raise your sons


We’re hypocrites,
teaching our children to be humble,
and with the same breath,
showing them how to be attached to things,
this anxiety that we’ve left in our wills,
shall be inherited by them as boulders,
if we don’t quite simply,
practise what we preach,
and release the world from our grasp,
so that it can unshackle us from it slavery.


Teach your children how to be alone

I owe everything I am to loneliness,
and thus, my children will know,

I’ve buried in the comfort of the fields inside,
so that all the seeds of antiquity will grow,

if you want advice on acquiring a kingdom,
and riches beyond of which you can show,

plant a seed, a deed and cover all your secrets,
learn patience, and from your garden, reap what you sew.

There’s method to the madness,
but it’s only madness in the eyes of the mad,
the clinically insane,
the pathologically mundane,
conformist, sheep-like,
and in pain.

It hurts them to step outside the normality of triviality,
of inability,
so if I teach and nurture my children,
train them well in the science of the self,
teach them peace and comfort and inner wealth,
to be comfortable in their own shells,
I’m apparently abnormal,
a radical of sorts,
reduced to label of this or that,
because I choose not to sell their souls,
or trust them to anyone but themselves.

It becomes very apparent,
it’s not that they disagree with me,
nor find my reasoning outrageous,
it’s envy, jealousy and laziness,
that they, don’t have the fibre, nor zeal,
to do the same.




Sometimes words spoken,
Hands shaken,
Deals hearkened,
By hearts hardened,
Cause the pictures to speak louder.
Your words spoke too loud this time,
And deafened this boy to the sound,
Of naught else but his consciousness.
Taught awareness of self at so young,
What will become,
What does he now have to overcome,
Your war drums,
Your missile hums,
Turning homes into slums,
How will this all be undone?
When the rhetoric of your politics,
is the same shit,
Same song, sung,
Same outcomes,
This boy sits,
As you pit your wits,

love and light

– love and light

Love and light

Teach them love

Teach them light

Teach them they don’t matter

And when they serve others

Then in the eyes of the world

They will be sons of illume

Daughters with spiritual wombs

They will drag chivalry on its face in jealous rage as it wonders how these little atoms of light surpassed its station like an arrow through a target

Because you aligned them

Right from the start


Enjoying love and light and watching my children share the same.

And they always share.

My whole philosophy on their upbringing is a hope they become the humans, others turn to, when they forget how to be one.

Giving birth to the earth



The moment where words that lived with me so long,


They stand at the departure gate of my lips,
And you know,
Once they turn their back,
It will be moments before they take flight,
To belong in someone else’s home.

Words, those gypsies,
Finding new homes,
Were they ever meant to depart,
And leave me alone?

They’re the children you give birth to,
And live with you for all those years,
Then one day, they leave you,
Awash with loneliness’s tears.

But a writer is fertile,
Always able to fall pregnant,
Our bellies are always swollen with words,
Waiting to give birth,
Always rotund, large of girth,
In one parable, one paragraph,
Back bent with the weight of the earth.
It’s a labour of love,
This labour of a lifetimes worth,
For the one line,
Sometimes a lifetime,
We’ll wait, we’ll search.
We’re not just writing, speaking, prattling,
With our words,
We’re giving birth,
To the earth.


My opus of poetry


Dear child,
You are my opus of poetry.


I wish I was a woman.

Nine months of poetry I would write to last your lifetime.

I’d cook and feed myself with my own hands blowing a prayer over each meal.

I’d read every book of prose, love and of God I could find.

I’d worship, fallen in prostration, yet dancing in elation, weeping for everything inside me to transfer to you.

From milk I would give you for as long as you suckle,

To stare at you in forty years and say,

He is, she is,
My opus of poetry.

Introversion – fifteen


‘So what do you want to be
when you grow up?’



When I was a child, I always felt this immense pressure to perform. The ‘me’ I was supposed to be had an answer on the tip of his tongue programmed into him.

Being of eastern culture, we have this overwhelming propensity to respect our parents wishes and to work hard to fulfil their aspirations for us. ‘Us’, or ‘me’ in the equation is constructed carefully to suit the ideals and standards of the community and demographics they (parents) represent.

My answer had been carefully selected for me. What higher honour could one have than to be a doctor?

Doctor, Doctor, Doctor…… doctor……doct …..doc….tock……tick…..tock….tick….tock

Fast forward to thirty eight years of age, I am not a doctor. I learned many things along the way, studied a variance of the science, even studied mechanical engineering but I had to find out through my skin and soul that I did not want to be boxed in to anything. How could I when music, art and words were boiling in a cauldron pot inside me. How could I when I could see the expressions on peoples faces change, when I could see their bodies upright when they saw, heard or read something they liked? That exchange was far more interesting.

How do you tell a parent that thinks life is the sweat of their brow that the nights you spent up to three am staring at an equation was just because YOU enjoyed it, not because you had high aspirations of being a medical prowess? They just don’t get it.

We suffocate our children with expectations. We place large burdens on them because we mostly don’t have the foresight and character culture to know what we want let alone what they want.

Not me……

I tasted that and won’t push that on to my children.

Admittedly, I ask my children what they want to be all the time. My question is not preloaded with an expectation though. My question is loaded with love and genuine curiosity to see where their minds are at because I am interested in their version of ‘ME’. I want to know at every moment what tree their souls sit under waiting for the apple to drop but I don’t care if it’s a pear that drops instead, heck I don’t care if it’s a watermelon or just a leaf.

My kids are mostly introverted, they enjoy their solitude and are comfortable being on their own, doing things without the need for people but are perfectly comfortable in groups as well.

We must get out of our heads the need to force an outlandish socialisation factor on children. They don’t have to be vivaciously social and extrovertly animated in public. They don’t have to be the life of the party and play all team sports if they don’t want to. It’s ok to be shy, it’s actually the foundation of manners and respect. Reserving ones self to the benefit of others is called chivalry and it begins with silence, withdrawal and reservation in ones speech. These are not traits to look down on but rather to encourage.

Builder, gun engineer, racing car driver, burger shop owner, mother, ballerina, Russian, and the best one…. Viking, their answers change all the time. Babies, whatever you become, you will always be mine.



Dear Daughter


Dear daughter,

If you read this and I am no longer here to tell you myself, know that I will entrust your brothers and uncle with this will.

You will not be permitted to marry a self-absorbed arse-hole.
I don’t care how many houses he can buy you on different beach fronts in different countries. Or bracelets of gold, necklaces of pearls, believe me almond locks, he will not please you.

Know that since you could grasp a pen, you’ve been an artist. I watched you travel into your world and seat your soul there. You switch off and trance into your fingers, caressing pages, pen subservient to you, paper the altar of your souls sacrifice. You draw, you love it. I know it because like you I zone out into various arts. You’re me, introverted, happy to be on your own.

You’re a sensitive girl. I don’t know what life may throw at you and how you react, nor how it may harden or shape you, but I am telling you this to give you the treasure map back to your core,  that core is sensitivity.

You might get lost along the way; your experiences might drive you off the path, so we all need a compass. Some people go through life and have to struggle to learn where theirs is. I’m blueprinting it for you so you can shortcut back to your essence at a finger click.

Your true north will be buried deep into your DNA. It can’t go away, the purpose of DNA is to wire your whole being back to its reality. This is not only physiological, this is spiritual. You were born innate with it.

Don’t let a man convince you that true north is external. This is what is meant by misguidance, people who pull you away from truth, your truth, everyone’s truth that they were born with.

Live as a beggar if you must but be surrounded by love and truth. A beggar is nothing to look down on, if humankind had any sense they would realise that in their outstretched hand they receive kindness, beauty and selflessness of souls. Who in this world is receiving that in utter purity?

Things aren’t always what they seem, my teacher reminded me that everything that glitters is not gold, so I too will remind you.

Find a man who feels, a man who weeps at words, but can draw from them strength to protect you with the sword of his soul and grit of his teeth, he’ll gnash the heart out of anyone that comes to corrupt you or your children.

He should not be a meek man, he has to burn his back with labour should he need to, he has to stand in front of tyrants with a gaze so fierce he will stare them down. A lion only has to walk through the jungle for everything to be silent and still. So too should people be in awe of him, but let they be in love with him when they hear him speak and notice he is just and fair and does not transgress the laws of nature and men.

Let your husband be of wind, cool and tranquil to dry the sweat of necks of the farmers but a hurricane of destruction should anyone disturb societies peace.

You want that man who’s embrace will feel like he’s swallowed you whole and you would rather be devoured by him than be away from his watchful gaze for a moment. He must possess a mad jealousy over you, never to allow another man’s gaze to enter your realm.

He must teach your children love, art, poetry, music, physical culture and above all, in this chaotic world of worship of self, to worship God.

He must be willing to sully his nails with soil, know his eventual worth is only that, soil… We’re all soil.

You in turn must be his ever burning lamp, keep him awake and alert with your warmth. Keep him seeing when darkness might prevail. You have to keep this blueprint and refresh it so you can stay true to him.

My dearest almond locks, don’t settle for tongue prattlers, nor smooth actors. If you stay true to your blue print, he’ll be magnetically pulled towards you and you will know because all of societies rules will fall to the floor and you will not need to think about him. Your soul will decide for you.

He won’t be a nights deliberation, nor a week’s emancipation,
He’ll be faster than a moment’s hesitation,
A split second decision.

You’ll know, your soul will recognise him from the pre-world where all souls existed prior to the physical world. That sight is all you need and you’ll know.
If you have to think about it, it’s not him. Look elsewhere.

Don’t worry almond locks, even if the noise is too much and the colours are too bright and the map seems a blur, your brothers and uncle will know and their Lion souls will stare intruders away but recognise another Lion. They will welcome him into your kingdom.