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Her bruises delay not her embrace.
She is as a fortified city,
a gladiator whose inner walls are endowed with peace.
Her harvest is in the wake of coronations,
and in childrens' salutations.
Her beauty is incomparable, impenetrable;
Her demure unbeatable and sure;
A Countess decked with garlands and wreaths
as the people sing her praises.
Her stillness is rewarded by worldly wonder,
a divine nature that scrupulously nurses
her affliction.
An Olympian bloodline adorned with humility
that darns socks, seals gaping soles
and patches worn shirts.
Home-made balms cake calloused hands
and her fortitude ploughs a rich and timeless legacy.
Scalloped knees cry for redemption
as she births ancient wonders of the world;
Yet they simply call her,


(C) Jambiya Kai

Bound By Bitterness - The African Dream Dilemna

The trauma of injustice
lives in our soil and soul;
we die of dreaded disease -
bitter toxins contaminate
the human flesh we consume
as our staple diet. 

Vigilante barbarians and
self seeking justice
has destroyed our humanity;
we have forgotten how to
feel and feed others.
We are too wound up in
our own pit of despair
and inflected ferocity to listen.

Our ears are open but our insight shut -
Hate has infested our enslaved auras
and calcified our bones.
We use our words to
slay not save;
we observe not that
we kill the wounded
who suffer our same fate,
for we are too tightly strung.
ironically stuck to a mental rung
in our arbitrary frenzy
to unseat the sachem.

We cannot be healed
by intro-focus but by feeling;
feeling the fear and pain
of those who travail
as we too endure
and wail in our trouble
We must feel not as fools
but as the freed.
We reason not as slaves
but as saints.

We fight as victors not victims
for a soldier who fixates on death
is …

The Juneck Livi Story

"When one’s life melts away".
We were caught in the middle of a civil war – the mob petrol bombed our home in Nyanga, a township in Cape Town South Africa.

I was just five years old with no idea of the terror that raged outside my home.

The faction fighting and brandishing arms were displays of bitterness that ignited and flared into a towering inferno - I was the innocent victim and those who fought to rid their town of “traitors” were unaware that they had obliterated their aims when their flamed torches clung to my skin.  To my home.

but then again, there are no victors in war.
And men give their lives for freedom.

The scars were deep and the skin grafting and pain followed me throughout high school.

My ears were as if glued to my head.
When the students refused to listen my teacher would make his point , “Don’t you bunch listen –
are your ears glued shut like Juneck’s”?  In those few words I once again heard the hiss of the blue-gum slats that framed our home and dream…

Oranges and Lemons

My ears pricked as the shrill pierced my 2 year old innocence.

"You're a chop off the old block"! Carina Reynecke was the master of wrangling.
Her husband Ferdinand - a rooibos tea grower - was too princely.

“Come Brown” he gently prompted,
a reminder of how much he adored my eyes.

I walked beside him along the Cypress lane as he relived past moments –
The demon slugs hung about in villainous fervour.

Mr "Old Brown Sherry" Reynecke had pissed and pooped his pants again;
mumbling into his alcohol infused puke.
20 year old Ferdinand slung his father before the onlookers then footslogged.
The old man’s expletives echoed through the cypress trees and raised its aggression to  beat the ground, where the armadillo sat in silence
Ferdi doubled over at the torturous memory.Shame glazed his hot skin.

Even now, 10 years later his tears are like freshly squeezed lemon;
Fleshy splayed bits like Jackson Pollock’s No 5 -a gradient artistic creation articulated in a hybrid o…


“Mommy” Her silent whimper went unheard; steel tongs pierced epidermis and mashed fragile bones - then wrenched her arm from its shoulder.
Her mothers silence hurt more - Leg from her hip Inch by inch limb from limb -
“Mommy please” – Her growing heart was strong; Her soul unbreakable, “stop them, mommy please”, she sobbed “please mommy”.
Tiny fingers curled around the umbilical cord and held on.
Her life had long gone But her memory clung, not for her sake - perhaps one last try as she sailed away - "mommy".
With a thrust and twist of his curette "The Chief" breaks her spine and crushes her skull; His scissors cut then scrapes her from warm uterine protection; her warm flesh was sucked into a tubular world for shelved display;
terminated but not gone.
Words and promises lost "Mommy" If only she’d seen her gift wrapped in God's wondrous being.
"Mommy" a miracle and memory that would cleave and leave her mourning a precious baby girl -
a tender voice cr…

For The Love of a Queen

The sun stretched lethargically then ricocheted off the red streaks of her hair and mirrored itself in the green pools of her eyes.

King Duncan McAlpine gazed infinitely at her soft mouth.  Their eyes spoke of an unquenchable fire. Soul to soul. Their passions narrated intent and dangerous games - a courtship of swans.

The residents of the Isle of Rhe were restless, hankering after their bone for the day. A King who was found guilty of the abduction and murder of the French Queen Gabrielle Delon was indeed the type of parade that would bring hundreds to the town square.  Their voices a welter of discordant sounds.

"Murder”? shouted the village baker, his pound of belly glaring beneath the flour coated beige apron. His voice straining above the din, "Blah blah blah. No such thing. The King is a decent fella. This is the work of his one-eyed monster of a step-brother,  it is Lord Blanchard’s doing I tell ya".

The crowd roared with laughter and bullied him down.


Cedric Cobham

He was no down - syndrome baby, he was her prince.

Rebecca sounded like a nightingale.
He takes comfort in her melodic voice that hums and ha's along to Beethoven’s 5th then together they would rock to the beat of Mike Jagger - causing Rebecca some nausea.

The melancholy of Bon Jovi’s , “I will love you" always touched him.
He senses her tears.

His safe haven;
time was upon him -
He blew his last bubbles.
"Cedric"....she named him after her grandfather, James Cedric Cobham
One of the craziest names ever.
Why not James?
He made a mental note to ask about such madness.

Cedric trusted the hands
that would hold him;
Hands that would keep him
warm in winter,
sandal his feet in spring and
cap his crown in summer;
protect his eyes from autumn’s
leafy foliage.
He was more than instinct and reflex,
He was a soul called Cedric.

His mother was silent
but he heard her every word
felt her anxiety.
He lay very still.
She placed her palm over her belly;
"Today we fi…