We were on a side quest. I wanted some cool, fresh
cherries to savor as we strolled hot Saint Tropez.
So we were in a grocery store, in the township,
I was pushing a shopping cart along the frozen food aisle
when suddenly my feet flew out from under me and I
took a hard, embarrassing, backward spill.
Peter was shocked - “What?!” He exclaimed.
One second I was up and the next I was on my back.
It was like a lightning strike or a film edit, I was like WTF?
I was in flip-flops and there was a puddle of water.
I was fine, if scuffed up - thank god I wasn’t in a dress.
I got right up, I mean I’m not a 90-year-old lady.
And after a second we walked on, only to be swarmed,
a moment later, by the store manager and his minions
- “Are you ok?” He asked, scrubbing his hands.
“Yes, I’m fine - no, I don’t want to fill out a report”
My left big-toe was swollen and bleeding - so no running
along the beach this morning - now THAT seemed weird.
I guess it was more of a back-side quest.
.
.
A song for this:
Helter Skelter by the Beatles
Trouble Me by 10,000 Maniacs
Cape Flats is my town
But it always lets me down
I feel like a clown
With a crown
The violence
We cannot silence
Rob kill and maim
To the gangs its all the same.
where childhood is stolen,
where mothers bury their children
Heart broken and sorrow
A life so hollow
You they will follow.
Like a barn-swallow.
A township so vain
Full of pain
A killing everyday
This is the only way
With violence everyday
All we can do is pray.
Childhoods are stolen callously
Stolen very tactfully
Cape Flats live in brutality
And hate and fear angrily.
A lot of hate crimes
At the best of times.
Rape and killing
This is so unfulfilling.
Let this be a lesson
And not a mere session
To teach a session
Let it be a lesson
Not just an obsession
But a positive progression.
Of our own confession.
Verse 1
Epitaph for the Queen of the Night
A starlit siren, she shone so strongly bright,
The radiant, raving ruler of the night's riot
right.
Her dance a dream, her dress a diamond
delight,
Now silence seals the stage, the spotlight
still so slight.
The final fade, the curtain closes calmly,
clear,
Her music memory,missed moment, mist
most marvelous here.
Verse 2
Epitaph for the Dance Master
The king of the tounship (1) , a crazy champion came,
A body bent to beating drums, a legend's
lasting lame.
He spanned the shebeen stage, a shining
storm of movement mean,
Shebeen queens quaked and wept at the
dancing scene.
The beauties bleeding blushes, threw their
threads,
He leaped from tables,laid problems to
peaceful deads.
His rhythm's a ripple on the river.forever
flowing free.
The dance just disperses,but his beat
belongs to the ground and the sky.
1. Tounship--township,location, slum, ghetto,
Silently,while soft rain drums on zinc in sorrowed streets,
My soul kneels where she once stood,my gal, my need,my nevermore.
crying droplets chant in syllables of her smile-sweet, small,
Silvered syllables sipping across haze and humiliation.
Her mother-a Mount Olympus of ten thousand frustrations-
mouths malice in midday markets,
sparking sparks of spite,her words whipping like wet rope.
Her uncle,a dog trainer with a dog chain in his hand,a dog's dark echo,
unchains his hate,barking at the boy he thinks too poor to dream.
I still see her ebony eyes in puddles, trembling,
telling tales of thunder,
''my township Romeo From Another Earth And Sky, ''they breathe,
be brave-Ill come back from another earth and sky
not this world of man''
But love is leashed to their lies
and the leash tears her heart before she can run.
Now I rap my requiem-
rhymes for rain,rhythm for regret,
Heartbeats hammered into-half remembered hope.
She died of a broken vow-not hers,
but the world of a world that kills its kindest loves.
Rain don't remember her name,
but I do-every drop spells my gal.
Soft syllables,same sorrow,same song,
for the gals the gods forgot to guard.
The sun mounts over crumpled roofs and streets,
Beats from machetes and trombones disconcerts the air,
Brides and husbands-to-be bosa nova where joy and gossip meet.
Little ones run run past stalls,their joy sharp as knives,
Grandmas share gossip,drinking Joko Tea in chirped mugs.
While dear uncles sway,remembering old wasted lives
Smog billows from grills where meat roasts and fry,
Fires burn,mixing ululations and cheer,
Even the emaciated township dog pauses,ears to the sky.
Hubands-to-be jive,hats tilted,praising feats of might;
Ladies-in waiting in skirts that sparkle under sun.
Every furtive glance a nod and a story of delight.
As night comes,lanterns flicker in houses and alleys;
Music is tender,hearts stay buoyed and awake-
In hoboland love and joy endure amidst the pain.
High on a quaint little hill,
In a quiet, quaint little town.
Wild Orchids, once plentiful,
Were nowhere to be found.
It was a mystery to all there,
So sad, such beauty, now gone.
What once blessed their vision,
Amber sunsets, golden dawns.
A pall fell upon the town,
All their sunsets disappeared.
Such beauty lost, bred sorrow,
As another Winter drew near.
Then tragedy struck the land!
War ravaged their small township.
All young men were called away,
All the women knelt in worship.
Time seemed to wane wearily,
Anxious hearts feared the worst.
Then news came of twelve casualties,
And every heart there would burst.
Twelve, flag-draped coffins, carried,
Every young man, bred and born.
A million tears would rain,
Every broken heart would mourn.
The Winter, bleak and barren,
Each day just like the last...cold!
A lifeless, loveless town died,
Unsure of what would unfold.
When, on a bright and infant morn,
The whole town flocked in waves.
By the light of Spring's first day...
Wild Orchids lined the graves!
contemporary Persian ancient
blending intro-imagery with peach
vulnerability
identity a Khoisan outpouring on fields of Skukuza healings
whilst township dancers make their rites
to bite presence on platform sites
so will Gen Z’s make their
vibrant scratches on our rock walls
for Galactics to visit tall
courage was torn with rosemary bushes like
biltong shreds
¥
he pierced her teenage framework newly
smoothed with rosemary
galaxies watched in horror
scratched her legs with longing paws
Gen Z’s roared their rage across
the continent
she bit her presence into his poverty
townships waited in mourning
her virginity ripped
identity equals Acturian
vulnerability is paintbrush memories
seven shadowy children
are to arrive crystal
not through her uterus
Secrets of The Breeze
A breeze, a playful inquisitive breeze,
Drifting over slippery slated roof tops,
Teasing the silent secretive trees.
Hearing murmurings in wind-blown corn crops
And rhythms of the pattering rain drops.
Communing with the chattering birds,
Remembering the chorused words.
Conferring with restless, careless bees -
The attentive township, listening, heard
Passing secrets of the gossiping breeze.
Barry Stebbings
Feb 2025
There is a place that doesn't go to sleep,
From dawn to dusk,
Nothing changes,
Desire is on the run.
There is a place where ambition and rivalry are birthed,
Sycophants seize the day,
Sing their praises and the door is left open,
Sing their praises and opportunity smiles at you.
There is a place where gloom pervades the decision chambers,
The leaders are saddled with the enigma,
The missing pieces are hidden from the light,
The night is recalcitrant to let out.
There is a place where rapid-paid ransom returns the captives,
A delay in delivery detonates the bomb,
To the earth, the bodies finally belong,
An eternal loss and anguish of hearts.
January 19, 2024.
City hub on wings
apogee of ultra bright
fire within urban comet
tangerine signpost
to future halcyon spot
amidst buoyant step onrush
Bouncy castle perk
spurs avid market stall pitch
bargain in a jiffy bag
loophole hatched off-curb
brainwave surge from genie flash
to everyone’s benefit
Silver winter tinged
trees and wet overcast skies
never dampen township verve
that heartland zeitgeist
typical of boom and bloom
day or night march on dweller
Sweep off feet vision
endemic to rapid shifts
where marvel woos miracle
in heady cocktail
at the cutting-edge hubbub
point of entry upbeat frame
The ice-cream parlor
is just across the road
from a small white clapper-board church.
I sit in a window seat,
watching the little town
and the sidewalk
as it moves people around,
thought-reading their directions,
as they go to, or come away
from predictable starts and arrivals.
Now the congregation is filing-out
of the narrow church door.
The pastor, has somehow
teleported himself,
to get up in front of them,
he shakes hands and pats backs,
knowing them all,
perhaps knowing too much
about some of them.
Kids are corralled quickly,
strapped into booster seats,
or marshaled across to this store
for ice-cream treats.
It's just a little township,
on a side-road to nowhere special.
The ice-cream is homemade and delicious.
I could trash-talk this hamlet,
these people, these families,
I am naturally cynical by nature,
but I am in love with them all,
and the ice-crem is always so good.
day ends in a shanty town
When crossing the bridge to the shanty town
The day was almost over, blank and tired
and due to pollution, the light on the bridge had a hue of aureate
The huts in the township were utterly miserable
consisted of bricks, stones, plywood and corrugated iron
were the roof of all the shacks
a roof that keeps out the rain but bursts your eardrums
In small spaces in the back of hovels, women were preparing the evening meals
How can people live here, washing on a line said it was possible
Children ran around playing cowboys& Indians
for them, poverty was a word that did not exist as long as they got fed.
The night came suddenly to the tune of music from a transistor radio
the night belonged to yellow cures and rats
Fieldwork is stellar, sexy, or strenuous and sad
Talking values, prolonging childhood
Is not for the faint hearted among S. Africa's "Coloured"
My "township" boasts about acting backward
Using walls for urination, or there on streets
Many walk all day long with beer in hand (never discreet)
We reward bad for good; kindness is meekness minus Jesus (equals: simple weakness)
Abusing drugs, kids, partners - "street privacy"?
Is the only "rule" respected by all and sundry
II
Shall I report these abuses, "shebeens" next door?
But the policing is poor, revenge usual & more
Or should I show the other cheek, God's love
Shall I continue peacemaking, or reward shove with shove?
Since Middle School I struggled with moochers, "the lazy"
To accept them, help, yet teach a better way
Humans seek peace, routines, "order" in some way
But competition fir resources, conflict
May be the real order of the day
Hence wars are welcome for profits, bottom lines!
My question: Love or lecture "them" is as old as Time
In my "coloured township," there is no "time" for both
I'm more pessimistic about human nature now, sad truth!
I
Fifty years ago - I was about ten -
My grandfather wept for a tree:
Blue Spruce, one in the township ...
I empathized, but didn't understand
II
This morning, in 40-hour rain,
I wept for my three-year Neem ...
Boys got over my fence at night,
To dispossess the whole environment -
So they have slings to hunt birds
III
I talked calmly about time and tree:
They empathize - but don't understand
Lesson: I remind myself, Jesus allowed the "crime" so I a cept. Therapists talk about 5-minute funerals, grieving, over some issues. I tried; won in 25 hours, LOL! My wife & I already planted new saplings. Hallelujah. Shalom shalOm
I
Now nearing that age of no hair, & more
No hair on head, more hair in ears & nose
I do a daily discipline of Matthew 6: 9-13
Then a Psalm, before a recorded sermon
In my youth, girls not God, got attention
II
When I greet kids on way to school
and adults off to do or find work
I say, "n gesieente dag, hallelujah" -
In Afrikaans, Dutch-turned African,
Widely used in The Cape, more here
In Newtown, mixed-race township
Each day is like Sunday: hello-hallelujah
Plus when I do prayer workshops when
requested - we pray post- breakfast
Till lunch break, at least till noon ...
But daily, the kids say. "Dankie Jesus, amen,"
As I grant tiny requests for a morsel of victual
III
Jesus alerted us: look to prayer quality
In the praying heart, not quaint quantity
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