POEMS

Has tomorrow happened before,

Are we living a life we have lived
Already?
Sometimes life looks like
It has been lived already.
Or maybe it is the mind of God,
Transmitting in my frail human mind,
What it knows of the future?
What magical corridor is this,
From which one sees the past
And the future?
One sees death of a beloved
In this corridor of life,
One sees grand children
In this corridor of life,
Which makes me ask
Can we touch the events
In this corridor?
And change the future?
I think not, because
I am not the author of life.
God the author has written
The universe.
We are the partakers of this book.
Let us not touch the book,
Lest we disrupt God’s plan
And become grotesque demons,
Lost in the dark corridors of our evil egos.
A walk to oblivion

I take my bag
And begin to walk
To stowaway on a ship.
What demon or arch demon
Sewed this thought into my mind?
As I walk along the beach road,
On a journey towards the harbour city,
I ask myself, what is all this for?
Are we puppets on a string,
Manipulated by puppet masters?
Some good, and some evil?
I have no say,
I am only a puppet.
Driver’s watch me with awe.
What mental patient is this
Trotting miles of tar,
When he should have paid his fare?
I don’t bother,
Because I know I am a puppet on a string.
I reach the harbour,
At sundown and look for a ship
To stowaway to oblivion.
I eat some kenkey,
Like some lost vagabond,
At the edge of reality
And sanity.
The food brings me back
To reality,
And suddenly I have lost the vision.
Or did the good puppet master
Take over my puny mind?
Who am I that the puppet masters
Fight for my puny little brain.
Whoever I am,
I vow to fight for the puppet master
Who saved me
From a watery grave in the sea.
Doom bells

We stand at the precipice of disaster,

Awaiting the toll of the doom bell,
That will usher a time of boom
And doom,
When the volcanic fires
Of mutual hatred,
And the hidden beastly
Cravings of cannibalism
Babarism and debauchery,
Will come exploding out of the mountain,
Like the volcano st Helens
Spewing its odious and pungent
Fumes
Deadly cylinders of war heads,
Stand poised at each other’s throats
Just waiting for the doom bell
To toll its merciless bongs,
Over a world plagued with
Senseless religious doctrines
That guide warped minds,
To terminate the existence,
Of innocent souls
I hear the bell faintly now,
But I know when they toll,
Woe is man and the cities of man.
Woe is the forest and the hills and valleys,
Woe is the caves and the caverns
Woe is the deep crevices of the earth.
Woe is this generation
For when the doom bell tolls.
All shall be wrapped up
Like a crumpled paper,
In the waste bin of time.
POLITICS

The politicians say what they do not mean,

And mean what they do not say.
They glare their ivory white teeth,
Their eyes squinting with inner joy,
That they are saying
What they do not mean,
That when they grasp the power,
The voter slips,
Will be meaningless slips of paper,
With zero street value.
It is a vicious cycle of selfishness,
Vindictiveness and cruelty
The winner,
Showing the loser
Whether the power lies
In the north but not the south.
The pre election politician is a saint,
When he wins power
He becomes a monster
And a tormentor
Of the citizens
Who placed him in power.
The politician beams with smiles
At the people,
But his eyes are dark
And squinting,
Because he knows
The foolish voters,
Will surely believe his tales.
When he wields the power,
Who can take it from him.
Sometimes I ask myself,
Whether each year
Does not have a presiding deity,
The quality of the year,
Being the personality of this deity.
Indeed, if the years where deities
Then indeed some of them
Are merciless
Because when they sit on the throne
Their children
Transform into hurricanes
And sandstorms,
And droughts
And cyclones.
Their pranks,
Reverse the constant code
Of nature.
WITCHCRAFT

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