Just around the bend

The Apple Cart

The Apple Cart We were the offspring of the Volksie generation The Nestum cherubs of the Baby Boom Nylon, terelyne, lurex and spandex All mixed in with a trip to the moon In our DNA the early rumblings Of human division we did not understand But soon we learnt the language of survival Was written in the palms Of our sticky little hands So off we marched with our Crayola rifles While Dorothy Fisher got a brand new heart We coloured in pictures of the man on the moon And took a Giant Leap onto the apple cart Great big apples. Fresh and juicy More than enough for and more to spare We ate and ate until our bellies ached And still there were apples enough to share Which was quite fun until somebody said: “Hey! These rules aren’t right. Something’s wrong” So, some of the kids were allowed up on the cart While some other kids had to trundle along Behind the apple cart picking up the apple cores Thrown down by the kids...

Nighttime Solitude

Nighttime Solitude A lone peafowl pines plaintively across the darkened land Perhaps to call a mate or warn of passing danger But, I, a stranger do not understand For there are stranger sounds here where the darkened blossoms fall A whispered footfall of a bushbuck shy, Nearby an owl hoo hoos and Who knows why for I a stranger to this night song of the frogs that sing And silent flight of night bird on the wing I am a stranger to this safety in the dark I blow the embers of the fire I made to keep the spark To fan the flame beneath the last log’s coal to burn more brightly For tomorrow I return to home and Noisy cars and sirens nightly And to sorrow But for now I’ll sit a little longer by this tiny hearth The embers bright Competing only with Moon’s dappled light upon the appled earth And remember all the things I loved and love put away the sorrow and the sadness for tonight And ponder in the solitude that Nighttime isn’t dark It’s just ...

The Olivetti

Ok, This is my first blog and with so much to write, my fingers are practically paralysed mid-air. Hovering pointlessly above asdf and jkl; Essentially, I need to go on this journey. I need to write every day. I need to see if I have what it takes. That audience of one: that most critical of all critics; that shouty adult voice of reason that booms "this will flop cataclysmically" is all but drowning out the other little voice, the one attached to little pokey fingers that prods things just to see what they do. I will listen to that voice … I remember visiting my granny in a little town called Douglas in the Northern Cape, when I was about 5 years old and came in to her study one day while she was doing what we would now call admin. I guess in those days, she was paying bills and writing a few letters at her old roll-top writing desk on the little portable Olivetti typewriter. Sitting upright as always, immaculately dressed with her grey hair neatly pinned back in a bu...

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