This fickle mind of mine

Every day I reach to find the tumbling words of Imbass within my fickle mind.

But the day before twas burning bright, yet now the flame is dim beyond my sight. 

I stumble and misread, the embers that are reluctant to rise unto my most desperate need.

Far I search for flint and steel, the broken light within to tend and heal. 

But Imbass comes not at my behest, nor at the end of a long and fruitless quest. Rather rises the flame only at the lady’s bequest.

I bide the days by oak, circle and tide, I wander wither I am bid. Perchance upon a day to find the high house whither the copper cauldron of endless inspiration be hid and thus to at last bind, for once and all, my fickle mind.

An important message and a broken record.

I probably harp on about this too much but after reading the news today felt this was important enough to post both here and on my opinion blog. Please read and react to this. Keeping quiet will lead to disaster.

This is about double standards. I have recently noticed in the news that there are serious double standards when it comes to what is considered racism and hate speech.

One Capetown resident is facing prosecution over calling out a mosque over the noise it generates on a daily basis. Understandable when a Christian is forcibly exposed to the rituals of another faith, though very poorly executed and rudely stated.

Another has already been fined huge amounts for saying that beechgoers acted like monkeys over the December holidays. Whether racially motivated or not, it was an accurate description given the state of the beaches as pictured on their Facebook page (since removed). It should also be noted that not all beachgoers were black.

However, at the same time an “artist” is being allowed to display plainly racist “art” which consists of wrapping things and obese people in black and white tape with the slogan FUCK WHITE PEOPLE written repeatedly all over it. 

Despite numerous protests from members of both white and black communities the display has been continued and lauded as some “wonderful form of raising awareness”. I say to you plainly, this is bullshit.

If I am not allowed to insult you based on your race religion or creed then you may not do the same to me. Nor is it in any way acceptable to insult a race in general.  Had that message been reversed to say “FUCK BLACK PEOPLE” I can personally guarantee that the so-called artist would never stand trail, because they’d be lynched long before the got to a court.

I ask all true artists, please, do not use cheap methods such as politically sensitive subjects just to gain a few moments of fame. You have no idea of the harm it causes to an already fragile country nor of the animosity it stirs up between races that are struggling to reconcile themselves with eachother. 

Controversy is not art.


Pain, I don’t mind it, hell I’ll take it where I can find it.

The wracking pain of a body broken, reminds me that I live yet, there are still words to write and be spoken.

The stabbing hurt of a shattered heart, reminds that I have the capacity to love still despite all my emotion being natty and tattered.

The dull throb of a lost soul seeking teaches in time all the world’s wisdom through tears slowly leaking.

The joyous pain of needle on skin, to write my loyalty in ink unfading. Pagan proud my faith never shaking.

Pain is a teacher as and yet unlike any other.  Heed it well as a gift from the lady and mother.


Roses born of earth and seed, a sight to gladden any bitter heart. In all my life this truth have I learned, never should the love of a simple rose be spurned.

 The perfect and imperfect petals, each grown and nourished at need. All a gift of unique and sublime art, every one made from the Lady’s grace to turn and smile back upon the sun’s shining face.

I’ll take my imperfect roses any day, to charm and and gladden my love in every way, I shall at her feet, all my roses lay.

I’ll take the thorns and petals both, the stems be hard, wooden, a long and hard won growth.

For such is life my dear, perfection merely blinds us to seeing beauty clear.


Procrastination is most definitely my vocation. No matter where I am I’m always on vacation.

I can while away my hours thinking up schemes and building sky castles with lots of turrets and towers or lay down in the swaying grass to imagine the smell of flowers.

But give me a job and a pen, oh watch me scuttle about then! I should have hidden in my blanket-built den.

I adore the quiet hours of idle contemplation, where in my brain I solve all the problems of ever single nation.

Everyone thinks at work I’m quick and sure, the truth is I work fast to return and succumb to daydream’s lure.

My secret is out, now everyone knows, I wish to be outside dreaming of watching the flying crows and to let my spirit wonder where the river flows.


You who would have me gone. You who would see me struck from this place. Go ahead my friend, chatter on. I laugh in your face.

Longer than than you and  yours have mine been here. I never took this place, I built it in the empty and unwanted spaces so spare me your rhetoric about injustice and races.

I have no wealth to hide from you. I have no hate for any who are different it’s true. Bait me all you can, I am not fooled. I was raised to do and die as is proper for a man.

Take some more, and legislate me into the ground. I shall endure, to this land my soul is bound. In time the truth of your madness will be found.

Come to break my doors again, take all I own, it’s been done before. See? The place is empty, naught here be wrought of gold and silver ore.

Tell the world my people are scum, the cost for that lie will be added to your tally sum.

All who live and here draw breath in the end shall embrace as equals in death. What have I to fear of you my friend? Turn your eyes within and from your “faithful” friends defend all that you have lied so hard to take and steal and apprehend.

Let go now, the past is done. Let the new day be begun. Will ye or no, I shall hither abide for as long as there is a burning African sun.

Oh the road.

Oh the road it calls me! It whispers in my ears to leave it all and just go and be. How wondrous fair must it be to live so free?

Leave the cage of managed time. Find a love and cease your feigned interest in work and modern world to mime.

Pack lightly, walk upon the road or at its side. Patient in the forest bide for the land it shall provide.

Come unto the beach dance among the shells, hide a while among the tides, forget a time your fear of condemnation and the burning hells.

Camp upon the mountaintop, and feel the pull of the fool’s wafting drop. Feel the primal thrill and let your heart grow wings to leap or cringe in fear to stop. 

In the endless rolling fields lay thee down down in a stand of heather and see what visions the day yields freed of endless dragging tether. 

By the river pause and catch a fish, mayhap it’ll be magic and grant you your fondest wish!

Oh the road it calls and I yearn so to go. To travel hither, yon, to and fro!

But the chains of duty bind and in time I think that I shall find, twas but another Road to travel, this of toil by hand and heart and mind.

I shall stop my ears and keep my way. Without regret at the end down to rest my head shall lay.