ruisende waters

daar is die sekerheid dat die soektog
die skerp invalshoek sal behou
sodat die belangstelling
en toewyding nie sal taan

solank bly ek glo in 
nuwe metaforiese ontdekkinge

die ink-riviere kronkel skraal
die dag sal kom wanneer hulle skouers
sal uitdein en die banke triomfantelik opstoot
om plek te maak vir die ruisende waters

an evening

raindrops coughing against 
the flower petals

serenity is the warm water-bottle 
between my feet

words falling under
the penumbra of
the hand

waiting 
for the heart
to quieten

silken cheek of my doll
lulls me to sleep

the clock hacks the evening air
into charmless chunks

baie lig

om baie lig te maak
verg vele draadwerk

perfek deurmekaar

die digterlike bewussyn is gemosaiek 
soos bollende paisley druppels
wat 
perfek
deurmekaar
om mekaar bons

'n malle rapsodie van kinkels en kwinkslae
verwar die fokus
maar
mettertyd sal die oog inzoem
en sekuur
die digterlike objek eien

woord-krummels

kyk die woord-krummels wat ek
agter my gooi soos hansie en grietjie

in tye van verlorenheid
sal ek my oog op hulle gooi
en my pad terugvind na
die hart van sin

ink-trails

Here is the last of the three poems I wrote this last week. 
I found the inspiration from a short story by the Argentine writer Jorge Luis Borges - The God's Script. In the story the Aztec priest Tzinacan is held captive by Pedro de Alvarado. After seeing a vision Tzinacan claims that there is a divine script of fourteen words (and 40 syllables in total) that will assure his freedom. 
The fourteen words are never revealed. He does not get released. 
I thought of my own fourteen words equaling 40 syllables and wrote these poems around them. 
Good practice for the verbal mind.

ink-trails
                          for james

sometimes the confidence 
inflates the letters

i have a suspicion that the words 
laugh at our mortality
their ink-trails often carry more 
than our blood-trails

there is just no way to find shelter and sleep
with this instinctive curiosity 
conflagrating in our minds

the ancestors have such a hard time 
keeping watch over us
especially with the emphasis on the I

they never thought that 
their tummies will turn with
such insatiable hunger 
that is caused by all their listening to
our incessantly wagging tongues

it is the togetherosity of the spirits

that sweeps up all the imperfections

and stores it in the great larder of wisdom

* * *
The fourteen words I chose are: 

confidence, mortality, shelter, sleep, 
instinctive, curiosity, ancestors, I, 
hunger, listening, tongue, 
togetherosity, imperfection, wisdom

wisdom comes

          for james

wisdom comes when we embrace our imperfections:

in this we shall stand in togetherosity

until peace settles on our tongues

oh wonder, oh woe

our ancestors have left us with 
a glut of wealth and poverty

keep listening to 
the rich hunger between 
the you and the I

do not fear your curiosity - 

that is the whetstone that keeps your instincts

cutting a path through the obsidian forest

make generous place for sleep

for it shelters our eyes against the glaring reality

of our long-suffering mortality

it is good to learn 

to let go 

of all this bipedal confidence

come here, come lie down in the shade of these words
curl back into 
your silken surrendering self 

without seeking shelter

          for james

without seeking shelter from that exposed ledge
look with confidence
your mortality straight in the eye

when you go to sleep 
may your instinctive curiosity 
breed liquid dreams 

you're not aware of it but 
the ancestors walk with you daily
it is not just the lonely I 

turn your hunger into listening 
your tongue will soften 
its desire to fill space

from a place of togetherosity 
will our imperfections 
move towards wisdom