In the Storms of life

I find it such a painful irony to write here, so sure of what to say, when writer’s block has crippled the creative energies needed to push through the first part of my novel. I suppose that I can metaphorically say that it’s in a coma, waiting patiently for a magical injection that will arouse it from it annoying slumber.

Life, too, can have its ironies. A workaholic who can find more meaning to his or her existence in that monotony of their cubical instead of  being with the spouse and children or an addict that sees their addiction as more of a nutritional support; a need to survive. That leaves a question: has the Lord predestined our short lives to run a certain path, or are we alone on this earth, surrounded by evil, having to survive with  flawed knowledge of good and evil? That is how I sometimes see life, as any struggling soul would see it, when I feel down. When I am up, life takes the whole new dimension of extending heaven to Earth with my own unique gifts.

I am reminded of the famous soliloquy of William Shakespeare’s Hamlet, in act 3 scene 1. There is one section, I think, that something every lost person considers, ” For in that sleep of death what dreams may come when we have shuffled off this mortal coil.” Now rest assured I am not trying to be suicidal, I’m only commenting on how some people react to life’s challenges: with a defeatist attitude, not thinking that there is a God watching over them and waiting for total surrender before His divine hand can move.

This poem I composed will try to illustrate:

These mortal coils…

I see every man wrapped in mortal coils. Like the lifeless cobwebs of a spider, over our minds it is spun.To reach the depths of the soul it has only just begun.

The world’s sweet temptations, its lies, its trusting(so-called) hand… Drags us slowly beneath a bottomless pit of burning sand.

How sweet would you mortal coils be! To serve as a valorous shield so certainly!

But these coils(alas!) are not armored and concealed, but naked; bare to allow life’s battles to be a contagion that rots our resilience and eventually brings us under.

Could our own strength be that bulwark? As Shakespeare’s mad, melancholic tragedy, should we shed our ‘old’ mortal coils and not die butfight through life’s toils

With a higher guardian on our side?





A poem for America’s Independance day

After 7-8 years in South Africa, I have a South Africa and am legally a citizen of the country but my ties to the United States are still strong. If anyone were to say,    ” do you consider yourself to be a South African or an American?” I might actually say, ”both”. There are, however, memories that remind me of the life overseas that I used to have, the greatest of which is the Fourth of July. Marches, ceremonies, picnics, baseball games and late-night fireworks mark this day, I still remember as a child staying up late to watch the intricate display of fireworks illuminate the Downtown Boston sky from my sister’s room Red, white and blue seemed to be on every street.

I have wondered about the complexities that surround this holiday recently. I mean, Americans are basically an international community of immigrants from several counties such as England, Germany, Ireland and Italy(not to mention Native Americans, Asia’s and Hispanics). They all make up the American identity, a melting pot of different cultures having to co-relate with each other. It is this melting pot that creates a sort of facade behind Independence Day

This is elaborately depicted through John Brehm:

Fourth of July

Freedom is a rocket, isn’t it, bursting orgasmically over parkloads of hot dog devouring human beings or into the cities of our enemies without whom we      would surely kill ourselves though they are ourselves and

America I see now is the soldier who said I saw something  burning on my chest and tried tobrush it off with my right hand but my arm wasn’t there — 

America is no other then this moment, the burning ribcage, the hand gone that might have put it out, the skies afire with our history.

Source: John Brehm,