Satish Verma, 29 august 2015
A cyan globe
rolling in the black sky.
I was visualizing
an earthset
on the horizon.
Lianas
threw a noose
around my neck.
Did I
start the fires?
My dissent
was of any relevance?
Who was standing
on the moon?
Self-centered was your vision
I was trying
to turn the tide.
So much bragging
could not go well with me.
The tongue had the burnt taste.
Gert Strydom, 28 august 2015
In the depths of a grim winter when life
felt desolate
there was a fluttering, a twittering
at the front gate
when chilly the wind rocked the big trees.
I could not wait
to go to look and see what made that sound
and a little redbreast sang to all around.
Satish Verma, 28 august 2015
Shadows were talking,
we arrived nowhere.
Text was smaller than life.
Millennium hung on our eyes,
rattling the long distance calls.
Our house was ruined,
multiple windows
turned into walls and poems died.
Your face has become an empty vase.
Dismembered cast off
in the corner of the house.
A dreadful ruffled
body of the past glory.
I was nearly buried in quick sand.
Now I talk to trees, the carpeted clouds,
and move again.
My hands suffered
lifting the polarities.
Random tears disturbing the heart beats.
Knowledge was painful
and diminutive people spoiled my collections.
The stones, flowers
and wings separated our lives.
Joe Breunig, 27 august 2015
O Lord, my everlasting God,
Your splendor warps my thinking;
this Cosmic playground of Yours,
encourages me to keep expanding
in my search of finding You near,
in the nuances of my existence;
I’m surrounded by circles of Life,
which are endless in persistence
and repeatedly bring me back to You.
I’m dumbfounded with awed amazement,
that You conceived a dynamic world
of challenging, eternal excitement
that constantly extols Your majesty.
By countless wonders, You’ve shown,
the source of Love’s creativity flows
outwardly from Your Heavenly throne.
Author Notes
Inspired by:
Psa 8
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2015, All rights reserved.
Gert Strydom, 27 august 2015
(after T.T. Cloete)
When the Namaqua sand-grouse
does bring water to her children
she flies over the dunes of the desert to the river
where she jumps into the shallows
does whistle cheerfully
and splashes her breast, feathers, and fluff wet
before she carries water on her body
in her own kind of aerodynamics.
[Reference: “vleis” (“meat”) by T.T. Cloete.]
Satish Verma, 27 august 2015
In ascending numbness
you can think clearly at night
and see the half-moon throwing
the silhouettes in dim light.
I suffer in my poems,
foretelling of a sinking flame
insulting the roots.
The rising failure, like visitation
of Icarus shooting from the surface
in pain. An answer without questions
erupts wearing a death-mask. Was
it a speculation of claustrophilia
carrying a prism? The marbled
globes are melting. The danger
was evident,
you can smell it.
Touché.
Gert Strydom, 26 august 2015
I wonder if time does exist outside our world
or does the gear-work of the universe just go on and on
with a own kind of aloofness
that stands loose from all earthly things?
Satish Verma, 26 august 2015
Beyond the self,
is the freedom, unchained dawn,
I am in a crowd of voices.
Lifted by songs,
a bruised truth becomes a rose.
Choice was limited,
I desired silence, middle path in night,
under the lunar ecstasy.
Nowhere to go
I searched for tranquility, peace and light.
Failing hopelessly.
Love migrates back to old memories.
White days are pruned,
I would say the mirror was wrong.
I did not choose my life.
Dream of final
release was extraordinary
grandeur of pink moon
hanging on the trees,
the divine shower.
Life did not alter the genes,
it shifted the flow.
Untitled monument was submerged.
Gert Strydom, 25 august 2015
How can I want to say unheard things
when they lie outside the comprehension of most people?
Although simplicity comes with the naked truth
most people are disillusioned and astounded
when words and sentences flash with an own reality
and some thoughts they do turn over and over
and there are borders between people
and also a kind of darkness
that does disguise holy secret meaning
and people do wonder what I am really saying
when they cannot even grasp or feel the simplicity.
Satish Verma, 25 august 2015
The spirit of hollow ideal
was not the thing,
I remained inconsolable.
Truth demanded endless pursuit.
The helplessness of the beaten days
was unfit for the night of terror.
The false paradigm could not ignite the flame.
The shadows collapsed
and thoughts walked in dark
into the trap.
Perfect splash of impulsive drive,
and movement of matter
created hallucinations.
and the conduct of freezing moments
had no parallel.
Cutting edge was evident.
How truth saved its pain,
of telling a heart
the death of a silent dream.
The vision went blind.
Faithful figures did not write the wrong texts.
Escape from territory was complete
and tracks were obliterated.
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