Gert Strydom, 2 august 2016
Your walking away is measured in watt.
Not the 1100 p.m.p.o. of a door slamming shut behind you
that are opened and slammed again
but it is the pattering gait that just can be heard
and the whisper of satin
when you do go to our bedroom
and welcoming the door stays open
when continuously the fourteen-day rain does softly fall
and flames hiss at the fireplace and wood gleam red from the heat
while Steve Hofmeyer on the Kenwood music system
does sing sadly like Neil Diamond
and candles burn romantically at the bath
like a Jewish candlestick that welcomes the Sabbath
and does announce the beginning of the year of jubilee
where everything is again nice and right
to far into the future
and no children or grandchildren
do bring resistance in their visiting multitude
and you and I are alone
like Adam and Eve
when they did noticed each other for the first time.
Satish Verma, 2 august 2016
Stay away from the main road
Subhumans are coming.
Face of black spiders, long arms
creeping, hopping.
The green blood and burning sticks;
gateway to moon
sun decides to vanish.
Confronting the flesh makes you clenched snake,
lymphocytes start crowding
death was drawing near.
A fawn wanders without mother
pink eyes, trotting on grass,
syndicated trackers are circling.
End or means? What you choose,
will decide the future of man.
Let the flame become nameless.
A cupped beak and hairy thighs
climb on the rock
to squander the seeds.
Clouds are gathering at distance
I may not wait for the rain.
I am going to swallow the pill.
Gert Strydom, 1 august 2016
Annoyed the small girl turns to him and says: “Oh no.”
Bees do fly around her in the garden.
Caesar stands in front of her
dangling a wooden sword in his hand,
eager to come to her defence.
Followers to come to their aid do not exist.
Great numbers of vicious bees want to sting them.
He hits a few as enemies down.
Ibises fly up frightened and screaming
just when a whole swarm of bees want to sting them.
Keen-witted he drags her away by the hand.
“Leave us alone you demons,” he screams.
More and more bees fly venomously nearer,
nowhere there is any escape
“Obviously we are going to loose this battle,” his princess says anxious.
Pacify they cannot the enemy. Who is the wretched
quisling that have betrayed them to the foes?
Racing, their hearts beat and they cannot guess while the enemy swish nearer
sting and buzz and they have got to
take defeat and fall back.
Unarmed against the enemy they flee to the protection of the
villa with its huge windows
where no bees can reach them and like a real
Xanthippe mother yells at them to get out of the
yard where it has become very dangerous.
Zulu, the Maltese poodle continually does howl outside.
Satish Verma, 1 august 2016
They entered the genome of enemy
to hide agoraphobia
I will be tortured now
by hanging man.
A loaded belief;
being with crocodiles was safe.
How far we swim in reverse currents?
The moon will annihilate us.
There was fear for dwelling in hateful ripples.
It was the gift of rivals,
a phenomenon of sacrfice for the lamb.
Not being with the times, you walk heavily,
waking stones in blood.
It was too late to ask for the pain – killers.
The language does not help.
The words trot clumsily.
You search the solace in coarseness
protecting cranium.
Satish Verma, 31 july 2016
Black emptiness.
Death opens like a flower,
somebody is walking in.
You think of a soft punishment
for becoming faithless.
It was becoming a way of life.
Unlimited agony of wait
something to happen.
Nothing is heard in the field.
No shots. No kill.
Your day was over.
Night descends like a puzzle.
Grey cornea on the white lens:
clouds are playing a game,
mist has a smoky smell.
A city sleeps at last.
A poem I will not read.
It was my ancient address.
Joe Breunig, 30 july 2016
I had been sadly blinded
by my sinful misery,
listening to Life pass by;
Would I, be able to see
the Love that You had bestowed?
I’m stuck on this broken road;
restore my vision today,
as my purpose has been slowed.
I was like Bartimaeus,
waiting for Christ to find me;
unto Him, I cried and called;
He lovingly met my plea.
He greeted me where I was,
shunned by the neighborhood crowd;
transfixed, I stood before Him,
with my spirit, humbly bowed.
With gentleness He then spoke:
“Son, what’s your heart’s desire?”
When I quickly answered Him,
my spirit caught Faith’s fire!
Surprised, I rose to my feet,
as my sight was now restored;
astonished, with thanksgiving,
I embraced and praised… my Lord!
Today, I’m walking by Faith
even when I can’t see it;
traveling this broken road,
prepared Your great will for me.
Teach me Lord, Your Holy Writ
and to live with renewed Faith!
Knowing that Your Grace has flowed;
please lift me up, from my knees!
Author notes
Inspired by:
Mark 10:46-52
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2016, All rights reserved.
Satish Verma, 30 july 2016
Ugliness in pink flakes
elopes with a terrorist.
Sun bleaches the black scorn
muscles ache with cramps.
Full moon peeps through the veil
of branches. Eucalyptus sways
in majestic conception.
Time to exude honey.
A perfect discrimination against
the trees. A painful ulcer on tongue
bleeds, pure as the malignant pain.
I will not talk about existence.
The shadow of god crops up.
Foolish dolls play the game.
Subjectivity has frills to counter
the drive of madness.
Anguish becoming responsible
to deliver the particles of imagination,
which move faster than death.
Future of man was in peril.
Gert Strydom, 29 july 2016
Just for a moment it is there, the lightning bolt that falls
and the smell of something that burns and melts next to a puddle
from where the blue spark bright blinding touches and reach
and with a terrible thunder suddenly roars
with fear on the faces of my child, my wife
that just where I am standing
that lightning bolt does menacing fall.
In that moment’s blinding blue light
while a terrible rainstorm pours down
and I do shake like a reed
I do know that such moments does not linger
but you can take them out of your thoughts again
just like moments of bliss and happiness
where the touching, the colour, the sound and smell does remain
and etched you can find that moment again
from where like old letters you do fold them up and keep them in a small box.
When more lightning bolts slam down my ears are tingling and ringing
while I run to where the woman and child is waiting on the porch
and in the garden its twilight, almost night
where the woman and child are both crying from emotion.
Satish Verma, 29 july 2016
He was not ready
for a stash of negligees
put up by moon, on the trees.
A hanging valley drops the pretense
meets the river on the way
for a rendezvous.
Nymphs are flying randomly
against crystals of stars
blank night asks for nothing.
Sometimes hallucinations are welcome
when it is too hot inside
and the life sucks madly.
It was all very puzzling
the nudes in mirrors,
the stings in prayers.
Leaning against the wall
gives a scope for existence
remember, the desires are many.
the separateness was the idea
to put the damper on shouts
we are not, what we willed.
Gert Strydom, 28 july 2016
(in answer to Mteto Mzongwana)
I am astonished at how things in the new South Africa do go forward,
see the mountain and places around Pretoria in flames,
hear a the ramble of a uprising at the universities where people are fighting
and others pray in groups for peace amid great suspicion.
At schools some girls are raped until they are pregnant
and Christian teachings are unknown,
boys are chopped with axes and swords and are bladed
and some children do disappear without a tract and are missing.
The false prophets in parliament keep telling people
how they create jobs,
that it goes well right through the country
and people are hungry, impoverished and at the portals of hell
because as in the far past crowds are coming from eMbo
(from every African country to the north)
under a new Nguni and Dlamini in a second great roving expedition,
while the country looks like Eden and a rainbow nation paradise
and everywhere there is racism and political correct fraud,
terrible unemployment
and in South Africa it goes far better than it ever has,
on the highways in Gauteng people pay e-tol
and most motorists are fed up with this new tax
where the other roads are full of potholes
and the conditions in state hospitals are terrifying.
l’Envoi
A poet must tell the truth
and cannot talk injustice, dilapidation and lies good
of a country that is sketched as ideal
but in reality is nothing but another rubbish heap state.
[Reference: ”Es daar mense” (There are people) by Mteto Mzongwana.]
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