Adjacent Pages

01/02/2026

What a literary insult to attribute to A.I a poem written years before A.I took its toll in these spaces. It only means DIASPORA was written far ahead of its time.

Relatability is top notch.

Word selection unmatched!

23/03/2023

All That’s Fallen (Tutto ciò che è caduto)

I’ve emptied the canister of my being
As it overflows with options for tenancy.
I’m stuck in one spot, with a mirror to
unsee my dim face-
My towering thoughts drowse in the arms
Of providence.
Such a recondite place to wangle me to misery.
How laden and heavy,
Impaired adoration is less closed up but blurry!
The perpetuity of brokenness hides in the dark;
Gropes there, as though in a room of strange
opulence.
I am heavily relying on my former candor,
Being ridiculed for dreams of avarice
As I dread the terror of obsequious flattery;
The door of certainty plays around the rusty door,
While it hinges sloppily,
Its frame crumbles and the angered empty
keyhole
Closes. It’s all fallen because it is over,
Now here and now there shuffling in this world
Yet a Home in God always I have.

I’ve emptied the canister of my beingAs it overflows with options for tenancy.I’m stuck in one spot, with a mirror tounsee my dim face-My towering thoughts drowse in the arms …

20/01/2023

No lights or power, no drop all thirst
No rest, no trace of heartbeats in our chest
We are lifeless, zombies dirtying these paths
Unaware of the pillars of peace, trusting love

We move from East to West in search of a rebirth
Just to fault time saying it's bruised with defects
If you reverse the clock
Years back but the same month
You'll visualize a being at a glance
Born to a sprained world that got limits
Filled with idols, statues, and gods gimmick
Blood bath in Afghan
Love sold at half a gram
Where hatred just billow
Monsters are kept under the pillow
Where life begins after sunset

See the nineteenth of Jan begot this
Beast with four limbs, two as its feet
Fixed with grey matter in a box
Equipped with the king's tongue as it talks
As it walks, as it stays, as it soars like the Hawks,
Like a stoic buffalo as it talks "born today"
leaving us looking "too okay!"

to our own literary critic, essayist and poet, Gomezghani M Botha

21/08/2022

Diaspora

These are the last unpeopled years
of my awry dexterous experience.
They’re trying times – hard and unimaginable;
Hair loss, stress, and sobriety of memorable
threnody of Annie and Mercy. Anguished
priorities and undying beliefs are lavished.
I’m reaching down this road from Heaven
as I understand this earth isn’t home and life needs mavens.
What should I buzz about?
I’m wobbling in my errantry. My destiny’s full of doubts.
What a chimera! Life’s creased the Bible
for the one bemused in pain. To the truth a rival,
to beauty a Voyager with a numberless undulating.
I’m no longer in a redoubt of fickleness but still sagging
down my waltzing wants and stance.
I’ve become candid, faithfully mistrusting relevance
on earth, because internally am so confused
From my understanding. So dull as am getting used
to these disappointing things, earthlings
who make things in silence and am busy gesturing.
I know it’s a bit of a cliché, but not all who are lost
have wandered, and I’m in the diaspora of infamies.

These are the last unpeopled years of my awry dexterous experience. They’re trying times – hard and unimaginable;Hair loss, stress, and sobriety of memorable threnody of Annie and Mercy…

07/08/2022

The Peasant (pt.2)

The circle of emptiness glistens his dappled life,
Beneath is a bizarre quandary of meanwhile
And there is the spurious death upon his hearth.
Blessed with a gift of shame as he burns in the sun,
Naively tiptoeing into the quicksand of being a man.
He curses vicious lions before passing the forests,
Sertraline lifts, peace itself like pus so truant on his forehead –
Something rarely seen than heard from modern youths
Who snort their days in gourds like co***ne but of no use.

What long a way to paradise; promised the innocence of the Civil
While hunting for joy to tame his inborn missiles.
(Joy wasn’t an issue in his 19th Century land
But now innocence is spangled in his dirty hands)
“Who’ll rescue me from this calamitous spell?”
He seems to think, “maybe I’ll live to survive and tell
My grandkids how hard existence has been as of late.”
That’ll be a folktale, some sort of fate
“If it exists,” he wonders, “or maybe my destiny is this:
Be born a dingus and later die in peace!”

The circle of emptiness glistens his dappled life,Beneath is a bizarre quandary of meanwhileAnd there is the spurious death upon his hearth.Blessed with a gift of shame as he burns in the sun,Naive…

24/07/2022

Fioretti

To take the king’s coin is to be the king’s man,
And to soothe the crowd is to lose sight
Of eternality and paucity of courage;
And he that allies with the enemy are not a pal,
Rather one whose conduct befits a dunce.
…but we mustn’t forget to love
Our brothers who incapacitate us
With great ingenuity,
With great in*******se of morals and civility,
We must remember where we’re going
As our tempered footings lace through the good news.

Shades of silence lurk around as we talk,
The ignobility in the dark surpasses the solemnity
Of brotherhood, and sisterhood versed in Scriptures.
How is it that we feud over the nominals?
Feuding brothers must reconcile if a maniac is fitted,
But to recognize a maniac at the door and
Save the trouble of brothers feuding
Over tenets, time mustn’t occupy
In his camp, lest we forget our
Repose. Where does commotion come from?
To thwart the enemy’s plan is the goal.
Is there no end to this madness of feuding?

To take the king’s coin is to be the king’s man,And to soothe the crowd is to lose sightOf eternality and paucity of courage;And he that allies with the enemy are not a pal,Rather one whose conduct…

16/07/2022

Letter to the American Robin

No one is really free, even ants
are caged creatures on the ground;
Some with crawling thoughts
But still wandering around us in the wintry
aftermaths of this type of creation.
Others strolling in the nightly branches,
Where vines of joy are full of
Grapey goodness. Others living as though dead!

None here will live. Even life's spared from the proud,
Those whose feral fury refuses to recede
And their ocean of will dried out
To reveal the boundlessness of how grieved
Their shadows are.
Look into their epicurean faces,
Prowling anarchy - a hymn to selfism cardigans
and to the orifices of ego sin traverses.

"Hello there, old Obi-Robin-Kenobi!"
To you whose innocence descends to the dawn,
We're all the same in this skyless trilogy
Of pain and suffering, as we frown
Upon death that keeps the dust of all, not one.
I'm now open-minded, your beauty of being
Breaks my winged admiration born out of the sand
That there'd be no other bird to be seeing.

There she is, soaring over the starless waters,
Impatient as the wind to see herself rise.
The perpetuity of disaffection hovers
around but the surprise of joy inside never dies.
Her feathered flaws drift into surmises,
What good is life merely understood forwards?
Her existential frustration mirrored outside
my adoration of a bird bursting in tears.

"Robin, there's a life bluer than the sky,
The nestling of wonder smeared in beauty
Fledged in the thinner palms of May's sighs.
Let's sing at dawn when we meet, and the frailty
Of the awkward stage lasts long on the docks
As well owls in barns. The hawks shall crawl and burp,
Yet in the twigs and leaves, feed in flocks.
I hope we met, I'd give you ants and worms"

https://adjacentpages.wordpress.com/2022/07/16/letter-to-the-american-robin/

08/07/2022

Tic Tac

No more melody in our jazz tunes
We are just two, unified and tasked to
To love and live and live Love,
Then gracefully take a leap of
The faithful and cardinal, divinely.
How you treat me does define me
Now, where do we go from here?

Our memories are but a fading picture.
Seen as a nuisance but you said it was a keeper.
Sounds of laughter are barely heard,
The “love of my life ” is rarely said.
I changed, molded by your brutish tendency
Now I’ am boorish, Hennessy for remedy
Bruised spirit, wandering about alone
My guardian angel casting doubt upon
Life as I know it, how I live, and how I own it
If I’ll get by or get the devil and pawn it
But then, where do I go from here?

https://adjacentpages.wordpress.com/2022/07/08/tictac/

01/07/2022

Randomly

To sit and script
Takes studying scrolls and more,
Discovering truth is no glint work.
It’s about stranding lores to score
A stint of knowledge, no flit perk
Or a quick quirk, its all methodical.
It’s so clerical, for it’s more epochal
To convince the hardcore skeptical.

To write truth is for the meek;
For truth is so sharp a tool
In the hands of a fool
It is a blunt spear, so to speak.
It’s in the words and expressions
Wellstrung to churn a chord progression,
Not for Iscariots who hoard confession.

Accordingly, as scribes fuse truth adroitly,
The troubadour asserts them in a poetry.
Appallingly, it’s full moon for literary thieves
Who are in the cleaves of bass and riffs.
They jazz as if they can clench their fists
With pens and inks in between for the right
To bask in reflexions of the state of mind.
But they’ are corruptible, profiteering gulls
Soon to be crucified before the noetic gods

To sit and scriptTakes studying scrolls and more,Discovering truth is no glint work.It’s about stranding lores to scoreA stint of knowledge, no flit perkOr a quick quirk, its all methodical.I…

20/05/2022

Various Types

These same lives have things they unravel.
There are infinite things that marvel
And carve out ways through the time;
Proselytizing the hard times of life which
Sermonizes these bad lines.
Sad and lone but demure times that irks us
For no reason at all.
So let's watch those things and the various types of things,
Dream thousand of paintings wrecked by painted schemes.
Another day we'll have other people
Walk through life's difficult paths and
Preserve things lived for.
The dead men who now possess death
Will lose its grip once the mummified thoughts stray.
Twas already said and repeatedly it's been said;
"Nobody is sleeping in the sky. Nobody!"
Nobody is better than nobody living or nobody dead, well said.
We're abysmally confident about the claws and marks
We possess.
Of the various things that we're well acquainted with;
Of things that kill desires,
Of those obscuring our sentience
there're those blinding common sense
Like those obstinately devoid of reason.
As time goes by, by and by, wallowing in what we emulate,
Sleeping in the skies and die with wishes unknown to us yet
The pasts shaking the ground of our living,
How we die is worth a fleet, how we live a gold mine
But since sincerity is further down, flattery is nearer to the heart
So man will die whilst breathing.

These same lives have things they unravel.There are infinite things that marvelAnd carve out ways through the time;Proselytizing the hard times of life whichSermonizes these bad lines.Sad and lone …

10/04/2022

The Peasant (Pt. 1)

The peasant wanders through the misery
Of life no matter how he’s much of an emissary.
No matter how explicit the details of wars are,
He still sees elites derail and twist Truths of where flaws are –
Found beneath the surface of the universe where legions
Of people scribble their sin with no reverence for opposition.
He wishes he only had the mind than eyes,
Only the heart and not the mind,
Only the brain and not the heart –
(Y’know he’s a naked man who fears the ruthless pickpocketers)-
Only the hands and not the feet
Because he hates traveling every week.
And as for his life, he regrets it is what it is,
But stupidly sad as an awfully happy being.
He laments oftenly.
Asks God if his life’s a curse and vents anger openly.
Quite relieved to live with an elephant in a room but unscathed.
Such bothers his fellow counterparts.

Days go by and the plot thickens.
A thousand years in a minute’
With what a day’s sleep reaches.
Living in denial and sorrow of the past,
Considering enunciation of important lies in his class.
He was once encouraged to get schooled for jobs,
And loyalty was proportional to breaking these laws.
His dreamless face ripples cold tears of sadness;
It’s such a directional sea he drowns in. His sight in madness
Turns into a nightmare, standing still
Like a sculpture and nothing else to feel.
He blows out the Light that interferes in His life,
A seemingly sexless sorrow and disharmony of a seraph
Befalls. To give him the reason for existence,
Slashed life like hyphens, an unashamed instance
Of a nationalist who believes man’s the barometer of living
Conjures his hatred for egotistical populists who’ve been politicking.
“Life is a Joke” he believes.
“The sky has more clouds, the sea has more fish
And the land has more people.”
“Why born diligent, candid and ostensible
Peasantry when the rest of the world enjoys life?”

The peasant wanders through the miseryOf life no matter how he’s much of an emissary.No matter how explicit the details of wars are,He still sees elites derail and twist Truths of where flaws…

13/02/2022

Tuesdays in Tahisas (28th December, 2021)

But like brute beasts today she’s been ruthless,
Cruel while wasting the bustle of silence.
Without sanctity of reason, her powers – of nature – highly hot,
Some Tuesdays in December are cold, but not today. No! Not today.
This blossomed life of the Shepherd
-The owner of this pen- endures bitterness.
The braying sheep bleats again,
So self-absorbed with the smell of his own flatulence
The smell’s being tortured by the heat and
His own nature, surpassed by his achieved affluence.
He thinks his bloviating equals intelligence and strength.
Because they have far more powerful noses than humans,
The skulls of pride sniffs out life and prowls around us.
The living death dreams of mauling the unbelievable world;
Hauls her with a tender protest of the December heat.
The creatures of the heat comes,
Knocks, opens and slams the doors of human life
Readying the unwelcomed plight
And the evanescence of those with fears remain.
Those lives will be snuffed out of existence,
The fainthearted will die a thousand deaths
And live a dreary life as though there’s no other life hereafter.
Where shall we go once Tuesday’s gone with the wind?
I tell you where we shall go; to the ends of the week!
And December evening shall protrude the endless morrow.
Then the 28th day shall remind me of Mother
Who is a lost leaf in the garlands bestowed with sorrow.
Apparently, this heat’s something else. Eish!

But like brute beasts today she’s been ruthless,Cruel while wasting the bustle of silence.Without sanctity of reason, her powers – of nature – highly hot,Some Tuesdays in December…