chihuahua toy

______________________
Starry Star and Shrugs

starry starry soul
roaming eyes to farther hills
sketching sobs and inner chills
darker now than dying daffodils

dirty cup so old
stars on porcelain coffee cold
drinking deep from bitter mug
life is such a lonely saddened shrug

hope you understand
what life tried to say to you
and how souls suffered for their sanity
how they tried to set hope free
while others would not see and hear
perhaps they'll hear and see:

starry Star so far
songs of love in gentle flight
looking out on sorrow's night
in shimmers lost to sight but gaining height

moments changing hue
first coal dark and now aflame
clarity in whispered Name
reaching out to lonely dying stars

now you understand
what life tried to say to you
while you suffered for your sanity
and how love tried to set you free
for in the changing of the landscape at the core
a dance began on marbled floor

for we could not grasp this
but the Dream shall never change
and with Hope burning inside
on a cold and lonely night
all shall surrender to unshaded Truth

but I could have told you Vincent
harsh death was never meant for anyone
as beautiful as you
___________________________________________
War Within

Some of us grief not the dead ... they grief the living;
and there is no ghost like the living dead.

I will only know entire wholeness
when it is not necessary for me to know anymore.
Discussing feelings may bring us
philosophies: God talks to us in our thoughts,
but we must be ready to hear and ready often means:
silent.

What better force to silence than sorrow?

Engulfed in deep sorrow I am, for I cannot reach
those truly needing me. For truths are only true
for those who experience them as truths.
And often the mind takes over when the heart
should have soothed in silence.
In prayer I know God strengthens the impact,
however feeble my efforts.

When does war turn silent?
When does the heart accept its
weakness?

The days of absence, never indicated in chapters,
tell us there is a life apart from living.
It is the yearning heart forever dying;
it is the broken moon forever crying;
it is the endless sea in unfulfilled embrace

unable to find the entrance
to the core of its holy harbor.

Beyond self there is finally the forgiveness.
The final Truth never left:
within the command to love
there is the gift of Love.

What we often miss in our lives is what we already have
but do not set free.

_________________________
Shutters and Doors

I left the shutter open. A swallow -- in full flight -- entered without intention and could not escape.

It was as if he could not follow the beams of light let into the dark room from the outside.

Instead I had to open the door to rescue him from breaking his neck against cold walls.
Now that both door and window are open, no bird visits me anymore.
Only twitters enter my world ... and mosquitoes.
_________________________
Name written by Pearls

Formed by affliction and by earth, she knew the stone was special, was art, with its gleam of sheen; its whispers of leaves of a special tree, of dry land, of ocean ... and of midnight sky. A stone to be kept in dreams, free of grime and garbage.

It is her birthday, and the stone is her gift: reminder of sorrow, overcome.

Mire and myrrh she endured, mud and smut, rejection and loss -- but with the precious stone, resting against the throb of her heart, she will never again suffer of skin deprivation.

None can ever take it from her, for it is a divine gift, of her and of God: her name etched in it. A name only she and God know of.

A name written by small white pearls, perfect in their tear-shaped splendor.

A moonstone, warm as the sun.

______________________________
Of Beginning and of End

{we all have those memories of arriving in a broken world with a song to sooth not knowing how yet we do}

the violin was placed in her hand long before she had known the sound of strings or stroke or technique synchronized with the black piano it held the light of its shadow

alone she stood playing sunlight within the dark of night and the violin cried for her soul mourning the depth of silence eternity at her fingertips and the bleeding blooms of whispering camellia in the suffering eden that awaited her

none saw the effort to open the gate to those shut out of the concerto none seemed to knew that the broken song was whole within the adagio of soft sighs

on golden locks moonlight was playing its own melody soft strokes the filigree of sight the hush of his embrace

and still the song goes on