Unreliable narrator of my own story

In the well of my mind

Reflections of a future

I often hear thoughts inside the soft flesh of my skull

A scream perches under my chin

Children tumble wildly behind my eyes


Like a silk thread through black pearls

I never did take a bite of the Apple

Yet I choke

Reenactment of the crime

And scales fall from my eyes

Beliefs held dear


And somewhere a small bird

Will freeze to death in the cold snow


Vir my siel

ek skryf vandag

direk op my hart

sommer so met my voorvinger

beter so, ek weet

niemand kan sien 

onsigbare ink op wit papier 

probleem  daarmee 

dit vee nooit uit

dit gaan nooit weg

wat jy daar skryf is vir ewig

jy kan uitkrap, oor skryf en inkleur


êrens daar onder

brand die woorde

wit vuur



Right now

May pass quickly

Or it may not


May struggle late into a sleepless night

May pretend the smile is real

May laugh a little too loud for a little too long



Right now

I will leave behind, pass through, become still

And then this,

Will pass

This too shall pass……


Sometimes when you go walking
in your sleep
eyes wide shut
in that moment in time
this world and that

Sometimes when you go walking
you may find a door
through the thin veil
of otherworld

the breeze at dawn
has secrets to tell you
don’t go back
to sleep


I took a walk today.  Down by the river where the water is deep blue and soft.  Patches of sun made stepping  stones along the bank into the stand of trees that walked up from there into the mountains.  I lost track of time and found myself turned back to front inside out and around.  So I just sat, just sat down and dreamed, my eyes wide open.  Sounds crept up and rested on me, stillness and beauty in small birdsong and branches playing fiddle to the wind.  I heard a leaf land and it startled me in this quiet spot.  I turned and saw far behind and inside me a small girl with ribbons tied beside her dimples standing in a patch of sunlight.  She was so sweet. She smiled a tiny smile and carefully placed the bird she had cradled in her hands on her head.  It began at once to sing a happy song and I was charmed.


die koue wind

wat vol nag is

het voor my slaapkamerdeur

gisteraand laat

hierdie tarentaalveer


‘n dons veer verloor van

teenaan die lyf

digby die hart

in my hand voel ek

die lyne in die swart

en wit spikkels

‘n lankverlore leed

en vou dit versigtig

in my dagboek toe

geskenkie van my koekoek

wat elders

na’n wegkruip bossie soek


A pocket full of fallen stars

I always had a real ability to find precious pearls.  Oh and I loved them so much. The soft round shape, slightly salty to my touch. The warm creamy white glow as light played on the surface.   I loved that they were all slightly different, none quite perfect.  Perfectly imperfect in fact.

I collected my beautiful pearls through all my years.  Loved and cared for them as best I could.  I packed them away carefully in precious boxes I made with so much care, lined with velvet and soft pink tissue paper.  Tied pretty ribbons and bows on the lids.

I never showed off my pearls, they were mine to enjoy and admire. I found pity in my heart for others who had only stones to play with. I had stones too of course, doesn’t everybody?   But I carelessly dropped them in a pocket where they bounced around as I ran, rubbing against each other and leaving muddy streaks on my dress.

A while ago I felt the need to count my pearls, my head bowed low as I lifted the boxes carefully  onto my lap. I removed the pearls one by one and piled them in my hand.  I longed for the warmth I remembered. To my dismay most of my pearls were dull and brown despite my care.  They crumbled and inside they were hollow.  I was left with only one or two.

Tears streaked my cheeks as I reached into my pocket to drop them amongst the stones.  My pocket was  full of stones now and I pulled out a handful. Much to my surprise the stones were beautiful!  The dirt had rubbed off and I had a palm full of precious stones  beautiful glowing rubies, bright green emeralds and pretty stones shot with golden streaks.  As I rubbed my fingers gingerly over the gorgeous shapes, hard, durable and strong,  I wondered why on earth i wasted so  much time on those pearls…..

Pocket full of moon

Although the night was dark, cool and strange, she was unafraid. She stubbed her toe a few times in the dark,  that sharp sudden pain that shoots up and finds a nerve to tug so that your eyes water.  But she wasn’t intimidated by the fast darkness all around, never even considered turning back.  She wasn’t quite so brave that she considered running, no a slow shuffle would have to suffice but she was making progress.  Every now and then when she felt her heart beat a bit to fast she stuck her hand in her pocket, found the warmth there.  Rubbing it she smiled, felt the heat, comfort and moved ahead.  After the longest time ever she reached a clearing . She carefully felt her way all around the perimeter to make absolutely sure she was in the centre of the deepest darkest wood .  Then she walked to the middle of the clearing.  She stuck both her hands in her pocket and gently tugged the glowing yellow orb free.  At once a halo of warm soft light enveloped her.  Bending at the knees she hurled the tiny yellow light as high as she could up into the sky. As it rose the light intensified, the glow spread until the clearing was lighted , shimmering softly.  She settled on soft green grass, not at all scary now, looking up at her own moon. She watched as stars drifted in to ring her moon and clouds magic filled her soul.

White lace

Standing on tiptoes she coaxes the box from the top of the wardrobe. Suddenly it shifts and as it topples metres of raw silk and white lace spill into her outstretched arms. A faint hint of perfume drifts from the puddle of white around her feet.  She bends from the waist and pulls the beautiful dress onto her lap. A smile tugs at the corners of her mouth as memories stir. This perfect dress, the perfect day so long ago, the young girl with stars in her eyes.   Shafts of sunlight dance on the tiny silk stitches as she methodically works the metres of softness through her hands. Gently touching every piece she begins to find a rhythm,  pull up, fold, set aside. After an age she rises and picks up the pile of neatly folded memories.  The box is returned to the top of the cupboard,  empty this time.  A pile of white neatly folded on a shelf where it will be within reach.  Humming a tune that came through the years, she found it in the box actually, she sinks to her knees.  Dropping the roughly torn  square of white lace into the bucket of soapy water she begins to mop the dirty kitchen floor…..