Satish Verma, 30 april 2016
Riding the back of a sensual saint
a white tiger
was turning the human genome
into ashes.
The moon was climbing up.
Snips were becoming tainted.
Decoding the helix has brought down the god
into a module.
I am encircling the basic truth.
Sky is turning dark.
Saffron bull has broken the golden gate.
Blood is spilled on the sidewalk
lined with marigolds.
I am standing alone on a pathless beach.
Sea has sent back the harvest of grief.
From the periphery agitation starts.
Center has no choice. Absolutely
self-ending-in-self. Each breath comes discreetly
deep in the ravines of soul.
Neighbours were watching.
Gert Strydom, 29 april 2016
When I do consider how my time is spent,
where my emotions and deeds from You I cannot hide
while Your love and goodwill does go far and wide,
in work for others without pay at times I am bent
and whatever I do, You are always present
but at times it feels as if you do me chide
while what I am and am about cannot be denied
and humbly I ask that You do my thoughts of doubt prevent
as Your love, Your goodwill and presence I do constantly need
and but foul and deplorable are my efforts at best
where I am following in a sinful mortal state
trying in my devotions to catch some speed
but each day rushes past without a moment of rest
while almost intolerable people do on me wait.
Satish Verma, 29 april 2016
Anxiety was touching the mime
I cannot hold a reality.
We were playing with each other.
The creation and hunger of living
takes you to unknown fields
I am, what I am not.
Always bluffing, puffing on the road,
counting the milestones
in reverse osmosis,
feeling proud of mighty mistakes,
talking to faltered ego,
going against the sun.
My climate merges with hot desert
A story reappears again and again
like a dried skeleton in sands.
How long I will run
chased by planetary fears?
Barbs pierce the tender zones
I see my own demise,
body floating like a flower on lake.
colin st. leger lewis, 29 april 2016
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What Do Morals Do - Poem by colin st. leger lewis
And when the sacred winds had slept
a milder breeze arose
sensuous feelings genuflect
fatigue now indisposed
While gently they may speculate
on fears the night might hold-
right now we bask and gravitate
to nature's soothing soul
If Nature reigns preeminent
then what do morals do
but form the psychic regiment
enhancing tangible views?
Now if morals provide the detriment
of cruel unbelieving fools
then God I'm sure is evident
on crowns where there're no jewels.
Gert Strydom, 28 april 2016
I see him doing carpentry,
smoothing a piece of hard wood with a plane,
clamped on a big old vice
before cutting it, sawing it off
to the right length
and there were fire in his big blue eyes,
a burning intensity and integrity in them.
The smell of glue and sawn wood
tell tale from his tool shed,
with always a instrument,
sometimes a pencil, a hammer, a saw
in his big calloused hands
and a tenderness, compassion, love
in the eyes that looked at me.
He was a man who drew up plans
and build a big church
with his bare hands,
without charging for his labour
who knew the exact amount
of bricks, bags of cement,
lintels and whatever
went into a building or house
just by looking at the blueprints
and who could immediately
tell you the cost
almost to the last cent
and his workplace was tidy,
with everything in its place
and my grandpa was gigantic to me,
until one day
that a huge door
at a building came loose
and fell on him thundering
cutting his internal organs,
causing internal bleeding
and at the time
the doctors could do nothing for him
and he was an educated man
who swore that no child of him,
would have to be an artisan,
would have to work with his hands
like himself,
who wanted each and everyone
to get a proper education
at university
and have a decent job
and a great life.
Satish Verma, 28 april 2016
You were sitting on a honeycomb
I wanted a life
without stink or stain.
Intently staring at every celebration
listening to every sound,
and warding off the hissing reptiles
near my ladder.
Nature, I do not want to fight with.
Grief brings psoriasis,
the eternal itch and restlessness.
I scream at every red patch,
my unreadable pain forgets the date.
Mutism was not the answer
to protect the purity of tongue.
Silence was not a golden word.
Without becoming hoarse
one can shout to tell the dimensions.
Gert Strydom, 27 april 2016
When the two of us met
there was happiness and tears
and it was if our destiny was set
for many great coming years
sparkling were our eyes and we were bold
with a strange kind of fire in every kiss
and our feelings were new and old
in a unknown kind of bliss
the brightness of the morning
touched the specks of dew on your brow
when sadness came without warning
of the moments that we do feel now
when our true feelings are unspoken
and day upon day suddenly came
where apart in longing we are broken
and for weeks the days remained the same
while time with you I do covet
and the sound of your voice is still in my ear
while the feeling between us I cannot forget
and to me you are still dear.
Satish Verma, 27 april 2016
I woke up clutching the dreams
in deluge of tears.
Night had a brackish taste,
the other side of moon was dark.
One by one the stars were dying
Ideas were no longer candles in gale.
The final thought of liberty demanded
a tribute to partners in revolt.
I wanted a sunlit corner
in the blighted sky of hopes.
Instead of scorched impulse of a mob
injured truth, walking alone.
Give me a bitter fruit of certainty.
I don’t want to loose myself in fogs.
The truth must meet the lie-
alone, in woods of craft.
Gert Strydom, 26 april 2016
Forever the wandering ghost
of that meddling interfering missionary John Phillip
is haunting, and he is bellicose
and in the highest ears he again lets his words slip
and once again he acts the same
as at Slagtersnek where rebellious farmers did hang high
(were hanged again when the ropes broke)
and once more he slanders the Afrikaner’s name,
while innocently he tells lie upon lie
and here and there a funny joke.
Satish Verma, 26 april 2016
Beyond the gaze there is a time zone
of rumored agitation
when you cannot sleep.
You open your eyes quietly to complain.
The caretaker has prepared the shroud.
Smoke is rising on the hills.
No body walks with you,
it is a lone journey, where
centuries throw the dust on your hallowed gifts.
The pyramid of signs, symbols, signatures,
disappear in penultimate flare.
Time to leave the waiting room.
The resurrection will take place now;
of fear; of despair; of foot steps in dark.
I will hear them, holding my breath.
Landscape will change into valley of tears.
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