You hold the promise
of an evening sky,
colourful with
the obligatory spots
of darkness.
For reasons of
self-preservation
my curious mind
is not allowed
to solve yet another
intriguing puzzle.
Gone are the days
when I considered it
a lofty purpose
to fix problems
I did not create.
My winter heart has
accumulated too many
bruises to rise to
the bait of curing
another soul.
Sometimes, from a safe distance,
I stare at my frozen lake
of situations
I refuse to address.
If I squint, I can still
make out their distorted shapes
beneath layers of
vain endeavours and
wasted opportunities.
I wonder, how long
will I be able to maintain
the harsh environment
that traps them
in their taciturn suspense?
At times I catch myself
committing the crime of
feigning interest.
I nod frequently at
slivers of chatter, and smile
to hide my disdain at
repetitive exploitations of
topics that easily resemble
the nine circles of hell.
My mind is not designed
for ready-made conversations
that chain words to be
crowd-pleasers, but
roots fervently for anyone
whose train of thought is
original, and fulfils my
craving for meaning.
I shine at soul-level
communication, or alternatively
at sarcastic banter. Pick one, and
you will have my undivided attention.
I have become more translucent
the moment I got together with you,
fading out of substance,
and into an undefined background.
I have to look harder now
to see myself when I look
into the mirror to search
for the woman
I find more difficult
to remember on a daily basis.
How surreal she seems,
the bold one
who danced without restraint,
questioned nothing and everything,
and was dangerously free.
So many of your
carefully cultivated talents
seem to unfailingly aim
directly at my soft spots.
It is a rare gift,
this thoroughness
at uncovering all
the places where I amount
to too little.
Would that you take your
artistry somewhere else.
In the untethered moments
before my electronic lifeline
reminds me of my more mundane,
disputable existence,
I panic-travel to the beaches
and coastlines of islands
that might not be there much longer.
I dig my toes into the cold, wet
sand, listen to the refrain the wind
whispers to marram grass, and make
a note of this feeling
on the map of collective shame
I etched into my skin in shades
of black and helplessness.
I thread seashells on twine,
interwoven with colour coordinated
pieces of plastic trash.
Ingenious, fragile beauty next
to crude, immature arrogance.
Unfortunate, but history can not
be documented onesided, can it?
I gather sand, and stones that
beg to be thrown at prominent buildings.
But glasshouses, you know.
Bone-weary and my back bent by
the weight of guilt, I have become
a collector of mementoes of our
eventual undoing.
You found me
just around the corner
from utter boredom.
So stay a little longer,
keep challenging my wits
that seem to have been buried
under too many obligations.
Keep pressing for my truth
that obviously is too
uncomfortable for anyone but you.
Unchain my special voice
that has become a bit rusty
as I barely use it anymore.
Be my rude awakening
from the same old same old
that has outranked fun
for a long time now.
Unpack some recklessness
from your bag of tricks,
it might just tip the scales
in your favour.
Stay a little longer,
I kind of like this
power play where
nothing ever is simple.
A life carefully stowed away
in sturdy moving boxes,
categorised and labelled,
more precise and orderly
than the real thing
will ever be.
A life properly decluttered,
organised until not
a shred of chaos is left,
neatly stacked squares
of the normalcy we cling to
in otherwise empty rooms.
A film of moisture
covers the window
as silken filaments
of fog wrap around
the building,
hovering,
waiting
for my thoughts
to take on
the same vague quality.
Words got stuck
floating over the breakfast table,
now forever interwoven with
the scents of coffee and raspberry jam.
This spot,
right above your
collarbone
where I bury
my face
when I need
to feel safe
– all mine.
You have never
felt the magic of
those first, big snowflakes
unless you raised
your face to welcome
their cold dance on your skin
(admit, you tried to catch
at least one
on the tip of your tongue),
and your hands
turn numb from
throwing snowballs.
Who are you going to be
after the final cadences
of love have died away?
Who are you going to be
when your forever
has lost its echo?
Who are you going to be
when wide-eyed innocence
finally acknowledges the scars?
Who are you going to be
when the sum of your experiences
feels too much like failure?
The lights of early
Christmas decorations
fail to gloss over
the tristesse of
a world soaked in grey.
Old townhouses leak
history, kitchen odours,
and a need for repairs,
as the cold light of
telly screens flickers behind
curtainless windows.
A shadow silhouette
fades in and out
of November fog,
the sound of their footsteps
strangely muted.
Nothing feels
lonelier than a city
on a winter night.
I run them through my fingers,
all those flickers of hope,
the beads on my rosary
of unfinished stories.
I carve feelings into pebbles,
and fill my lungs with
the sighs of a salty sea,
my keepsakes
of a carefree day.
I do not know
when my dreams
became your kingdom,
turning a blind eye
as you trimmed my creativity
from torrent to drizzle,
and my wings to fit
your comfort zone.
There seems to be
no middle ground
between your need to control
and my desire for freedom,
so all we have turned into
are two stubborn generals
taking a stand
on opposite hills.
You were the inventor of the art of
rebelling against your privileges
while driving a Beemer.
You wore your contradictions
unapologetically, and in style,
leaving me incredulous, and
more than a bit breathless.
California sun in your eyes,
a grin to die for, easygoing
to the point of carelessness.
How I wish our insurgencies
had been better timed.
I kept the necklace you gave me,
and this nagging uncertainty
in my heart.
My favourite cold blue sky,
devoid of clouds
and chemtrails,
as if even the ever
busy human has curbed
his disregard for nature,
not daring to soil
the virginal beauty.
Cherishing our star’s
victory as it defies its
shallow angle, and
-in a last uprise-
graces us with the glow
of summer memorised.
Dressed in resignation
and chained by a sense of duty,
we brace ourselves for
being penned up in a room
full of people wearing
importance and faux smiles
in their chase of acknowledgement
and admiration.
I adore you, you know,
you are so much better at
making the best
of any given situation,
mingling gracefully
while I, ever pensive,
try to get to the bottom
of my aversion for
social gatherings like this.
So I cling to my glass
of whatever is fashionable
at the moment, in the hope
it will drown my non-compliant
notions, and keep my inner rebel
under lock and key.
november child 