Going about

Forbidden seed, restricted source

Of soothing counterpoint to stress

 Your changing status from harmful to hopeful

Has assailed our craft, tilted our deck.

 Consensus has moved to the other end of the boat

Threatening to capsize us on the next strong swell

I who once stood surrounded by the righteous majority

Now look around, perplexed and disorientated.

Gusts of wind grab the sails, white-caps form at starboard and port

Wetly I cling to the rail, hair stuck to my face

Cleats clatter, lines whip and snap

And still the dancing crowd in the bow call for more.

Quick, grab the sheets! Throw the anchor overboard!

Watch the boom come over with a crack

Unexpectedly, we've changed our whole direction

Different tack, novel pressure, strange new footing.

This poem was written in response to a report on the publication of South Africa's draft marijuana bill and the reaction by certain sectors of the public to its anti-entrepreneurial restrictions.

Deadwood

Stark, gaunt, damaged, dry,

Crooked branch that once reached high,

Missing from the papery sky,

Blight upon the perfect eye.

Good thing it didn't block the way.

No place for deadwood as we play

Our high-speed games, but it's okay.

It's out of sight so it can stay.

Downed amidst the dirt and dross

The bough is sprouting mats of moss,

Filaments as fine as floss,

Breaking down the hulk of loss.

Sterile tarmac melts and breaks,

Diverted traffic swells and snakes

Through thirsty parks, past slimy lakes —

Clear the deadwood in case it takes.

Hack back the ferns, remove the thorn,

Rip up the shaggy, emerald lawn,

Mankind will ever be forlorn

For lack of understanding.

This piece was inspired by a podcast that featured a garden in summer, where birds, ants and all sorts of other invisible creatures were found to be inhabiting a dead tree.

Endangered Space

Space

An open tract

An empty region

A vast expanse.

Spaciousness, yet bounded

For the purpose of protection

From the threat of occupation

In the name of good intention.

Space is valuable for itself, I say,

Not just to fill, not just to use,

A spacious place is a place to breathe,

To open up to nature's ease

And find the natural lines of flow,

Where fresh ideas and talents grow.

Respect my space and I will yours,

A world less cluttered is a worthy cause.

This poem was written first thing in the morning in response to the thought of a whole day without interruption or intrusion.