A Little Bit of Sunshine

Various Vases, by Sthuthukile Biyela  (crayon on paper)  "Take out your creativity books , "   my teacher says.  It's my favourite time in class I am really good at literasy   And I am fine with numbers But creativity is where I tip my hat and greet the stars Win a race with my flying car And off I go, near and far Then land back on my desk Before anyone notices I was gone.  Mrs Kroutz leans over my shoulder "That's a pretty drawing, sweetie..."

We chew our gum ever so politely and stick it under our seats When it's time to share our piece Mine is about trees... again Willows with wilting leaves  and poplars happily chatting away I can pull out a tree metaphor Faster than a weed But today is different As the circle goes around, I crumple up my pretty perfect words and turn to the lost and found section  Of my notebook  Here the words are murky and leave an ugly residue  They're the thoughts I've buried in my head I'm not proud to share But even the oldest wounds needs some air and as I let it bleed  I'm closest thing to a tree than I'll ever be

"The only thing worse than dying in a zombie apocalypse, is surviving one."    Zombie media has taken over the world by storm (pun intended). With cultural staples like Zombieland and The Walking Dead, and   modern interpretations such as The Maze Runner and The Last of Us,  the zombie apocalypse has been an area of fascination in pop culture for some time. Recent contributions from Korean cinema such as  Train to Busan, Kingdom and  All of Us are Dead have introduced a whole new type of zombie and revived the once-stale genre. These zombies are cunning, fast, and have little to no weaknesses. Why are we so fascinated with them?  1. Well, they trigger our evolutionary instinct to survive at all costs.  2. They are freaking terrifying. The idea of the entire world succumbing to a virus/infection/mutation that causes us to lose our humanity and freewill is a fate that makes us uneasy. It also makes us seasoned survival experts from the comfort of ou...

I don't know if I've ever succeeded at being human I carry a bag of evidence on my person  to remind me how But I worry it is not enough.  I worry I am too fixated on being nice,  that I cannot be truly kind I'm afraid I jump to conclusions and make assumptions with my eyes I'm afraid I assign malice  where misunderstanding will suffice  I'm afraid my walls are too high for anyone to climb.  I'm afraid we are impatient and self-contained I'm afraid we can't hear each other  over our own thoughts of pain I'm afraid we think more highly of ourselves than we ought  I'm afraid our compasses  Have never pointed North. 

I know of a tragedy for which no one cares... Where are the  soft pears? I've looked in the grocery aisles  and they're not there. I went to the market and saw one  that looked promising.  Only to sink my teeth into disappointment and watery toughness.  I've had my fair share of counterfeit pears  That couldn't be trusted.   When I was little, they were always around  Now, it seems they are nowhere to be found  Are they an urban myth I have spent  my entire life believing?  But there was a pear I had forgotten in my bag for a week To my surprise it was soft and sweet And I realised soft pears are not something you buy. You take them home and wait until they ripen. The sweetest things in life take time.  

It's a picture that once vexed me. Women gathered in large groups, praying, cooking, serving tea with thinly sliced pieces of cake. Meanwhile, the men stood outside in idle clusters, appearing only to demand a large tray of food.  I never quite understood that – why the burden of society fell on us. Were these big, strong men too mighty to make a cup of tea? Well, couldn't they at least sit down quietly as the visitors imparted words of comfort? I noted it in my journal one day: if I had a son, he would NOT be outside at times like these. He had to bear the burden too. He would certainly not sit like a prince waiting to be attended.  This was what it meant to be human, I thought. If someone died, we showed up. We put aside our many comforts and lended our hands and shoulders. I felt very proud of my observation and decided to share it – often. At best, I was met with amusement, at worst, plain indifference. This is just the way things are.  That only incited me more....

"I've started remembering to look up again."  – Naledi Biyela  When I was younger, I would take my Natural Science textbook out in the front yard and look at the night sky... Trying to find the exact constellations illustrated in my book.  The first to catch my eye were three little stars lined in a perfect row, infamously known as Orion's Belt . Please understand, I was in 7th grade, and nothing could convince me I wasn't the second coming of Albert Einstein at this discovery. Looking at the stars has always made me feel important rather than insignificant. Out of an infinite number of possibilities in this lifetime, I just so happen to exist.  It's been a long time since I've stargazed, but I was recently inspired to look up one night and saw my old friend Orion. For the first time ever, I could actually see the outline of a hunter, like a join-the-dots drawing, and I was reminded of the joy I once found in my little discoveries. Later, I penned this poe...

It's no mystery why I fell into you But part of me would always hesitate  I always felt like I was an acquired taste That only a few could appreciate But that's not all it takes to make A relationship work Your mind may get confused Your heart befuddled But part of you always knew The part that was whole and only told the truth That there is so much more out there for you  I never liked how you looked at women Like pieces to a puzzle you couldn't solve Collectibles to cover your lack of resolve Assets to boost your self worth Salves to soothe the burns of your last attempts at love The real mystery is how I hid the truth From myself for so long You were always nice, but all wrong for me You never made me laugh or sang me songs You were like a prize I wanted to prove I'd won I can't think of a single thing I liked about you Except that you were the kind of person who might like me That’s all it was I wanted to crawl into you so I could see what you saw But it was me ...

I thought he liked me.  I planted the idea in a field,  and the field became a forest...  Filled with bubbling brooks and  sunset overlooks. I collected clay at the banks of the rivers and made pottery,  The pottery became a museum  of grand works and art displays  From the cedar trees I built cities Giant feats of architecture,  Parks where we sat and read literature  Libraries full of historical texts and ancient mythology  Science fiction and poetry That turned into schools and colleges  Dedicated to the arts and varied knowledges Then, a society with cultures and cuisines,  Distinct languages and colloquialisms Then, struck by war, disasters and famine Alien invasions and a zombie apocalypse Yet somehow we still survived.  We rebuilt ourselves from the ashes Stronger this time, able to withstand the fire Gunpowder and brimstone But in the end, the end of our world  was oh so simple.  It was a seed I hadn't se...

"Inspired by the genuine  moment of  disappointment I felt when my butter would not melt." – Naledi Biyela, 2025 My butter isn't the kind that melts on a piece of toast  It stays afloat, mocking me with a gloat I've never been the kind of person to take things lightly They sit on my chest like a boulder That grows as it weighs on my shoulders My thoughts are not the kind that fit neatly in my notes They infiltrate the corners and fill in the margins They smudge, leaking out like ink My life is not the kind that's wrapped  neatly in a bow It hurtles forward in a rush, then slows It crashes into the people I know  Then, just occasionally, it flows  Into the most beautiful prose My heart is not the kind  that's easy to hold It flickers on and off like a ghost My love is anxious and makes a mess So I keep it buried in the folds of my dress But anyway, it matters less How you butter your toast  As long as you're satisfied and whole. 

Somehow, somewhere, I stopped being afraid of bugs and insects. One of my favourite parts of the day is when I see a little creature crawling through my living room, and I hustle to find a piece of paper to guide it back home. This isn't always a smooth process. Sometimes I'm nervous, but most times they are. They don't find it easy to trust. That's when my voice lowers to a hush, and I whisper, "I won't hurt you, I promise. Ask all the worms I know." And then I let it go back into the wild, where they're likely to escape again, and we start the entire process all over again. The reason I find this little ritual fascinating is that, a year or two ago, I couldn't look at a millipede, worm or caterpillar, without cringing or grabbing the closest weapon available (see: broomstick). What changed? I'll tell you... I simply got to know them. For the past few years, our yard has been infiltrated by an army of these tiny red millipedes every spring. Th...

Hi, friends! If you're new here, and curious about the person behind these pieces and poems, here's a little introduction.  My name is Sthuthukile Naledi Biyela, a writer and poet from South Africa, and also the proud creator of this blog. My favourite colour, because I think it matters, is cornflower blue. I can't imagine a better colour existing, and no, I will not reconsider. I spend my days working and journaling (some of which you get to see), and as of recent, saving every critter that crawls into my home from the garden. As far as jobs go, it's a steady gig.  I have been writing poetry for more than 10 years, and I created this space to give my thoughts and whims a home, and make me feel less alone. Sometimes I like to imagine I'm shouting into the abyss and no one is reading any of this...  But if you are here, thank you. Thank you for giving my words purpose. I didn't set out to change the world, I set out to change my own. That said, if anyone has foun...

God, forgive me for a thousand things  A million missteps  The least of which,  is having the audacity to exist  God, help me to be a better person  For I can't quite manage it I open my mouth and misunderstandings fall out  I'm always tripping on my feet  On the way to do the right thing My bucketful of good intentions  only makes a mess If the right path is before me it turns into the left. 

"One of my favourite writers, T. De Los Reyes, or just Tee to those who love her, keeps me on the edge of my seat waiting for her next piece. Her words are not elegant or particularly inspiring. They just are, they just be. Honest, brave and free." - by Naledi Biyela Something Small: I've been reading  Read A Little Poetry  for about seven years; an amazing archive of poems collected over the years. Its curator, T. De Los Reyes, painstakingly selects and shares each poem, along with her own delightful and gut-wrenching commentary.  In 2021, when I felt stuck in my own writing and purpose, I leaned on the Read A Little Poetry newsletter that filled my inbox everyday. Then T mysteriously went on hiatus in August. A month went by with no new poems, so naturally, I wrote her a letter.  It was a feverish, fluffy letter I sent around 4am. I never received a response, but I didn't need one. I'd written it for myself as much as for her. Anyway, I forgot all about it.  C...

Growing up, I realised there were two kinds of kids. The kind that filled a room with adult laughter and delight – and then there was me. I was too much, too chatty and I asked too many questions.  I induced heavy sighs and complaints from family and teachers alike. My clever jokes were met with awkward stares. I wasn't sure how I was getting it so wrong, so I stopped trying at all. I wore silence like a safety blanket and hid my face in books. In private, I conversed with myself – the only person who understood me perfectly.  Then the buzzwords ' introvert ' and ' extrovert ' took over the internet. I consumed hundreds of quizzes, quotes and media content, all confirming the same thing; I was indeed a loner, but that didn't have to be a bad thing. Introverts were cool now, enjoying benefits such as sarcasm and obscure movie references. I'd all but forgotten that my silence wasn't a quirk, but a survival tool. I grew up feeling suppressed by my environ...