I have found that my poetry speaks me . . . I do not often choose to name it or ensure that it is grammatically correct - but I do choose to honour the words as they tumble from my soul . . . may you find some inspiration here.

Memories of long ago ride on our shoulders, whispering, weeping, laughing, calling for us to either stay awhile longer or to use it as a raft for conquering new waters.

Every year the beautiful, pink flowers appear, as if by magic, across what seems to be the most barren landscapes, simply to whisper to our souls of hope, survival and strength

Die son bring hoop, Lig en lewe, mits ons die moed het om uit te strek, met hande oop en gretig, om van sy strale te drink.

Kosmos en heimwee herinner my altyd aan die plekke en mense wat dimensie gee aan my menswees, my skaaf, skuur en poets-blink laat staan . . .

Hier, vanuit 'n plek wat nie vra om verwoord te word nie, tuimel gevoelens en woorde na wense en sonder versuim oor die bladsye ... kom proe, voel en luister saam . . .