#BlackLivesMatter

South African poet Willie Kgositsile posited the necessity of putting aside poetry in the face of looming revolution. “When the moment hatches in time’s womb there will be no art talk,” he wrote. “The only poem you will hear will be the spearpoint pivoted in the punctured marrow of the villain….Therefore we are the last

To Grief and BACK…?

… and pondering the deaths of some of my beloved friends in Sierra Leone. Victims of Ebola… or a fate worse than death?

Fathers From Around the World

Originally posted on A Holistic Journey:
When I was not yet three years old, John Richard and Grace Elizabeth Ingram adopted me from an orphanage in southwest London. When I was four, a stroke left Dad paralysed down his left side; he died when I was 18. I can still hear the cranky squeaks of…

Why I Don’t Diet – An Ode to My Father

Originally posted on More Cabaret:
My father died three weeks ago. He was in hospice, with all the pharmacological and technological assistance available to keep him comfortable and pain-free, but it was still, as deaths go, not a good one. I had flown in hours after I’d heard about his fall. He was in late-stage…

The Perpetual Game

Stones, lichen, decay, rebirth — as a child, I used to practise my tennis shots up against a wall similar to the one in the photograph. The trick of playing a good shot was not to let the ball bounce against the sharp points of the stones. You have to learn the rules of the

The Nomad Commentaries

Commentary No. 1 “Anguish and grief, like darkness and rain, may be depicted; but gladness and joy, like the rainbow, defy the skill of pen or pencil. – Frederick Douglass.  Commentary No. 2 I wander away from the screen Tear holes in the routine. For a brief moment, I have time on my hands. Where

Too small to hold

It can take time for messages to come ashore. It can take time for the vowels to sail forth past the ego: The consonants seem to take even longer. God knows Why… It takes injury for this mesmerist to rein in her consciousness: To peel the old paint on her story.

Grief and Beautiful

My problem was I had too much beautiful. Too beautiful, too fulfilled, lived in beauty, raised in beauty, and was too self-satisfied to make any kind of real sacrifice. I was too beautifully fulfilled to bother with anything of substance beyond hollow praise and easy come, easy go positive self-reinforcement. I thought I had it

52 Seconds

A melange of subjects and sounds. A man plays his saxophone. A woman plays herself. 52 seconds pass… Enjoy the moment! http://vimeo.com/31735155

Mad in Bohemia

I don’t believe in absolutes, hence I’ve never really believed in gay or straight or even black or white, for that matter. If we’re all truly creating our own reality at any given point in (or out of ) time, then can we also be fluid about where we want to be on the spectrum