Painting my face with dust scratched off the rocks.
Facing the sun.
No longer a smooth healed anglo saxon.
No longer the desires of a westernised being.
Jj you asked me to write about living in Africa.
Sometimes images say so much more.
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Anonymous said…
The growth has come slowly
At times painful

The strength of the rock
It’s immovable way
Strengthens me
It is as alive as I

I have been here before
Yet just walked past
Not noticing
That we are one
The rock and I

Slowly the rock sheds
As do I
Imperceptible to the eye
That chooses not to see

There is a majesty
A combination of colors
And textures
Changing angles

Climb on me children
To the heights
Be amazed at the view

My shoulders are now strong
Immovable to the elements
For they are passing

And I am strong
To all that is

nobody said…
Hats off to the both of you. Very nice.
susana said…
Your "seeing" is astonishing.
Hi Nobody.
Anonymous said…
Is not the ground I stand on connected directly to the ground that you stand on?
Does not the air we both breathe have an unbroken stream between us?
What flows through us every day is staggering--what we choose to absorb, a blessing
What we let go, a blessing

susana said…
What we let go a blessing.
May it commence - the great letting go.
May all these beliefs, stories, assumptions, desires come crashing down.

Indeed somewhere under the shadow of the tree, you smile.
nina said…
Rock Art With Poet.

Migrant Mother Redux.

Lancome Model for 2009 on Earth.

Where Does It Begin, Where Does It End...

The Meditation.
nina said…
Desmond Su Su

When my little girl and I heard Mandela would be coming to our town, in a limo parade on our very street, we got busy with markers and poster paper. That night, as the roar of the motorade was heard in the distance we took our place on the curb, her on my shoulders, with her poster. He saw us and waved. This is a true story.

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