TOMORROW REARS YESTERDAY
When life challenges sway us aback
With horizons of tomorrow seem plague
We seek answers that never come
While hope fleets us inwardly
And we grief motherly
Forgetting life’s worth definitions
I open an album of memories instead
To reprint the direction of the next step
Because challenges are the charcoals
That furnace my will of living.
A bottle garden adorns like the most elegant rose
Horticulturists’ pride featured in most writers’ prose
Crafted by the youngest ambidextrous botanist
Whose prowess blooms far beyond the cloud’s mist.
A terrarium intricately built from a crystal- clear bottle,
Coco fibers, variety of bijou stones, rocks and pebbles;
Charcoals, moss, ferns, tiny plants and worm castings,
Dry barks and many more for creative miniature gardening.
Ever there is,
The eye has proved not enough,
Stand against tough, somehow rough,
Deep inside are charcoals appealing outside,
Of what is seen, but not said,
When my gift stands for freedom my life goes on risk,
For the oppressor it becomes luck,
To hit the oppressed at dusk
To down and expose them to risk,
From me to the many here is my task;
Take courage with you and grab a disk,
Every gifted hand on paper;
Perhaps one of us may grab the chance,
Towards the minor probability and be heard;
Save no metaphor as long explained;
A dim candle denotes death;
In case it’s mistaken for breath;
Natural law of life abused,
Amused natural law of death,
Move on to the Natural law of counting,
And again grab a disk
How many of them d’ we have;
Voices of no echoes;
Get it right’ do you yet know infinity?
Save that for calculus, and just use uncountable,
Hand on paper let the soul flow;
The Spirit knows more;
Lighten up the soul, let it say more,
Until there is no more;
Grab a gifted voice, lit up the stage,
And the same goes on and on
Save none but a programmed gene..
Wanting to cook
the catechist refuses to use fire
because every fire smells hell
She made for herself
A snow ball with a core
Inside was hot red charcoal
“Possibly I will now cook”, she murmured
But hot charcoals melt away snow
Face to face she was with fire
The rejected became her master
Set me off.
I dare you.
I want you to feel my rage.
Taste my vindictiveness.
And swallow the bullets I've bled out from.
You made me like this..
Unsure, worthless, uncared for.
Look at yourself.
I hope your rotting heart flourishes throughout the physical beauty you obtain and charcoals it like it should be.
You write a cannonade.
Hurling daggers into everything lively in me.
Ripping and tearing my being into shrivel pieces.
Flinging my dead body across yours as a shield of your own self destruction.
Damn, you make me sick.
I'm eternally "thankful" to you.
For turning me into something I never imagined.
I am desolation.
After a long time
you invited me to keep
Feet on your dream land
To invade your heart !
After a long fight
I was defeated by me
Defeated by your wild desire !
Now –
I am singing
The fifth symphony of first Shower !
Now, I am playing guitars on my heart
With tunes of Compassion
And in a glimpse,
See you sitting under the shadows
Of our embraced hearts !
The long road trodding to paradise
Now, is waiting for your arrival
I see your desolate heaves !
I hear drum beatings of clouds
Inside the geometry of my rib-cage.
After a long tune
Beside the boundary of Country life
Amidst unusual death
I see, love is burning silently
In the pyre of green leaves of youth !
Aftermath –
Only charcoals of woe left
On the grave yard of time
Oh ! After a long time ….
Plants, Trees, Hills, and Grass
White shed black trim corner back
School and Park with kids
Path near fence where two dogs track
Green, Brown, Orange, Yellow, Red, Black
Five Pines fifty years
Rock garden and sidewalk near
Lilac Bushes two
Squirrels, Chipmunks, Birds fly through
Expanse of sky white and blue
Back yard oasis singing
Leaves like bells ringing
Barbeque Charcoals on fire
Burgers, Brats, cooked to desire
SKETCHING
charcoals soft lines
in varied shades of grey
birds in flight their feathers spanned light
captured in detail through blue heavenly heights
an artist’s creation emerges
blank pages come to life
with every stroke
SKETCHING
(Inspired by watching my artistically talented daughter-in-law
sketch a “Verreaux Eagle” in the Champagne Valley Drakensberg)
© Kim van Breda—3 August 2015
The muted tones of yesterday...
Soft pastels of kids at play--
Lovers on a summer's day,
Charcoals of a moonlit May.
But watercolors fade away--
So too, the moonbeam's downy ray.
Some paintings seem to change that way...
How fleet, the hues of yesterday!
~Mel
Rippling winds sandunes of time,
taking me back as I hear a faint chime.
rolling rows of golden wheat,
as my heart dances and skips a beat.
Bursts of laughter fading off in the distance,
it plays in my mind as I fight the resistance.
Sapphire skies and charcoals of gray,
these hands of time I wish I could stay.
Looking out into endless feilds of wildflowers,
feeling energized as my soul endours.
Whipers of dawn chanting in my ears,
chasing away all heartfelt tears.
Magic falls in all corners of the earth,
like the day we were born with moments of our birth.
Shadows dance as the moon starts to rise,
as thirsty stars fill up the majestic skies.
Fireflys fly with fairies in sight,
like the freedom of flying a soaring kite.
Childhood dreams return once more,
deep corners of my mind I so carelessly soar.
Iniquities vertical archways traversing twilights retro
Drafted abysmal shadows aneath the roses; gethsemanes inquisition
Coloured acrylic murals in acidic transcending medievils
Vague ambulant abstract mystique..
Embellished cerium charcoals as that her gothics in vitro, masque
Achromatic architectural envisioned designs; Gomorrah's evanescence
Holistic gargoyles be his black plagues overture amid
Nefarious nepenthes, garden of Eden....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
....American Graffiti!?
Into the grooves of sunset fair
when meadows forget time of hours
I climb inside the worlds and dare
to relish the budding of flowers
where charcoals play around bonfire
wrapped in hues of different skin
starlight glows with your eyes' pyre
meeting you as we first begin.
Any Old Poem # 9
Iniquities vertical archways
Traversing twilights retro
Drafted abysmal shadows
Aneath the roses bush...
Coloured acrylic murals
Acidics transcending
Medievils vague ambulant
Abstract mystique ?
Embellished cerium
Charcoals as that of gothics
In vitro; masque'd
Achromatic architectural
Envisioned designs...
Gomorrah's holistic
Gargoyles; a black plagues
Overture amid, Nefarious
Nepenthes, garden of her eden.
Gazing admiringly upon her mesmerizing photo; lovely
Her spellbinding in beauty's enchanting, Gypsy Queen...
Never having truly been one whom delves into pictures
That they might take flight beyound, their still frames ?
Not amid this light surely these, her hues; quiet refrain
Poetics muse; etched of charcoals splendours a canvas
She as dark flowing hair cascading deep velvet streams
Bronzed perfection pondering her heart, and silhouette
Dreams brush black their white, blue; click, in sanguine.
The time to be born has come and gone
The present we know about her is our history
A manifest to her existence in the map and in the head.
This time is yet to unveil her bystanders.
Though in written, she is known to be free
But in words and actions she is shielded
By weed, grasshoppers, termites and tortoise.
Now, should we use fins and flippers
To propel ourselves through her bloody sea?
OR do we need any soothsayer to announce
The burns of a lustful shielded cabinet to us?
Dear Charcoals, time without number
We are blinded to accept a crown
We are forced to be subservient to a staff,
And we have sold our loyalty by queuing behind the meadow.
If surely the time will tell
Then we need to look up to our history
That is yet to appear before the land
Let hope for an upright serving servant soon.
And hope to behold a time to tell.
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