Creative Writing

Rus

rus vir die bedorwe bene
waaruit die murg daagliks droog
rus vir die ou sagte stene
waarmee bouers aanhou sloof

rus vir die knakkende knieë 
wat heeldag pynlik knaag
rus vir die gestremde sleë
wat eindeloos sal bly skaaf

rus vir die soekende saailand
wat jaar na jaar bly warrel
rus vir die hulpelose hand
wat rusteloos skommel en skarrel

rus vir die gestreepte sterre
wat heelnag brandend gly
rus vir die skellende skêre
wat stomptand aanhou sny

rus vir dié met veelvoudige vrees
verby wie U stem bly vloei
rus vir dié met vyandige vlees
wat alewig teen dit stoei

O Vader! 

ek bid U rus vir elk in dié gehoor
sodat ons saam U kan beweeg
ek bid dat ons U fluisterstem sal hoor
en vandag weer ‘n keer sal leef

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In His Footsteps

For long enough
I’ve let my flesh
lead me astray

For long enough
I’ve let my comfort
keep me at bay

There are plenty
sons and daughters
who do not sleep
who do not eat

Yes there are plenty
widows and orphans
who need you and me
and the love we bring

So ask Him
for greater vision
for daily bread

Yes ask Him
to make practical 
to make it magical

Offer lavishly your praise
enjoy His presence
His fount of love

Dance foolishly before him
where his joy sustains you
His grace brings you rest

And seek Him
in all things
let Him be found

And seek Him
He will reveal Himself
oh make a joyful sound

So follow in His footsteps
where there is light
and He brings you peace.

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Binnewaak / Inward Gaze

Binnewaak

suutjies wriemel kleine baba
se naeltjies teen haar buik, 
        terwyl haar oë weg gluur
        na die alledaagse stryd.
sy ogies traan onwetend, 
sy neus se snorkies kruip –
        maar haar ore stomp hul af;
        hordes ander kwale fluit.
“vergeet my nie, o skepper! 
dit is my hart se pleit.”
        haar kop kap klippe;
        sy probeer die dood ontwyk. 
“ek’s saam met jou vir ewig,
in jou hart gaan ek bly sluip.”
       begin tog vinnig binne waak
       en sien lewe daarso wyk!
    Ek wens ek kon nog meer sê,
    maar jy moet dit self begryp;
    ons het een voet binne tyd,
    en ‘n ander in die ewigheid.

Inward Gaze

the tiny baby softly fondles
his nails against her belly,
        while her eyes stare away
        towards the everyday struggle.
his eyes tear unbeknownst,
his snores are cutesy-crawly –
        but her ears keep themselves blunt;
        hordes of other ailments whistle.
“don’t forget me, oh creator!
this is my heart’s plea.”
        her head is crushing stones;
        death’s what she’s trying to evade.
“I am with you forever,
in your heart I’ll always be.”
        please quickly shift your gaze inward       
        and find life living there!
    I wish I could say more,
    but you yourself will have to perceive;
    we have one foot within time,
    and another in eternity.

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Instanity

Crippled by the crawlies in my lettered little liason of distraught distractions, I most seldomly take the bouncy backseat instead of the thorough train of thoughtfulness – it has gone on for quite a whole while now, you see, and it has left my brain viciously vegetative when it comes to connecting the nosy little neurons between it and my hungry heart, which now lay pooped and pale from a lavish lack of loving.

Where my thinking was always rocking a steadfast slice of solid sanity, it seems to have crumbled to dainty dribbles of instant intricacies that entertain the soul but spit out the spirit onto a hot plate of soulish sands to shrivel and fry. Oh, where have my plush pools of lengthy long-sufferable concentration gone!? How do I jump off this wave-woven ship of instanities to an established island where I can blissfully bind anchor to at least some solid matter of heart – or a spoke of spirit filled sand?

It seems I, and perhaps you too, require a good gasoline-like drench in a zone that some heartily hail distraction free. Although, I urge us both an impeccably important note; similar to when the sweet nicotine-like nectar of coffee’s caffeine is dropped and it results in roaring rumbles of temporary headache, dropping the yodelling yarns and flickering prawns – really any dreary distraction – will likely result in a bristling boredom that will come running and screaming with a bullish butcher’s knife (and a softly cracking knee), making your mind reek with riff-raff for days on end, but take heart! For He has overcome this world.

So then, with His sturdy strength and our commitment to commit, we’ll all battle our brothy beasts and in the process I trust our neglected neurons will gradually grow and we find ourselves colourfully communing with the King of Kings. Hopefully then, with our meticulously manicured hearts and minds, dancing in perfect peace, we will find ourselves toothfully thankful and living back in real reality.

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Forgotten Forest

Oh Father, once again,
I beg, please set me free!
I’ve shackled myself to my will,
I’ve tried gaining righteousness,
by trusting my own misguided, filthy feet.
Please lead me to that forgotten forest!
Where I do nothing but be –
where You gift me with grace,
and You do the work within me.
I realize it’s about positioning,
not striving with my own might,
not just walking selfishly,
day by day using my own sight.
Not just living, putting You aside,
but being disciplined
in relying on Your might –
so that You can forge my heart
in love and truth,
and shape my character,
so that when people see me –
they see You!

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Breathe

When silence reaks and the walls whisper,
breathe.
When the lights die and your instruments splinter,
breathe.
When your flowers rot and your eyes decay,
breathe.
When your nails split and your mercies fray,
breathe.
When the rocks melt and your feet sting,
breathe.
When you feel forgotten and you drown within,
breathe.
When the winds howl and your bones crack,
breathe.
When your peace is gone and you’re under attack,
breathe –
for when you breathe in tiny, hope-filled breaths,
you’re surely moving towards abundant joy and life, not death.

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Om Mee te Gee

Skaamte klop wanneer die see se stilte
asemrowend reusagtig raak –
wanneer mens se hawelose hart
te veel, te swaar, skipbreuk gely het
en nie nog ‘n keer die rou rotse wil smaak nie.

Stilte sluip in wanneer jou gebroke gedagtes
en halwe handelinge só geruis opwek
dat enige suiwer, sout-smeulende seine
deur jou onwetend-wetende ore
voluit versmoor word.

Diepe-slaap kom kuier wanneer mens nie eers
meer wil probeer probeer nie –
dat die gruwe grond, vir jou droog-gehuilde oë,
na ‘n amper aantrekliker opsie bly blyk –
eerder as om jou bloeiende hart dalk bloot te stel
aan enige iets wat jou huidige toestand kan verbrand. 

Frustrasie bly darem hardboudig sit,
soos ‘n getroue oumensie op ‘n sitkamer-stoel, 
om die waarheid te onderskei; 
dat jou skreeuende gaste die swakkeres verdoof –
en dat jy weer gekonfronteer kan word met die kies van ‘n daaglikse keuse:
watter lewend- of doodmakende wil,
gaan jy vandag laat meegee.

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Onvoorwaardelik

Een ding is kruisend vas genael:
Sy liefde is absoluut onvoorwaardelik.
So die flym mes teen jou verlore hart,
en die kokende klip teen jou kwaadaardige kop,
kan jy maar terug na die genadige grond toe smyt.

Laat jou daaglikse doene en late dan nuut
hierdie alomteenwoordige waarheid weerspieël.
Draai jou huidiglik-kronkelende paaie,
En swaai jou deurmekaargekrapte standaarde –
Jy is ‘n onvoorwaardelik-geliefde kind van ‘n almagtige, herskeppende God.

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Berge en Watervalle

Bruisend, wit, worstel, warrel en weef die blitsige strome deur en oor die swart stene wat tydsvas anker op die majisteuse watervalspunt.

Die water val van ver af manjifiek soos ‘n bruid se sleep, sag en fyn geweef, so of gravitasie van sy werk vergeet. Maar tog neuk dit hard neer, soos tuimelende hammers, op brawe rots en plant, wat bo alle verstand hul man kan staan en nie weg spoel soos meeste sand.

Die mens is interessant deurdat hierdie reuse beeld so vloedend sy aardse verstand so deurmekaar kan kam. Soveel krag sprong eintlik vanuit die onsienlike hartkamers van die berge, wat die hemelse reënbuie deurlopend met miljoene klein druppels vol tap.

Daar is eintlik só baie krag daarin om perspektief te skuif, soos Paulus ons uitermatig eenvoudig wys. Want “ons wat God in die Gees dien” leef allereers binne die berg, die aardsdraad van die supremawerklikheid, sodat die onsigbare vloede wat in die onsienlike ewigheid borrel die realiteit in kan stroom, in al die kleinste en sagste vorme, en dit hierdie ongetemde wêreld deur die voortvloeiende watervalle bonatuurlik, en kragtig, weer terug na Eden toe kan sluip.

So, kortom, ek preek vir myself, soos my mieliepit dit maar verstaan, leef eerstens vanuit en in die geestesrealiteit, sodat jou vertrekpunt nie die punt van die waterval is nie. Want op die beste sal ‘n piepiestraaltjie al wees wat jy deur jou eie twee modderhande kan bereik.

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Brood en Vuur

Soos ‘n rots,
staan jy
met jou brood
in die een hand
en jou vuur
in die ander.

Die ewige gekners
van stomp tande
kom tot ‘n einde
wanneer jy jou
eie swaard
laat val
en Myne opneem.

Vergeet. 
Vergeet van die ou dinge
want dit trek jou oë
van my spore af.

Onthou. 
Onthou wie jy was
voor tyd
jou kom skommel het.

My swaard brand
met ‘n wit vuur
en dit sny
deur jou rotse
om murg en been
te skei.
So staan vas
In My
terwyl ek
wat oud is
sloop
en wat heilig is
na vore bring.

Leer My ken
vir wie Ek is
en nie vir die beeld
wat jy van My
gemaak het nie.

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