Pocketful of sunshine

I have one full pocket!
One pocketful of sunshine.

And  it's blinding,
beautiful but blinding.
Beautifully blinding,
that beyond the horizon is a place,
a place we can go,
a place we can abide in.
A place that is binding.
Binding us to solace, 

beautifully binding.
We're lost but can find it,
even when we're hiding,
It's right there in our pockets,

full and to the brim,
beautifully shining.

Dig into your pocket,
your pocket of bliss..
because everyone has it,
I do, you do, we do
all have a
pocketful of sunshine.

The Writing's on the Wall

I

The graffiti paint, wearing of,
still speaks the language,
a,b,c,d..the letters on the wall.
1,2,3,4..the numbers on the wall,
are falling off.
They're old and of age..
Beaten to their sweet demise,
by the accurate mixture,
of wind, sun and rain.
Accurate torture.
Of weak fun that's pain.
But what to gain?
Is the writing still on the wall?
Is the message in it still visible?
The paint is the voice in the artistic
man's pain.
Is he paid?
No.
He's vandalizing.
You don't get paid to destroy.
To defame.
To autocorrect,
the rich, those in power, those with hunger (greed).
He tires, the one with the spray can.
For every time he wakes up,
he remembers, he's the one with hunger.
The real hunger.
He remembers,
that last night he ate, barely..
that last night he drank, barely..
that last night he smiled, barely..
Yet he's supposed to remain,
legally blind to his pain.
Will this always remain the same?
No time for questions he has no answers for.
He has to rush to work.
His t-shirts are messy from his workmanship.
His fingers permanently painted on the tips,
his lips, cracking from the thirst,
he has,
for a future he passed.
He's a few years older than his age,
the writing's on his page,
on the bus to work,
contemplating the next painting,
of his paining soul's tears,
or of painting his worst fears.

II

He decides not to go to work,
and changes his bus.
He takes the one headed south,
near the old mining stations,
away from the bustling city
of Johannesburg.
He has his bag with him,
the bag with his spray cans,
never left it behind.
He stops the bus near the neglected bridge.
It's funny.
How bridges were meant to connect,
yet this one was a disconnect.
How far is Soweto from his current position?
How far is his rich boss drinking his coffee from here?
He's hungry. He remembers.
Jumps over the rocks and
makes his way to under the bridge.
His second home.
Where he comes to think.
Comes to live.
Comes to forget all his troubles.
He's familiar to the smell of this place.
Uncomfortable but still, familiarity
bred no contempt for him,
but a longing...
A longing for belonging.
He belonged here.

III

He opened his knapsack,
pulled out his cans
and got to work.
These walls were as clean as the
politics of his days.
But he saw them beautiful in his head.
He had them drawn.
He had them spray-painted,
beautifully.
Something breath-taking,
something mind-blowing.
All in his head.
Now it was show-time.
To replicate it on the wall.
To leave his mark.
To write his legacy.
To make his point.
To paint his vision.
He started by writing,
a phrase or two..
And even before he started painting,
the letters he wrote spelled out his vision,
the numbers added up to what he was going to paint.

IV

Is the writing still on the wall?
Are the words he wrote, out of conviction,
hungry but satisfied,
still spelled out on the wall?
I know he painted too.. but the words,
the words he wrote that would describe the painting,
are they still on the wall?
He was patient with them,
carving one letter after the other,
loving one number after the other,
putting them together spelling out
what I really want to know.
What we all want to see.
What did he say to these walls,
under the bridge?
The bridge that was taken down,

the walls, remaining..but broken,
a few years ago, after he passed on.

Did the message also pass on?
A message of the neglected
neglected again?
I guess we'll never know.
No. We'll never read.
No. We'll never see,
this writing under the bridge.
Yes. The writing's on the wall.

The beautiful ones are yet to be born

There's a tune to this string,

a ring to the sound of it.

It circles the wildest of thoughts,

and encompasses the most random of 

directions.

Who got lost first?

Who found the right way at last?

It's a mayhem, for we are in this 

mystical place,

with everything but a tune to dance to.

The clouds are forming and the lightning 

striking..

It's grey and gloomy, outwardly frightening.

Do you see the hills?

Can you feel the valleys?

It's just a matter of time before you float 

to the surface.

Peek above into the distance and 

tell me if the peaks do not excite you.

Wish upon the stars and

tell me if the moon does not revolve around you.

Dive into the depths and

tell me if the abyss does not embrace you.

It's pointless if it's bottomless.

It's scary if it's wishful.

Open your eareyes and shut your mouth.

Grab a glass and quench your thirst.

Sit at the table of the learned and

teach them to unlearn.

Run with the winners.

Don't dine with the whiners.

Sleep till you wake up

and when you do,

don't go back to sleep.

Sleep is for the weak,

they win those who are quick.

Tighten the seatbelts and drive to your destination.

It's a calling if you feel it,

you haven't reached there if it's still unanswered.

Grab the torch of fire and light your way out,

walk steadily and readily,

in silence and undoubtful.

Shed the loose feathers and rise to your altitude,

for the eagle that can easily fly, 

is the eagle that can't easily die.

Dare to dream and dream to dare..

Such is life that you never finish where you start,

so dare to dream when you're starting,

dream to dare before you finish.

Wrap up your ambition in an unbreakable foil of emotion,

like of eggs, taken good care of,

eyes on the goals no matter what.

Score immediately you get the chance,

be invincible to your obstacles

and invisible to your enemies.

Life is a merry-go-round,

so make merry as you go around.

Forget you not, at the end of the day, that,

the beautiful ones are yet to be born.

This man in the mirror

This man in the mirror,
is me and yet, not me.
He is not me. He is yet to be me.
He stares back like he knows me,
I look at him like he's got it all wrong.
He thinks he is me.
He smiles like he's me.
He moves like he's me.
His eyes look like mine,
His everything too.
But he is not me.
This man in the mirror is not me.
He is me in the mirror.
The me now, the now me.
That'll be gone when I,
tighten my tie up, as he,
tie my shoelaces, as he,
adjust my smile, as he,
and step away,
leaving him behind.
This man in the mirror is me,
but won't be me when I leave.
For when I come back,
this man in the mirror,
will be a different me.
So he is not me.
Me is yet to be me.
He is yet to be at the level of me.
I am me, he is, but just,
this man in the mirror.

WILD

Let's cut to the chase
and accept she's wild.
The pleasure is in her pursuits,
and her victories, in the mind.
She's incomparably adequate,
she's one of a kind.
The test of time her witness,
in weakness, peace she finds.
Her strength's golden,
her misgivings blind.
She wins when she wants to,
she puts her failures behind.

Let's cut to the chase
and accept she's wild.
Wild like the flowers,
wild like the fruits of the wild.
Wild like the lions,
wild like the cubs in the jungle .
She's wild like the cheetah,
catch you fast before you even cheat her.
She's wild like the deer, oh dear,
graceful and full of peace.
She's as wild as that tree that blossoms in the winter,
wild as that stream that flows in the desert,
wild as that storm that rages in the ocean,
getting whatever it wants and
getting rid of whatever's in its way.

Let's cut to the chase
and accept she's wild.
She's wild because the world is wild.
She yearns to embrace it, the world is wide.
Her ambition is priceless,
her motivation timeless.
She's wild because she has to.
Too much to live for,
yet too little a time to live it for.
She has to be wild..
See, the world is cold,
if you're mining for it's gold.
She has to win,
she wants to win.
But to win, she has to fight.
To fight, she has to be wild.

Let's cut to the chase
and accept she's wild...
we have no other option.
She's beauty and brains,
how wild could it get.
The weight of the world on her shoulder,
is the backpack with her books
as she goes to school.
To learn the art,
to finesse her walk out of this wilderness.
She's wild for the night,
she's wild for the day.
Whatever you say, she's wild.
Has been, is and will be,
till she gets that crown on her,
her beautiful head.
Wild, yes, she's wild.

The traveller's soliloquy

I walk a traveller on this road,

on this road that has been carved,

that has been carved in wood,

in wood and has been drawn,

been drawn on a canvas,

on a canvas, worn out yet new,

yet new of experiences,

experiences of tomorrow's painting,

tomorrow's painting, of tomorrow's footprints,

tomorrow's footprints of a traveller.

Footprints of a traveller, my footprints.

My footprints for I am that traveller.

My feet are full of dust, my shoes worn out,

my knees are weak, but strengthened,

by the wind I walk against, the rains I dance in,

the storms I run into, enlightening me with lightnings,

of acknowledgment, of approval..

Discouragements have been tides,

I've rose above, ridden over.

Disappointments have been trips,

I've taken aboard my spaceship,

but never tripped on them.

So now like Johnny I have to keep walking,

I have to keep stalking my dreams,

stroking my guitar strings,

as I sing myself hoarse into the greys of the nights.

Walking the talk, has never been harder.

Miles into my journey, the less I talk,

the less I have to prove.

The more I talk, the short I fall under.

Am human. I stink of mistakes,

almost as much, the scent of my victories.

It's a mystery.

For a journey with a history,

not as sweet as honey,

living days for tomorrow,

leaving stress and sorrow,

behind.. Solving puzzles,

walking through mazes,

and still, am I there yet?

When will this be over?

When will I walk and look not over my shoulders?

When will I walk and look to see the holder?

Of the prize of the walk at the end of the journey?

And we will sit by the bonfire,

reflections of yesterday woven into our conversations,

for what is life spent without motivation?

What is light bent without a refraction?

A beneficiary of a life well lived?

I'll keep walking till I get there.

For no other option have I;

I am a traveller.

Soul Speak

Soul Speak,
let our souls speak,
let our souls utter,
the things that matter,
speak to each other..
Let the lips of our souls touch each other,
speak to the peak of their voices,
make noises,
make choices,
to speak..


Speak the unspoken thoughts of our being,
speak the unbroken chords of our thinking,
make music to dance to,
poetry to snap to,
words of wisdom and knowledge, to live up to,
heights so high to reach up to.
Let our souls speak.
Let MY soul speak!


Yes. Let MY soul speak..
It's dying to speak,
it's dying to live and let live,
to express the unexpressed,
impress the unimpressed!
My soul seeks for heartbeats,
a background beat to it's lyrics,
a living rhythm to it's unspoken words!


Let my soul speak, just let it!
Let it speak in tones and undertones,
you never knew existed.
Let it speak in vocals,
you never heard at any recital.
Let my soul speak, just let it!
Let it speak to your soul...
Let them converse.
Let them chat.
Let them have a tete-a-tete,
face to face,
soul to soul..
Let our souls speak!!
Let them speak and promise me,
yes you, you promise me, that.,
you will be willing to listen.
You will be willing to listen to the words of old that are gold,
that will mold and behold,
you will stand bold and unashamed,
wiser and grown.
No regrets.

For before we begin to strip down naked to our souls,
ungag them and let them speak,
fearless of retribution,
unbound to persecution,
in our mentally conceived jail institutions,
our souls will not be free..
They yearn to be free,
they long to be released,
they desire to be out in the open,
unrestricted by what the society has taught us.
They are desperate to be freed..
Free to speak, free to teach,
free to express our inner emotions,
our will to live,
our drive to thrive.
Hashtag #TeamLetOurSoulsSpeak