A hardness of stone knots: release the swan!

Are the entanglements that bind carved in stone?

They say swans mate for life.

Is it possible to do a Houdini of the heart? Gracefully?

Touching the perfect body

Been doing some serious interior archaeology recently, YouTube my digging tool. Gets me through the imperative of long dark nights of vigil.

What's that you say - you hadn't guessed? Let my embedded history bear witness.

When the night has come

Up where we belong: setting the record straight in a world where few hearts survive

Of course you have to stay the course. See it through to the end.

This magnificent lady's image was on the cover of some of my earliest vinyl. In the seventies. Along with that melancholic Canadian Cohen and then trailing close, Robert Zimmerman. Minstrel-preachers to define a nascent world.

Like my dearest friend, Robert the Incomparable of Port Elizabeth, I am glad I have lived to this age of electronic exploration. Enabling discovery of embedded history in endless possibility.

Wanted: dead or alive. When things go south.

If barring the Dalai Lama from a Peace conference wasn't enough pissing on the Spirit of '94, the latest frontier of surreal action from the South African authorities is a link on the Home Affairs website for good South African citizens to find out whether they are dead or alive.

One woulda though we would know, huh?

Suikerbos ek het jou lief! Has to be the hardest song on a heart today. The crossroads which blues singers speak of seems to be right about here and now. Proteas grow in Hawaii too.

It's enough to put spots before the eyes or are those specks in die blou van onse hemel swallows taking flight in the prescient dawn of a fresh new day?

On time and under budget: vernal equinox

Late afternoon with an equinoctal spring in the air, the light draws me down to Old Man House Park. I find the tide is low and the sky's the limit.

Romancing the stone: Cleopatra's asp strikes again

I think I have worked out what it is: this librarian fantasy thing. The ah ha! (or was it alo ha?) moment wasn't exactly a Damascus Road but more a Viking Way in the small town which I pass through twice a day. The small town which is currently Stop Sign bedonnerd. Added 7 new stop-starts to my daily drive. Or 14 if you do the double and return me homeward. Gives me pause...repeatedly.

So: the librarian thing. High priestesses, vestal virgins. Of mysteries. Access through the dedicated damsels.

Ergo the secret asp-iration (Cleopatra hidden): loving a librarian will give one knowledge?

Ah. Rosetta! The stone was not willfully obscure, merely presenting parallels. If languages are universes, then equip for the intergalactic.

Interpret my languages. If you dare.

What was the fruit of knowledge of good and evil anyway? A story set in words. Not stone. Ah! the fascination with what is difficult. Remembering. On this day. Poetry our daily bread.

Librarians. You gotta love 'em.

Fuzzy logic: complex mathematics of ethnicity and liberation theology

There is a lot of green about today in the US of Aye. Green bagels. Green beer. Green rivers (Chicago). Green fountains (White House lawns, Washington DC). Green hair (if you dare), tinselly shamrocks, Kiss me I'm Irish T-shirts, lapel buttons, plastic beads and oooh the whole gamut of Hallmark made-in-China Holiday frenzy.

What's the connection for a lone spotted fowl whose line goes to ground in a series of Thomas and Martindale graves in the red earth of the southern tip Africa? What the relevance to such a one in the New World?

From slave to patron saint is not just another bad taste ethnic Irish joke. This Paddy we celebrate today never was an Irishman. Put the leek in your buttonhole! Maewyn Succat was a Welshman (just like grandfather Thomas, grandmother Martindale) stolen as a slave to labour in Ireland. Sound familiar anyone? Ah that special form of migrant labour all over again. History will soften the harsh edges of the conscription aspects even as I brand my heir with an emerald name.

Dream on that, all you who wear the green today and follow MLK's dream into the New World. Like Kali you might just be dancing upon your consort. Or musing in Drumcliff, casting a cold eye on life, on death, whilst horsemen pass by.

A little afterthought: the middle name of the saint of this this day was Daorbae. That's Gaelic for "He was enslaved". Makes you think, dunnit?

Ah! sweet liberation. Muse of the morning. Porpoises in the dawn erase all this, this stuff which we too much discuss with ourselves. The poet is wordless and possibly worthless. Let the violins begin. You're on next, Bobby. Watch out for ankle nipping leprechauns.

On St Patrick's day: the original vampire slayer

Seven colours blue

Horizons of blinding beauty unbind me in spite of all those who use the womb reckless and without rendering rent. Who the third who walks always besides you?