Joe Breunig, 23 july 2016
Planted by the river of Living Waters,
I remain rooted and grounded in Christ;
He provides for my thirst, my hunger,
my Salvation and my everlasting Life.
With the foundation of Biblical Truth,
I’m rooted and grounded in the Holy Word;
the application of its principles gives
my heart hope with peace that’s assured.
When walking in holiness and rectitude,
I stay rooted and grounded in God’s love;
His Essence softly embraces me with grace,
as new mercies stream… from Heaven above.
Author notes
Inspired by:
Prov 12:3; 2 Sam 22:2-3, 47; Psa 1:3;
Rom 3:22; Lam 3:22-23
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2016, All rights reserved.
Joe Breunig, 23 july 2016
O Lord, my heavy heart hurts
and my tongue can’t find words
to articulate the inward pain,
as my spirit struggles to avert
reiterations of disappointment.
My thoughts of being distraught,
exhausted and overwhelmed steal
the inner peace of my contentment.
I’m humbled by my circumstances;
now I’m casting my cares upon You;
I’m reaching for Your rest, yoke
and peace, to have another chance
of moving forward with Your Kingdom.
Refresh my spirit with the essence
of Your Presence; grant me the grace
to overcome… these current symptoms.
Author notes
Inspired by:
1 Pet 5:6-7; Matt 11:29-30
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2016, All rights reserved.
Satish Verma, 23 july 2016
Do not knock out the water from the eyes,
each dropp is temple
each dropp is death.
Veins were becoming darker
friends disappeared overnight.
A family comes to squat on grass
to scrape the souls of forefathers.
I become puzzled of failed truths,
of guilty nasturtiums fashioned on graves
gathering the human failures.
The deeds and the theatrical prisons
of homes. Anguish and sorrow.
Learning - sucks the beautiful
scarves of splashed deceits.
Into the future you move,
glory or doom? No certain payments.
You have not forgotten the false commitments.
steven cooke, 22 july 2016
God cannot intervene in sovereignty
and the boy will plead no innocence.
Seedlings cannot control the wind,
in birth the Oak has called their name
a command from the forest unseen.
A biblical sandstorm unleashed by unworthy souls
Will scatter this seed
that a millennium of kings could not see.
Time demands the old to look away
For Medusa’s face will give the peace.
Hope now resides in young men’s eyes
and the currency at stake is dreams.
These are the orders of man.
As the desert celebrates the rain with life
and the Eskimo gives reverence to flesh.
That is the natural dignity of things
It was this harmony that created the ark,
a speck of light in the darkness
that gives meaning to the stars above.
But war is the Cancer unseen
flowing in the veins of weeds with mortal power.
Weeds whose future is locked in vaults unseen
hypnotised by the allure of possession
hiding their gluttony in papers power.
A confession that only the executor will see.
The poor will be tried in combat,
existence will see them fall.
To defend history with mothers child,
and use our great Cities to forge
the end with steel and bullet.
All bought with Slaver’s wealth and empire.
Actions that will tempt the heavens
with sparks that ricochet off the anvil of God.
So even the lost alien observer
will feel this pain of mankind.
These seedlings cropped by lawnmowers damned
Scything through the spirit of man.
And perhaps the crying mother will find comfort
that the greed that underpins all wars,
will see this Judas priest .
This paper with devils desire
that feeds a global asylum,
in cubicles of generic concrete
waiting for the illusive pension from life.
Will find the ark that prophets seek.
A truth that transcends all religion.
Heaven declines your currency
wealth is a mortal thing
your fee is to the earth
and that is the remembrance of you.
The cry of the swift
gives Gods speed to assassins flight.
A mirage of summer
that avoids the artists brush.
Natures fly has devoured this sin of man
and sacrifice is given,
to the voyagers of the sky
converting the souls of men to flight.
And perhaps in this act ,
humanity will find redemption.
And the boys that died unseen
will finally see the beauty of creation,
high above the pain below.
Screaming on the wings of freedom
A truth reserved for God
and a dead boy’s dream.
Gert Strydom, 22 july 2016
Where star systems do disappear in the nought,
far away from our earth’s atmosphere
where nebulas, planets and stars shine
and dark holes absorbs everything near,
even past the burning jaws of hell
and where space does collapse into the abyss,
where solar systems form and get life
the omnipotent Lord God builds his fortress and His stronghold
and time, distance and space do make no difference to Him
when He comes to true salvation in the depth of distress
and His sovereign holy omnipotent righteous will
commands Armageddon and the jaws of death,
does order the spark that becomes thunder, the drops of rain
where on His judgement-seat He does judge and bless everything.
Satish Verma, 22 july 2016
The things which did not brother you,
like crossing the crowd unspoken.
Long pauses between the questions,
halting silences between frenzied wails.
Flesh stayed untouched by hand,
center of controversies.
I still speak noiselessly, for urgent whispers,
time for exit has come.
The fog now deepens in eyes
and then a cloud bursts.
Trickling, when you bend backward
to wet the floor of grass,
which stiches the earth.
Winds will not expose the naked skeleton
consciousness now hiccupps
crumbs fall from the table.
It was not me
It was not me.
Gert Strydom, 21 july 2016
(After A. G. Visser)
Come in the spring and see my flower garden
when suddenly after the winter it bursts out in beauty,
when the roses do bud and later start flowering,
when the irises astound with all of their colours
and furtively morning glories trumpet forth the sun.
Come in the forenoon when a swarm of doves coo,
rejoice and flaunt and sing love songs to deep in the night
and daylilies open their cups yellow, orange and dark-red,
when the tiger lilies and gladiolas awaken after the winter
and the afternoon-ladies do peep at the sun.
Come in the afternoon when the jasmine, lavender and gardenia
carry their fragrances as they did in the early morning,
when the geraniums are full of flowers right up to winter
and the rain lilies flower in the purest white,
when the evening flower brings magic to the sultry nights.
Come at dusk when the sun sets over the hillocks,
when some flowers wait upon the arrival of the moon,
then find the magic that twilight brings
when the weaver, redbreast and sparrow do sing love songs
and you are surrounded by beauty from everywhere.
Come when the moon rises red and later becomes silver-white
when in longing I yearn to have you close
that you my darling can experience the magic of each flower cup
before they wither away with the course of time
and I can show you the loveliest of our flowers.
Come let us together experience the colours and fragrances
and in love and happiness visit and laugh
before the summer of our lives come to a end,
past the last years of old age
where only in thoughts we will have a piece of this paradise.
[Reference: “Rosa Rosarum” by A. G. Visser.]
Gert Strydom, 21 july 2016
To where blankets hang during the afternoons
on the balconies of flats
to catch the last afternoon sun
a whole impi does return at nightfall
from where they daily sit in offices
behind desks,
of the new civil service the top product
with pens that scribble, scratch and screech on papers
and they make as if they are very busy,
do send citizens continually round and about
with there attention focused on the clock on the wall
and at five a clock they rush out in a throng,
together with each other in a ancient war dance
and before the sun sets they sing at the nearest bar
united in a wide semicircle
that makes the horns of the bull
while they manoeuvre and play,
do bet money on soccer teams
and just for pure fun
do shake dice and throw them out to roll.
Satish Verma, 21 july 2016
Neither in sleep nor wake
I hear, a wingless fall, out of the clouds
with a thud and splash on the lake.
An injured word flutters to the beach
wanting to fly back to its flock, syntax.
Sick of my circling thoughts
I choke on sounds of ducking gravel.
My sea was green under the sun
though I never cared for the craft.
My gift had been gift of pain.
Land opens like a mouth, in awe.
So much cruelty was never seen before.
Anger and greed, lust and beast
blooming in veins of man.
One perfect excuse to kill a day.
Goodness was death, foresight for
crusted ambition You in dark and
dark in you. Tomorrow a blue moon will
come, when night weeps and stars
move away in fright.
Gert Strydom, 20 july 2016
This morning the sky glitters blue
as if it is made
from lapis lazuli
with a deep azure colour
and I do wonder
to where the grey clouds of last night is gone
but the wind
that had blown them away
is also missing
and the fragrance of flowers
hangs sweet in the air
and it seems
as if it is going to be a nice hot day.
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