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A castle sat upon the hill, where all the power lay:
The storehouse, armoury lay inside, the treasury, every day.
The ruler and his dozen knights would tax the peasants poor,
Would take a portion of their food and money for their store.
They promised safety from their foes, protection from the night,
But told them when to build a wall and when to run or fight.
They the makers of the swords, the helmets, belts, and shields
They the holders of the keys, the oil, and the seal.
The town, in time, began to grow, too big to keep control,
And people died or wandered off or fell in empty hole.
It soon grew clear the ruler dear cared not for every one,
For those who died or became lost, the ruler mourned but none.
In fact, the ones he thought to save were those who knelt before
In adoration, loyalty, allegiance evermore.
From these he chose his guards and chiefs and up the ladder climbed,
And if they worked and kissed enough, they, too, were knights in time.
But there were some who did not die or wander through the mist,
Nor did they bow or heed the beck or betray their heart with kiss.
They stoked their fire and scraped for ore and forged their own sharp sword,
And shaped a shield, a helmet, too, a breastplate for the war.
They pressed their oil, and cut their keys, and carved out their own seal.
Then walked away, just one by one, to find a place to heal.
They were free now of the tax, the burden of the knights,
Their own heads high, their own hearts sure, and ready for the fight.
I came across a snack machine, or so I thought it was.
As I got close, I found instead, something that made me pause.
There were no snacks inside, I saw, in each cramped numbered slot.
Rather, shockingly I’d say, were several different gods.
Some were white, and some were black, and some were big or small,
Some were fat, and some were thin, and some were short or tall.
And while there was variety, as much as gods do go,
I noticed that the same white god was in the top two rows.
I guess it was most popular, its button worn near through,
And though it took up several slots, all were bare but two.
I took a seat upon a bench beneath an oak nearby
So I could see what would transpire when one that god did buy.
It wasn’t long before someone, who hungered for a god,
Did come upon the god machine and stood there kind of awed.
He stood a bit, scratched his chin, and cocked his head in thought,
Then sure of choice, put in a dime, and pressed the worn out spot.
And out it came, the favoured one, like many had before;
It glistened now in the bright light and waited in the drawer.
He held it close, examined it, then kissed it once for luck,
Then said a prayer his parents said when he was young and such.
It came to life, that idol cheap, and I could hear it speak
It shocked me, what I heard it say; it made me want to shriek.
“Hello, dear sir. I am your god. My precepts you’ll adore.
I don’t want much. In fact, I’d say, there’s little new in store.
I’ll teach you want you want to hear and won’t demand too much.
I am smooth and comfortable and pleasant to the touch.
I will never rock your boat; in fact, I hardly row.
I’ll just lie back, in warming sun, and feel the cool breeze blow.”
And then this god stretched forth its hand and patted on the head
The man who purchased him just now and made his cheeks turn read.
He giggled at the touch of the trinket god so bold.
And skipped away, along the path, to pick some marigolds.
The knight, with sword drawn high, struck down with strength increased.
Slayed the dragon, but — surprise — himself became the beast.
Toward the sweetened fruit, led the rod so strait,
But through the years, from rust and strain, became the building great.
Shedded plate and shield to fling a fatal stone,
Then grew four feet, a giant now, for he’d become the foe.
A stone cut without hands, careening down the hill
The statue smashed, then in a flash, the statue’s place did fill.
The silence of the grove, the buzzing of the bees
Have been replaced with mountain halls secured by locks and keys.
The mustang roaming free, wind whipping at its mane,
Is bridled now, and saddled up, and hauling ’cross the plain.
I long for days of yesteryear, when angels walked the land.
When cool winds blew and warm flames licked the mountain halls so grand,
When voices whispered from the earth and words appeared on stone,
When blinding pillars fell from heav’n and time through portals shown.
Today, instead, are heavens closed? Have angels gone and hid?
The stones now cold, the voices hushed, the shadows the light rid?
Prolific words of heaven’s throne replaced by leaky drop?
The silenced trump encased in gold? Do keys not open lock?
Will tokens, signs, and names endure, or will they vanish, too?
Will compass lose its magnet soon? Will rule its measure true?
No humming bees? No singing birds? No rustle in the grove?
The puny arm stretched forth indeed the Missouri mighty slowed?
My shuffled gait, my outstretched arms, I wander, search for brains;
Perhaps a heart, or maybe faith, an answer to obtain.
So aimlessly and hopelessly, my feet inch ever on
To dimming sights and fading goals, my former life near gone.
An echo faint deep in my ear, just ash in my cold breast,
Just butterflies within my gut, no hands upon my crest.
My eyes are glazed, my tongue is parched, my fingers feel no more.
No smells, no taste, no sight, nor sounds, just hunger in my core.
And joy, and peace, and love, and hope replaced by hunger’s growl,
And, too, an overburdened yoke and brokenhearted howl.
Satiation is my life in famine stricken land;
Squeezing water from a stone, refreshment from the sand.
I knew a man from years ago:
His heart was strong, his tongue “I know”.
He carried in his pocket close
A compass sure, exactness chose.
He painted art correct and right
Of brightest day and darkest night.
His path was set, the ladder climbed,
The pilot lit, the pump was primed.
But then he said goodbye one day
Had packed his bags and gone away.
I stood upon the steady beach
And watched his ship sail out of reach
The inches small turned into miles
As he went on to unseen isles.
As time went on, I lost this man;
We drew apart, as strangers can.
But on occasion, I have thought
Of what he’d done and what he’d not.
On where he is and what he does,
For old times sake and just because.
Does he still live deep down inside
Beneath the years of pain and pride?
Is he the one who tugs my heart
Who cleans my wounds and soothes my scars?
A shield of ice to keep at bay the heat of fiery birth.
Deflect the quench of living drink with sharpened sword of thirst.
A spear of night to pierce the light, protect the shadows dear.
And courage hordes are smitten, hewn, with catapults of fear.
A helmet thick and strong with grief to stop the blows of cheer.
Destroyed the feasts and banquets with a thrusted hunger spear.
A sling of pain to strike with speed the charging throngs of peace.
Surrender now? Or stay and fight? When will the conflict cease?
A hundred people near me, but I am all alone.
A city full of houses, but I am without home.
A sea of salty water, but I am just a leaf.
A court of kings and rulers, but I am not a chief.
A pile of coloured ribbons, but I’m a drabby grey.
A kennel full of purebreds, but I’m a tossed out stray.
A toolbox full of hammers, but I am just a screw.
A room of cushioned sofas, but I’m a hardened pew.
A canvas without brushes, a lock without a key,
A match without a striker, a pod without its pea,
A boat without a paddle, a shovel without snow,
A plane without a pilot, an arrow without bow,
A gun without a bullet, a train without a track,
A curtain without windows, a sink without a tap,
A compass without needle, a candle without flame,
A bosom without burning, and me without a name.
A bullet for infection, a hundred twelve injections.
Stop the spread with dozens dead, four months till my election.
McBuffalo the traitor now opposite of labour;
The boss in bed with platinum head, we’ve lost our arbitrator.
We have 500 rand, but billions in his hands.
Each day we dig for dirty pigs deep under desert sand.
We work, and bleed, and sweat to pay our hungry debt.
So tired now, collective vow to make the mountain trek.
With patience we sit waiting, our roof and bed dictating
Protection feigned, they try in vain our weapons confiscating.
Green blanket calls dismount from off the mighty mount
Thousands strong now join the throng towards the body count.
Spears clapping and just singing, their chants in valley ringing.
Box them in! We’re going to win! Let’s start the tear gas flinging!
First seventeen are dying. The scene now horrifying.
They’re on the run; the hunt’s begun. We’ve doubled bodies lying.
It’s just like 1960—well, maybe not so swiftly.
It’s not the cracks, this time it’s black, and certainly more grisly.
“Cease fire,” yell the bosses. Too late to stop the losses.
Medics barred. No badges charged. See all the wooden crosses.
Two seventy arrested of those who had protested
A murder charge, but they just marched. The system is infested.
Marikana had backfired, four weeks they did inspire:
A hundred grand did take a stand, each worker filled with fire.
A heart once pumped so strong and sure, a rich and fiery red
That reached the toes and fingertips now weak and nearly dead.
It urged and coaxed and pressed — inspired — to battle scary things.
This faith is but a trickle now, its strength an echoed ring.
Where is that strength? Where did it go? Where can it now be found?
In plates of gold it is not hid. Nor quiet prayer profound.
Not buried deep in mountain halls, nor under wooden pews;
Not seen in tokens, skins, nor signs, nor in prophetic muse.
A voice rang out in yesteryear, so piercing, loud, and firm:
Defend and preach and testify, rejoice and teach and learn.
It’s just a quiet whisper now, a scant sound off the tongue.
Few hopeful words fall from the lips, no warming songs are sung
Where is that voice? Where did it go? Where can it now be found?
Not in the notes upon the page, nor in familiar sounds.
Not in the mirrored words “I know”, nor parroted amens.
Not in the furnace nor the soap, nor pearl or precious gem.
