Your Tumultuous Life (Revised)

First I’m blamed for being inappropriately keen
to leave while you claimed a need for ice; tho’ I
was prepared already I had to beg forgiveness,
explaining I was being inconsiderate, to help
reduce your mounting ire

Then you said, now we should leave, and I was
too slow reacting, you gave a speech about
my being unbecomingly slow whenever you
wanted to do anything – by that time
I was completely resigned

To the autocratic boss in you, I did not bother
with repartee, it is useless to anticipate your
taste; whatever I do, I’ll be in trouble again,
I might as well accept that you are bound to
blame me for whatever happens

In your tumultuous life…

Pack My Bag For A Trip To The Sea

I still haven’t learned how to say no
when food is pressed under my nose,
nobody held a gun to my head but I
still felt compelled to hold up my end
and consume more than I have room
for, a headache for my pains, rather
down in the mouth, all the fun gone

I wonder how more outgoing types
deal with the regret always felt after
going overboard, maybe it’s just some
of us who feel compelled to indulge
in feeling sorry for themselves after
a very singular event, it feels as if
I’m carrying the whole world

On my shoulders simply because I
couldn’t stop when offered chicken
wings with two sauces, after laughing
at Leon Schuster reels I fell back into
this feeling of malaise – now abiding
my time to get the right vibrations
back so I can laugh again

And pack my bag for a trip to the
sea, always a wondrous place 
to me…

As The Prophets Said I Should (Revised)

An accolade of full marks in my French exam,
paid a speeding fine smiling knowing nothing
can faze me now; simple, past and imperfect
verbs paid off their learning, I have the goods
displayed for attending class as our manager
required – a certificate, no less, proof of
hours spent concentrating, doing my best

Tomorrow I’ll finish the documents on my desk,
Friday its goodbye to my colleagues and friends
and a trip to the Cape – to criticise the people on
the beach sardonically, embarrass my kids by
rolling in the surf; this time I’m taking my French
Bible for character building since I’ve given up
on books - just as

The prophets said I should

Seemingly Good Beset By Cowardice

I know certain things are run by idiocy, the most immoral and
unprincipled rise to the  top; but what makes me wonder no end
is why seemingly moral people abet and support them, the only
reason is the seemingly good are also beset by cowardice, need
to relate to weaker specimens, feeling threatened by those with
high moral principles - which means the seemingly good are not
good underneath, just white-washed tombstones

Best is find the humour in their doings, laugh as the situation is
droll - I know the fragile peace between us only exist because I
traded freedom for advantages – however conditional – what use
would freedom be if you were not there to help me deal with the
duties of life – we only live in peace because I obey the law laid
down by physical force - and why not,  being free and alone with-
out a home and family would be meaningless

New friends might reveal more of the shortcomings forming part
of life in captivity - after all, when I relate our farcical discussions
to my friend, we laugh no end  - thus this relationship affords food
for the soul, sometimes I want equal rights but if I wait long enough,
the feeling subsides, I can leave this task for another to complete;
discrepancy between want and need is illustrated by all, why should
I want anything less in my life; let me bow,

Lick your shoes, say amen to all you say, be silent long enough; let
me be very obedient - facing a male prima donna is not my way, I
love quiet contemplation and peace, let me look down on the world,
see the unprincipled leading the way - and be calm, what does it
matter what they do and say, as long as I manage to keep my eye
on the vision of what harmonies might be encountered after this
life of sorrow has passed…

Face Concealed Under My Hat (Revised)

I waltz into the office after lunch, brag about my
new Mafia hat which makes me look like a rich widow
– my colleagues looked askance, said Rich Widow –
you hope; I amended it to The Merry Widow – Franz
Lehar’s operetta, I can see me on stage singing,
face concealed under the brim - but receiving
less enthusiastic response from a working crowd

I hung it on a hatstand to look impressive among
silver chains, xmas decorations already finding
their way there and a white scarf with silver
glitter; going home I took it with me to look
again at the toy in my hands – not wishing my
realistic family to burst my bubble too soon,
I hid the hat, as yet a game too new

To have shattered, a dream I’ll treasure until
ready to let go of what it means to me…

So Loftily Silent

Why buy newspapers when you refuse to discuss
anything appearing in it, totally unconcerned that
the farmers are tortured on their farms, killed for
their money and livestock – as long as YOU are
safe in a cushy job while the rest of the country
burns and dies and goes down the drain, you
simply will not say anything

FINE, swallow your bloomin’ newspapers, delight
in your existence without sympathy wasted on farmer
martyrs - their function of food provision does not
concern anybody, especially the government, who
cares what happens to anybody as long as they
are safe far away from children suffocated in
boiling water, people burned with hot irons

Why should you care, you can import food from
overseas or anywhere, who needs farmers here
in South Africa, you cannot be bothered even to
express sympathy with their fate, may you wash
your hands in innocence while the country burns,
following your political masters who see the land
as just another Tunisia to be sucked dry

By government and all their acolytes; destroy all
private business until the state is bankrupt and
international groups must administrate the remains
of their destruction - oh well, I am glad you are all
so happy while these people cry unto heaven –
retribution follows when people are exploited,
hope you will be so loftily silent then…

Watching My Feet…

I keep changing my clothes in a desperate attempt to feel different,
Seth says the physical world changes constantly, the only thing I see
changing is the layer of dust covering my figurines, just to illustrate
what Says says I carried my figurines to a table of glass, arranged
them in a different way, encircling their glass stand with blue material
which covered our Christmas gift:

A large round metal container for wine bottles at the table, we never
need something like this, maybe the kids one day will use it - I saw a
chandelier in the shop where this is sold – which I would much rather
have, but it is too late, we are stuck with the metal bucket – maybe I
can let grandkids play in it – if one day I shall have some, given that
both my son and daughter vehemently expostulates

Against the idea of having descendants, what with the present weather
conditions, I cannot blame them, they still wonder why I wanted to have
them – I fondly reply because I was lonely and needed support from
someone totally on my side - of that I am completely assured - Tiaan
leading me as if I were a hundred years old, Nici telling me what to
wear and sighing when I go wrong

To return to the beginning, I keep changing my attire in order to feel
the desire for life that Abraham-Hicks says should be mine, to feel the
control that Seth says we all have all the time, but whatever I’m wearing,
within about fifteen minutes I have to change again – changing flip-flops
helps - blue to brown to pink and purple – changing the look of my feet,
though it is bad for my neck to look down all the time

Watching my feet…

[Sunday 2 December 2012]