Just for a moment
I stopped to smell the roses.
There in the fresh air,

I discovered that
my nose no longer discerned
the scent of flowers;

its range diluted
by the permeating stench
of life corrupted.

Easier by far
to believe the very worst
than cultivate hope -

in the twilight hours -
that the monsters that wait there
for the inky dark

will blunt their sharp teeth

The lake is frozen,
mountain slopes cold – white blankets –
here and there a tree,
almost out of place;
little blackheads, their branches
infecting the land.

Her smile wasn’t real,
the dimples oddly shallow
and her lips puckered;
she was looking down
through a tangled teenage fringe,
a wall between us.

Bizarre syllables
hitting me with blood red bricks;
drip-drip on her shoe
and florescent strobe;
we dance a tango of pain,
the patient and I.

And the black wings snap
as they meet and then bear down
- against the pressure -

into the wind’s teeth
and hover for a second
before the next pass over.

An Angel of Death -
face veiled against the night chill
- clad in black and white.

Wheeling, he circles
above the suburban house;
breathing in the grey

that seeps from its walls
and upwards into the sky.

Food for thought clichés,
empty mind’s staple diet.
Not hungry, are we?

Two, four, six, eight, ten -
this haiku is all odd-like.
I'm going to bed.

Spiderman pillow,
my Friday night acquaintance
while you still have light.

Monsoon bikes whizz by,
bringing with them the big rain -
is Blouberg misty?

Ankles crossed, you sit
as you pretend to listen
to the child's story,
polishing your nails
as she speaks of other worlds;
you are not worthy.

Giddy starlight eyes
elucidate children’s smiles
that show the way out.

Shaking on all fours,
overcoat in a tangle;
virus on the loose!

Pinnacle of truth
etched in frostbite fingertips;
the flag means nothing.

I hit her too hard;
down she went and cracked her head -
Superman pillow!

He shouted it loud
so that all could hear his voice.
“This woman is mine.

She will be my wife”.
The crowd clapped their hands and sang
‘la Felicidad’.

The lady sat down
on the chair; her eyes downcast
and her cheeks so pale.

He forced up her chin
and kissed her hard on the lips
in front of his men.

A stranger came in
through the cantina’s entrance.

Her evening dress danced
on the first floor balcony -
swimming pool ripples,
black nails, and red wine -

Empty speech bubbles
over their heads when they talk;
astronauts’ headgear.

Intercom crackles
yet another foreign name -
I shouldn’t be here.

Black storm clouds scatter
and disperse with the four winds
as the sun comes out.

A watery glow
infuses the verdant fields
with colour and light.

Shoots pop their heads up
to greet the newly born day;
washed clean by the rain.

Flying ants circle
and mate before the sun sets.
Some do not return.

Water laden streams
carry sustenance abroad;
feeding the hungry.

Judge Smythe pulled a face:

‘Clearly a case of murder;
the details are clear,’
the prosecutor,
a man of fifty-seven,
announced with a sneer.

On his knees he went,
head bowed in admiration
for the silver blade.

Nothing comes for free-
nights he’d spent alone in prayer,
begging for this day.

The start was delayed,
the gunshot was sluggish, too;
it had been raining.

Some of them fell hard,
some didn’t even get up,
while few ran away;

Hesitant fingers
hold the key to the attic;
a keychain rattles

clink-clink in the lock
(a rusty belly dancer);
the hinges scream out.