I was born, raised and educated in Cape Town, South Africa in the last two decades of Apartheid and also have British and EU citizenship. Now a retired teacher of English, I am following my passion to write poetry and hoping to share my literal mentality with our global village, hoping to make global citizens check their moral compass now and then in an ever changing world. As a person of mixed race heritage, I want to share my experiences whilst growing up, living and working in a totalitarian racist regime.
The Storm
A faint rumbling signals it,
Airflow spreads over infiltrating weeds,
Wildlife stirs,
Murmuring chaos anew,
Light fades as darkness craves,
Subtle resistance prevails
as oncoming mayhem sails
towards order and peace,
Promising no relentless release,
It tucks at your intake of air
as it sucks out life all around,
Your senses explode
as everything goes into overload,
A growl turns into a scowl
of electric light blinking bright,
Imploding clouds deliver a ghastly sight,
Air spits as nature vomits foul,
The storm
Our norm
Life relentless
Catapulting our senses…
THE SENTINEL
Anchored for centuries unknown
oh majestic Table Mountain,
You still watch over Cape Town,
Mother city over 400 years,
Witness to her violent birth,
Ever rising towards the heavens,
Only God harbors the truth
our struggle,
Surrounded by flora and fauna
a feast for any eye
amidst shards of piercing rock
raging icy waters
on blinding, silver sandy beaches,
Small groups of beach dwellers huddle
in your protective shadow
peacefully existing,
Indigenous language, culture
ensuring survival,
Wildlife competing
mercilessly deleting,
Disturbing murmurs rising,
You stare in awe
down below
wondering if harmony and love still aglow
or does hate and jealousy pierce your table cloth?
Centuries old sounds echo to your summit,
Cacophonies of voices confuse and amuse,
Lives changing emotions simmering,
Instinct erupting resulting in violent vomit,
Strangers infiltrate
creating fear and curiosity,
Their sails shredded
furthering foreign animosity,
Your beauty noted future plans made,
Greed their driving force,
Your shadow to fade.
The year 1647
the boat smashing on a foreign heaven,
Christened ‘Niewe Haarlem’ Holland’s pride,
It shakes against rock and unseen peril
ominously spilling onto your foreshore,
A dozen fleet of relief joins your grief,
The year 1652 Van Riebeeck sent to govern
greets local inhabitants,
Exchanges bring relief,
Their curiosity accepting,
Their bodies a fiery oven
your defenses down
your sight welcoming,
You marvel at their skills,
Blissfully unaware
of Armageddon to come,
The future disturbing,
Ideas clashing
Tempers gnashing
Negotiations unfair
initial plots of land bargained in 1671
Khoi clans clashing rebels shunned,
Culture poisoned
the deed cleverly done,
Dividing a father, mother, daughter and son,
Tribal heart lost creating cultural loss,
European domination overpowering
morale lowering,
Your essence diluted
young Khoi girls polluted,
Politics in motion
traditions no longer suited,
Khoi translators employed
healing the void
including Herrij, Doman and Kratoa
She, taken in by Jan as a child
her linguistic skills greatly valued,
Whispers cause discontent and doubt
between invaders and indigenous folk,
Eva’s legacy tainted,
emotions heightened,
You shudder through the chaos
manic moans,
French Hugenots arrive
causing further strife,
Your playground invaded
traditions faded,
They struggle to establish
Dutch courage too strong
forcing them to speak another mother tongue,
Their language suppressed
identity compressed,
Winelands offer a sweet escape,
Excluded,
Creating new identity
your shadow casting over them,
Countless Khoi destroyed by colonists
Your stones shiver
witnessing a cultural bloody river
others banished north halted by the San,
Possessions snatched
their fate sealed,
Slaves imported from afar,
India, Mozambique and Madagascar,
The Far East concluding the colonial feast,
Child of colour
born from a mixed mother,
You remain steadfast yet alert,
Depending on fair and humane hearts,
Sentinel for centuries even millennia,
Still a God- given
Centurion defender…
Childhood Days
Armoured in red flares
the seventies are filled with sounds anew,
Sunday rituals include church and sticky doughnuts,
Outside an angry wind blows sound abound,
Radio blasts out “Ring, Ring”
“Who’s that mom? Abba their name son!”
My first taste of a foreign hit!
My second tongue
a fan so young,
The table laid in perfect culinary shade,
Table Mountain mocking
clouds frolicking,
Worlds apart from here on the Cape Flats,
Dreams begin
tumbling
taking hold,
Train squealing cuts through divided lines,
Mountain in sight
how beautiful
such majestic might,
“Why are we riding in third class?” I ask
sister dear
dousing innocent fear,
Head shaking
no clear understanding,
Others looking at me weirdly,
I feel ashamed in the city,
My Cape
their city
such a pity!
The ‘bergies’ wreak
vomiting grief,
They beg with callous hands outstretched,
“Who’s that?” Innocently inquiring intrigued
My hand tightly squeezed
pulled with ease,
Restaurant’s packed,
feeling alienated
where's our people?
Utensils provided
thrown rather trying to fight it,
Shouting, “what do you want?”
feeling shunned,
“How rude!” I exhale,
Sister dear quelling my fear,
Others are looking at me weirdly
murmuring amongst them
eyes piercing
blonde heads popping up and down,
I smile at them
greeted by disdain,
Allowed into their wonderland world
must make the journey home again,
My mind racing,
Thoughts aimlessly pacing,
Still confused,
Sister dear attempting to amuse,
The train groans on split lines,
It eerily turns away, away
The mountain now a blue haunting hue
momentarily bathed in red
hazy orange too,
Safely entombed back home,
Murky memories remain,
What’s wrong with me?
Questions unanswered
tongue twisted,
Musical interference
temporary hindrance,
The sounds captivating
“Ring, Ring”
“Mamma it’s Abba!
Yes my child come help me,”
Leave that rowdy radio!
Outside the anxious wind
blows sand around,
Table Mountain mummified
in a choking churning shroud,
My future unsure
ignorant of a racial war,
Cocooned in love,
Protected from above,
Outside the wind
blows sand abound.
"Childhood Days" first appeared in Dissident Voice
~Don Beukes
