Fear Is A Door

Poem By Werner Schmidt

For the male mothers and female fathers in my life.

So
he started searching.
A newspaper cartoon ad about true faith
lured him to a new building.
The central South African truth-sayer
resigned and disappeared mid-seminar
leaving him empty on a cold Sunday night.

But
empty can be light and searching is a kind of slide.
The fun fantastic, at times.
Wisdom and love from everywhere
slowly eroded what was fixed
and honestly, rather rusted.

When
his love for music moved him
he walked into office number one
at the music college.
The Bloemfontein-based
Bulgarian maestro listened to him play.
Instructed him - flick of the hand -
to throw away the expensive guitar.
Pick up something cheap
I'll teach you to make it sound marvelous.

Why
he again searched for the truth-sayer
from stanza one has become clear with the years.
Their first re-coffee opened the door
to another suburban soul - a samurai and perpetual jet-setter
who would invite him to save himself
over black coffee and home made pastry.

Taking
a walk around the corner to a writing workshop
sometimes yields a male mother
from Somerset-West.
Writing with twigs on empty pages
over carbon copy film invited him to find his voice.
To let his inner creator lead
his dance, song, journey through life
while patience grows and his ears become useful.

While
the Pretorian painter's artwork of a pirouette
drew a poem from him like a clown's multi-coloured
chain of handkerchiefs
something inside him switched on
or realised it had been left burning
since thirty years before.
Later, as he walked through the painter's door
to share inner wars, golden drops
of pure black bitterness and butter-crusted
mushroom pie
his face changed as he looked through her
mirrors.

In the midst of this adventure
it dawned upon him.
A slogan for his life -
fare well, my love, fear well.

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