Soft Cello Notes

I have a friend
my oasis...
she has the ability
to connect to my soul
in a way that makes
words uncalled for

The depth of her intellect
and understanding echoes
in the dark caves of
my inner-world

And long after the turmoil
of exposing myself on paper
has left me vunarable and naked
her presence lingers on
like  soft cello notes
giving life to who I am





(this poem is dedicated to my friend Marelise Botha-Koch)

A True Story Of Being Me

I live my life in a host of stories
connected to other people's
stories in various ways
I understand and identify things
by placing them in the stories
I tell about them and then
find myself caught in a web

A web so perplexed I am
unable to tell the difference
between reality, or not -
fragments of the imagination?
or fragments of real life drama?

After careful consideration,
no sleep, tossing and turning
my reality includes everything
that is and has been -
a true story of being me

63 Cats in a hat

63 Cats in a hat

going through their own

magical experiences.

Every night the same

rituals.

Lock-up time

fighting for the shower

fighting with whoever

pissed you off during the day.

Then meaningless

conversations.

TV 1 playing for the

previously oppressed

now the leaders of their

own little gangs

calling the shots over

their domain.

I find it impossible to participate

I find it even more impossible

to sleep.

Every sound echoes in my

head and even

in the dead of the night the

'sleep-mode-noises'

cause havoc in my unsettled

soul. 

A laughing matter

I remember
our endless
conversations.
How we would be civil to
each other
if our journey should ever
end.
It took you two months
two visits behind dirty
thick glass
you stopped
being civil.
Inner turmoil

A revelation
surviving in this hellhole
is by far worse than
you leaving me.
It's a laughing matter 

Jesus people

I don't want to talk to the Jesus people
 I don't want to hear
 that this hellhole
 plays a small part
 in my salvation.

I don't want to hear
that up to now
my life has been meaningless
and that I was brought here
to come face-to-face
with my inner demons.

You don't know me
you have no idea of the
perplexity of being ME.

At this point
'Jesus can save you,
 God loves you
 and can heal you'
are just empty words
and have no place
in my reference framework.

For now all I need to do
is to Survive...
the constant hunger,
 the constant shouting
 of meaningless arguments in my ears,
the constant feeling of not fitting in
 and not belonging,
 the constant sadness of missing my family.

Can you comprehend this,
does it make sense in your
little 'feel good' world.
I don't need your
Jesus now! 

Pandora's box

This is not what
I have imagined my life to be
A 3X3 meter fortress
thick walls
and steel gates
keeping all evil at bay.
Knights in brown uniforms
and rubber boots
patrolling through the night.
A mindless exercise
requiring no skill
but to stay awake.

Inside my fortress
Pandora's box
filled with endless possibilities
fragments of my imagination.
What to choose, what to choose...
Super Villan, Super Hero
the capacity to go
beyond this universe
always in control
of my own perception. 

Penthouse no 5

I have been moved
to a new spot...
a new spot on the block
I call it Penthouse no 5

Six months later
and I have arrived
at a place where I feel
safe and comfortable
my acre of heaven

I even started smiling again
finding humour in
every-day prison living

I have friends now...
Janeth, the 23 year old from Peru
caught for drug-trafficing
with her warm smile, sunny personality and
child-like acceptance of everything

And Debbie the psychopath
telling bedtime stories about her endless
adventures on the streets of Greenpoint
robbing gay lovers while they are making
out at 'GraaF se Pool'

Then there is soft-spoken Heather
her endless struggle with drugs and
spending her life mostly in Re-habs

I live on my own now
10 of us - single cells
in a long dim-lit passage
single bed, basin and toilet
my acre of heaven

Penthouse no 5 

You have no power over me

You might think you have
absolute power over me...
by slamming the gate in my face,
you only confine me
to limited living space

You might think you have
absolute power over me...
Your dirty looks wash over me
and confirm my observation
of your insecurities

You might think you have
absolute power over me...
by controlling my freedom to speak-
I have realised
in this place words is a waste of time

You might think you have
power over me
by robbing me of my dignity when you
touch me for security reasons-
It only makes me realise this
physical body is
only a small part of my being

You may think you have
power over me
When you force me to attend workshops
to talk about my crime

The truth is -
although freedom of space, movement and speech
might be limited,
my every thought is free
and therefore

You have NO power over me