No Love [Rev]

So why shouldn’t I be the most humble person in
our bureaucracy of work - that I’m even tolerated
in such an environment is miraculous - and even
aught to relish the fact a complete weirdo like me
is privileged to have a government post; why try

Disguising truth that numbers & figures confuse
me - why claim to be a successful administrator
given my success rate trail is as shallow as can
go, and why be upset about my being so honest
when confronted by our local Holy Firebrand, the

Reincarnation of Torquemada himself, and already
burning all people who dare to smoke & those with
tattoos in fire and brimstone; why do you want me
stand steadfast in such attacks - why can’t I admit
all the sins someone like her ascribes to me: that

I exonerate murderers and such-like, & never had
problems with smokers or tattooed bodies, a down-
town man with a cigarette behind one ear does not
bother me - I look at what’s inside, in the mind as
expressed by the voice, look at facial expression -

Our Holy Sister’s use of a little-girl-voice & facial
expression of disgust when she sees things she
disapproves of… I hear that - and see no love…

[Sunday 30 April 2017]

[Why should I put on an act when other people simper
and smirk their way through life?]

I’ve Got Your Back [Rev]

In his dying process my father was different from
what I’d been told to accept about him, everything
I’ve seen & experienced with my own eyes, even
in previous times - differed from what they’d said;
yes, I’d been there, when every time he opened
his mouth, my mother stopped him in shock

And yes, memories of us kids being ashamed of
him - BUT its because he was always stopped by
mother, filtered through Grandma Margaret Alice;
my personal dealings with him revealed another
person: he was squeaky clean without access to
shower or bath beyond a washcloth and soap

He was totally dependable & loyal & loveable, &
yes - I’ve memories of being so ashamed of him
as he taught Sunday school class, but who in hell
got him into such an alien & unnatural role given
his honest and forthright nature - tonight I cry for
having to suffer the perception he was dirty

Simply because mom made him out as such just
because she commandeered his pension money
and he came back angry and confused - all

I want to say is – dad, I’ve got your back…

Rolling Out Notes [Rev]

As the Snow-Queen admitted, the storm’s raging inside me,

the world forms the screen on which I project these feelings

clouding my spirit with inexpressible longing; it’s a harrowing

swim beneath deep emotions, tossed about without pause to

breathe - the surface such a long way off & I keep sinking -

Internal darkness becomes overwhelming, the storm is not

abating; as the hurricane’s origins are lost, wild winds can’t

stop throwing me about on land - I drown out the sound of

inane laughter, tumbling within the glow of spinning spirals

left by a bass guitar rolling out notes circling each other, my

Feelings inter-circle too, need to find new thoughts of deeds

and challenges to colour my monochrome, one-dimensional

life in mercurial dreams; life is stale after the grand finale of

dad’s death, his Stoicism as life ground to a halt, he was as

grand as a King and the accusations levelled against him all

Came to naught; proud, defiant he refused help until the end,

an adrenaline-event - taking leave of a glorious human being,

now an inner storm builds with waves of vague thought & un-

named feelings – thus I project my inner turmoil on work and

the quiet hours beyond…

[Wednesday 26 April 2017]

Perfect For Me

Every time I look at dad’s photo as a young man,

my psyche registers something, how he’s humbled

by the privilege having 5 kids with all their fingers,

toes and minds intact – even if the interaction in

the house destroyed happy thoughts; dad did select

a mother who introduced us to authors: Langenhoven,

Charlottle Brontë & Jane Austen - he had done

something so wonderful –

And mom led by example = listening & playing Mozart,

Chopin and Beethoven on the piano, singing lullabies

and telling stories herself – even if she as the Queen of

Hearts when disobeyed tried to strangle the Duchess, my

twin sis, and shattered dad’s new radio when throwing a

brush at Peter Pan my naughty elder brother of 18 months

– dad so humble about everything, his Queenly wife and

Cinderella his mother-in-law,

His kids – since Dad was Conan the Barbarian, he enjoyed

his eldest son Attila the Hun, his goldy-locks son Peter Pan,

twin daughters Alice and the Duchess & his youngest Tom-

Thumb; never realising Alice experienced life like Snegourka,

the melting Russian Maiden of Ice, nor that our little Duchess

needed more love than she ever got; Conan was delighted

by Cinderella keeping  -

The house smelling so good, preparing better fare than ever

seen on the Food channel; - then I look at dad’s photo as an

88-year old man, handsome like Santa Clause with his white

beard and hair – and remember our Departmental Director

declaring - after staring at dad’s photo some time - I LOVE

that man –  with love welling up in me - the love felt when

taking care of him, watching him as he sat upright with

water on the lungs -

His feet on the floor – swollen and cold – his showing me

how to take suffering in one’s stride – and I was jealous

at times of his having completed the course of life I still

have to take – but I knew he had to leave as his hanging

on for my mother’s sake, enjoying her painting and music

and choirs, already took him way beyond what his body

could take; he had to offer her security as his love was

bigger than himself: people only saw him but as his

Daughter, his Alice In Wonderland – I saw his burning,

loving, passionate. loving heart inside; the bags of love

he carried for exquisite things like babies and small kids

and toys like steam trains, petrol-fuelled cars for us kids

and tape-recorders and teaching me to draw a sailing ship

– every map & sail I see proclaim my dad – oh please –

hear my song: David born on 25 May 1927 & died on 4

April 2017, my Dad - you were PERFECT to me…

Meditation On Dad's Mind [Rev]

Mom is agitated, speaks breathlessly, her voice
trembles - a loving autocratic religious fanatic,
but I could not stand her ravings as my dad was
dying - cutting her off when she tried to repeat
her endless stories in an acute religious fervour

I walked off when she watched the noisy pastor
with his gurgling, falling-about disciples receiving
a spirit or something, a huge show, but I cannot
stand concerts. Now mom’s lost without dad to
take care of, without dad to fill her refined world

With his raucous voice; and she misses him, his
sense of humour and irritating habit of switching
on his folk music far too loud, of listening to the
news at highest volume - & then there’s Daniel,
dad’s gardener who was more Dad’s close

Companion for whom dad prepared tea and sand-
wiches – Daniel still waters the garden & still sits
in his corner quietly, still remembers dad’s passion
for green, growing things - back to my meditation
on dad’s MIND wandering other dimensions

Angels And Holy Beings [Rev]

Emptiness, a sense of loss,

waking up every night not

knowing where I am - is it

how dad felt after the two

shots of morphine before

he died Tuesday night?

He was in pain - water in

the lungs, breathless, his

heart failing regular beat,

unable to recline, begging

for release; bring a knife,

slit my throat he gasped.

For the first time I could

cuddle him, hold him tight.

As breathing difficulties

increased, he sat upright,

his cold feet swollen. When

the district nurse came to

his bed, she cried as dad

resembled her own father

just before he died. Only

my brother-in-law had the

strength to lift dad when

he fell, and lifted him so

gently, my heart swelled.

When I found mom crying

next to dad’s bed, praying

that God please release

him from the suffering, his

laboured breathing, his not

eating for two weeks I sent

her off to rest and on turning

back, found dad had died -

still warm - pinkish - suddenly

white & quiet, animation gone.

I cried, held his hand in case

His spirit could “feel or see” me

honouring his body, my hands

identical to his, his face and feet

living in my kids and me: it was

over and I was ordered to leave,

feeling empty. I have one wish:

To meditate, focus my love on

his spirit and soul, his mind

confused by morphine; I shall

study the tradition of staying

next to a body all through the

night – and send requests

To loving, intelligent energy,

manifesting as angels and

holy beings, to take dad to

a place where his mind can

recuperate and he can find

his loved ones already there…

....Sunday 16 April 2017 Pretoria

[My father David Petrus Botha, born on 25 May 1927
in Melville, Johannesburg, died on Tuesday night
4 April 2017 in the rural town called “De Rust”
in the Western Cape, South Africa.]

Only The Spiritual

My crocodile dad’s gone - he faced the end
without fear - and he never shed a tear, his
eyes remained clear even when his leg was
swollen after his heavy fall; slowly he shuffled
everywhere, until then he

Used to be the Lone Ranger, inspiring such
fear that my haughty Duchess-sis, declared
she didn’t love him although I felt love over-
whelming for my beautiful, grey-haired-Santa-
Claus-look-alike crocodile dad

I could hold him and take care of him, the
biggest privilege and most wonderful time
I ever spent with him. He and I used to buy
midnight sweets when mom was away on
her missions… and he always

Remembered every injury of his 5 kids,
every trip to the hospital, every story he
embroidered at bedtime; he spoke of a
Private Detective who swindled Police
while investigating criminals - and

How he was threatened by that Private
Eye to hold his tongue… as his powers
failed dad just groaned, never complained,
never cried, never let on to mom how sore
he was until the end when he couldn’t

Breathe anymore & begged to be released
and then he was. I looked upon his waxen
face and emaciated fakir’s body rejoicing at
his release - he had been preparing to enter
a heaven of mom’s & the Bible’s

devising. I held his warm hand though his
spirit was gone and the Funeral Director
feared I might hit him when he came for
the body - but being my dad’s crocodile
kid, I was happy just to be

With what was left as his crocodile spirit
soared far away beyond physical sense
to a place where only the spiritual might
reach – maybe…

My Dad died Tuesday night 4 April 2017
aged 88 - of heart failure.