Satish Verma, 20 july 2016
I climb up the stairs to know
How much you need
between nothing and a thing?
Grasshoppers are storming the sky
in inverted outwardness.
They will breed in millions
and then die to become the delicacy
on the platter of man.
From basic instinct to martyrdom
Insects don’t eat.
Violence was middle name of lust
Homo sapiens was walking again on all fours
hurling the abuse, grabbing the flame
becoming the god of oppressed and approved
words are crawling everywhere.
My fingers are burnt, my poem bleeds
give me some water, some real cool.
Lake is on fire, god is on run.
Clouds are empty and sun is an abstract.
Frame is broken, portrait missing.
Gert Strydom, 19 july 2016
(in answer to Yehuda Amichai)
You must not show any fear,
and have to have a tan
even if not using
the malaria tablets
that causes you to burn spots
(which I take anyway),
scared of fever, weakness
and death that comes without it.
You must not show weakness
and I am showering
in a hedged off shelter
pulling the string
from a bagged bottle,
being afraid that all of the country,
will wash away into the dark.
In the daytime I walk patrols with special force soldiers,
sometimes are flown in by chopper in for hot pursuit
on enemy tracks,
some nights are dropped by parachute from very high,
but tonight while the moon is rising big and white,
huge enough to inspect
the dark ditches, the valleys in it
I am showering in the middle of nowhere
in a small military base
and after the battle I came crashing down,
crashing down in myself,
start retching,
shaking without anyone noticing
but are still dedicated to staying alive
and people think of it
as the ordinary soldier thing.
[Reference: “You Mustn't Show Weakness” by Yehuda Amichai.]
Satish Verma, 19 july 2016
It was a severed finger
in an envelope,
which wrote the letter
of consent.
Oh, my father
I am still crying
with loss of words
and figures.
Past the hills
I sent the secret of
my poems which did not tell
me the name of knife-
that was put in my back
by my unknown
brothers of shame. I will
now bleed all life.
It was only an
apology. I will still
walk with my toes drawing
the stripes of welts.
Gert Strydom, 18 july 2016
My God, who does have comprehension
for each thought, for every thing
that goes through my head,
who attentive like a father does see
how I cry and at times do sing
I ask you, where I now stand at a crossroad,
where in brokenness I do wander away from your law
that softly you will lead me back to the right way
and if you have to admonish me at times with love,
that you will draw me nearer even if I am contaminated by darkness
and will bring me to a way out (past every earthly restriction)
that with love you will wrap your arms around me
and where at times I do fall
that you will still straighten my ways
and your attentive glance will remain upon me
although you are at the other side of the universe,
that you will touch my heart and my desires
so that at a time I will also find rest
in a world where there is constantly conflict and discord.
Satish Verma, 18 july 2016
From eyes I will read.
Don’t say, what you say
but remain you.
Dismantle the tower,
go for a walk,
when the moon climbs on dew.
Seed by seed
we went mad
leaf by leaf I held you.
Sit on the bank
wash your feet,
rock by rock pain were you.
Stars will go
sun will rise.
At the dawn, I want you.
Sins were many
birds were few.
In twilight zone
a cuckoo flew.
Gert Strydom, 17 july 2016
When uncle Henry
(who had been my father in law at the time)
did beat the last retreat
on the golf course
Riana & I had to hurry
to Barberton to mother in law
to assist with the funeral
and Riana & I had to constantly wash the dishes
and Riana & I had to prepare
food and refreshments
for the horde of guests
that came to the funeral,
we had to help with the funeral letter,
go along to the veterinarian
with the beloved dog of the deceased
and I had to dig a grave for that poor animal
as for that old madam
(who had been my mother in law)
the poor dog had to be buried as well
on the day that I helped to carry her husband’s coffin
to his grave.
Satish Verma, 17 july 2016
Unlived death, that was me
waking in exile from the bones.
He said I remember your verse
a split open bloom!
Given away your gems to sea
ready to become ash, green blood,
you have killed a white cloud
now go for a floral burial.
He said I remained unpacked
like an open wound.
How far space will hang on the shoulders,
how far the sky will remain blue?
Snow will not melt I presume
I will burn my shirt with stain.
Life will not stop but conceive
the proud burning pain.
I stand today without complaints
grieve for my silence, ignorance.
There was a home I could not save
miles from water like bright dome.
Satish Verma, 16 july 2016
Night will feed the sleep
sleep will feed the night.
I will remain awake the whole journey.
Remove the mask and look straight
in eyes of evil dark and black
across the street.
Violence was lurking in corner
dogs were barking non-stop
somebody had shot the moon.
Give me hand I watch the blood
tricking from mountains:
beyond the border lies the corpse.
Which god was yours, which mine?
Let us divide not truth as divine.
Earth is tormented, suffering is same.
Unbearable was void, when father was away
stung by wasp of innocence
child starts crying.
Joe Breunig, 15 july 2016
In lifeless patterns of repetition,
the congregation of the dead assemble,
eddying around the Light of Truth;
lacking reverence, they sadly tremble
and cringe during the Sunday Service,
seeking loopholes from accountability;
after all, regular attendance grants
the sacred status of Church nobility.
Meanwhile, frustrated ministers hurl
their verbal rocks, in futile attempts
to weed out their spiritual deadwood,
unaware that their righteous contempt
reveals their inability to love others.
Some lacking understanding may wander in,
since membership dues may be optional.
Come join the Church Petri dish of sin
to learn new zombie techniques of gnawing
on the flesh of religious, blind souls;
with Bible clubs and tongues of hell-fire,
receive your training and go on patrol.
Most folks know that ‘iron sharpens iron’;
so come and let us beat you mentally down;
since we’re unable to mature any further,
let’s make sure that you leave with a frown.
Learn secret methodologies for developing
a critical spirit and a unloving tongue;
come fill the vacancy of front-row pews;
come and join us, while you’re still young.
Author notes
Inspired by:
Prov 21:16; 2 Cor 4:4; John 3:19-20; Eph 4:17-19
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2016, All rights reserved.
Joe Breunig, 15 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.
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