Moments Apart

My palms are a negative charge…

Your positive is so strong it tickles the middle of my hands as they reach and find comfort on the only walls I didn’t build.

My best friend assured me that I’d never find your equal – but being half you , it’s strangely uncomfortable to walk on a continent without you.

I have been rushing you lately…

But every time I meet myself in the mirror,

There’s a new grey hair and I

Am petrified of spending another moment apart.

One Last Poem

While we were together,

I was afraid of writing about you.

I hadn’t written honestly about love in so long

And I wasn’t sure it was safe to literally

Give you all my power on paper.

When I missed writing;

Smoking marijuana seemed like the next best thing;

I couldn’t figure out how to cheat myself into sharing my burden;

Looking back now,

It seems more like a gift that I gluttonously consumed.

All these feelings I had for you would only make way to your ear after the insecurities finally convinced me that you wouldn’t care for what I have to say.

I fell apart so often.

All I really wanted was for you to listen to the story of my love for you.

But I never considered the story of our love. For the nights you spent holding me.

For the time you invested in me.

For giving me everything.

No, you didn’t refuse.

I just didn’t have the courage to try.

I like to travel as your partner sometimes;

I like to remind myself what your hair smells like;

The exact contours of your shoulder blades;

The spot most comfortable to bury my face in.

My lips feel the smooth surface of your perfect forehead –

And that prepossessing mind of yours.

I’ve been thinking about your part-basset with his sun-burnt nose,obnoxiously cute demeanor and farts that could rival the stench of Dachau.

The African Grey and how I felt awful for disturbing his chi bad enough to be attacked for no reason.

Old Harry who thought he was one of the dogs…

All the pets we had and lost…

I guess… this is my final goodbye ,

May we finally Rest In Peace.


The Zulu hunter holds his proud spear close to his chest as he nears the village with food supplies that should last for over a month.

He is not a perfect man,

Pride often tears his lungs open

He takes it out on the woman he fell in love with

Or were his limbs the perpetrators of romance?

He didn’t bother with questions of the sort… not until she walked up to him after a hard winter and whispered a new life in his ear while her womb grew it with every passing second.

As he drops the carcasses meant for feast, his bloody arms are instantly filled with a different sort of body…

This one carried his eyes and mouth, his chin, skin, blood and grin – and breathing , so calmly and confidently – he took less than a moment to say, “Nompumelelo!”

Because he felt accomplished just staring at the most perfect life one could have ever created.

These are the kinds of stories I

Make up at night when I can’t sleep and find

Myself wishing to have been that

Man who held the treasure of all that is you in his arms.

I imagine how many hearts you stole with your innocent face and that fierce personality which seems to have stayed with you like a faithful companion.

I want to return to you like a beautiful dream you haven’t been able to have in decades.

To greet you, like an early morning breeze after a drizzle – like the scent of wet soil,

Like the smell of me lingering on your fingertips as you press them to your lips in thought during a quiet lesson. Even though you reluctantly washed your hands out of necessity for the thousandth time during break.

That’s how I intend to be:

irrevocably present, persistent, penitent,passionate and pure at heart for all of the above you have always gifted me.

For teaching me what unconditional means on those hard days when you had to protect me from you , much like I had done over a decade prior.

I’m having déjà vu of writing this:

I’ve loved you all my lives.

Hopeless and Frantic

One day I will write my poetry

As though forever is the shortest word in the English dictionary, regardless of this false idea – the eyes of my audience would better adjust to the uncomfortable sight of me. My unruly hair and hard-to-tell gender would finally fit even though they don’t.

My made-up fashion sense wouldn’t hurt retinae but instead, they will see me as equally human… equally hurting, healing, heaving for a breath of air that isn’t polluted by racism.

One day I will speak my poetry

Without being shaken at someone calling me “bitch” for daring to love a Zulu Queen.

Instead I will stand firm as her prince, hold my head high and remember that she loves me even when I am a little bitchy… I will think of her when the audience is about to run out of patience with all I have to say… and perhaps their ear-drums will finally adjust to the idea that, maybe freedom is equally important to me too. Maybe I am willing to stay and fight and raise a tight fist in the air while, knowing that there is an axe waiting to chop my whole arm off in all the looks I get because I dared to imagine myself worthy of the revolution.

One day I will read my own poetry

Without wanting to crumple up the paper and forget how to spell.

See, revolutionary tendencies are not inherited, they are nurtured and raised like those poets who had parents but still no one to go home to – so they raise themselves and become more human than they’d like to be because… they weren’t loved enough to be vaccinated with indifference and ignorance every minute of their growing life.

One day

My poetry might touch a part of you that you weren’t even aware existed….

It might extend a metaphorical palm towards you in hopes that this time you won’t smack my hand away like an annoying mosquito on a hot summer night when YOUR QUEEN has turned your home into a walk-in freezer with her cold shoulder.

Would you consider me then?

Would you consider heating up your veins with compassion, understanding and acceptance?

And one day…

Just maybe

I won’t be afraid of what wars this microphone will have to fight before I’ve even touched it.

Inktober : Day 1 – Mothers Of Africa

Dear everyone who got an awkward message from me yesterday in order to ask for photos of your mothers.

I am truly sorry if I overstepped any boundaries or seemed too forward.

Inktober doesn’t have themes as such, but because it is a 31 day art challenge I wanted to stay true to my style by sticking to a theme.

As children of this beautiful continent (though I, myself am an adopted daughter) ; we are all (to some extent) aware of the hardships that Africa’s mothers and daughters endure in order to fulfill their roles as queens and teachers. It may be true that parents all over the world go through hardships, but this isn’t about the rest of the world.

This is about those of you who have been a light in my life no matter how brief. To me, some few second memories are the best ones. Then there’s the realization that without your mothers – none of you would be here and my life would not have been the same at all. Each and every one of you have softened my falls, reminded me to look up and that I am not an oddity or a freak of nature. You have all taught me a bit about who you are as a individuals and also who we all are as humans.

So thank you Mamma (to all the moms out there) – thank you for your sacrifices, your selflessness, your strength, kindness and resilience, but most of all : thank you for your royal love and being.

Your biggest fan : Iva (aka : B. Levskey)