Written Poetry


Written in response to a question about a photograph

There's something special about going out to a place where men and women do toil in labour each day to earn a living. Where hand meets ground. The ruggedness of people's faces, the coarseness of their hands, the depth of knowledge they have about the elements of God are clear to every man and woman who pick the finest peaches, and pears, and grapes that get exported to the markets in Europe or show up on our tables in a zesty summer salad. mmmm. the story of the fruit.

I came from a seed thrown by a hand that beat me to the ground
I took my time, waiting for chemical explosions to happen in my soul because I couldn't run away on my own.
I bided my time
and allowed my colours to show
here and there
oranges and reds and streaks of green - envious of the one's next to me
I had to make myself look the best
to get picked by the baas
the kleinbaas
any baas
because my future was in the hands of a nobody
but a somebody in God's eyes
I am fruity
I am kind
I am sweet
Can be sour at times
You don't need me today
You don't want me tomorrow
But someone will say yes to me
Because I am loved
I am the very earth of God
made to shine
I am Peaches

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