I’ve always loved haikus, limericks and all short poetry. This one I wrote in Grade 8 (at 14 years). It was an assignment from a teacher, who is now a colleague and reads this blog. The few drops of rain we’ve had reminded me of this poem.
We’ve had beautiful April sunsets lately. I hesitate to call it autumn, it still feels too much like summer.
These were taken April 1, 2017.
“Why don’t you blog about Zuma?” my sister asked.
Here is why.
On Sunday night I watched Carte Blanche‘s viewer poll suggesting 90% of the viewers thought the latest cabinet reshuffle was the last straw.
Unfortunately, I doubt it was. I will lend my support to #BlackMonday and April 7 stay-aways just in case, but I don’t believe anything is about to change.
Some days are harder than others. Or that’s how it is for me.
Truly, I wish I were one of those remarkably consistent people. Especially since I work with young people, consistency would have been not just handy, but logical and just. Alas, I don’t possess it.
A letter to the missing piece.
The first version of this poem was written when I was fifteen. Regrettably, it still applies.
This has nothing to do with politics or blasphemy. The time has come to speak harsh words about the murders of those who produce our food.
Words cannot describe the infinity of loss.
Sometimes reality is dubious to me.
Hennie Aucamp has a beautiful poem called ‘n Buurman Digteby (a close neighbour). The poem describes the presence of a ghost, presumably the awareness of death by whom we are all followed throughout life.
At times I’ve wondered if that ghost always stays in its place.