Satish Verma, 21 march 2016
Here again we are standing against
the wall of silence,
time has made us partners of sorrow.
Merchants of terror have spread their
wares
on the road. I was only a name.
Hundreds of miles fear was darting
no body knows who will become unfaithful.
Prayer demands subjugation.
Life sucks the laughter, we want to
go back to childhood,
shut the eyes and recite the hymns of
history,
when prophets were roaming in
neighbourhood.
Gert Strydom, 20 march 2016
(in answer to Cornelius van der Merwe)
Out of the hell coming from stuttering Ak-47’s,
RPG-7 rocket grenades that destroy armoured-cars,
Stalin-organs that sing their deadly song,
T-55 tanks that circle in closer
men did return from the other side of the border
posthumous, wounded and bush-fucked
with every battle and the war won,
thousands of the enemy shot to pieces, killed,
their battle-tanks and armoured cars changed to scrap
so that even the Russian commanders realized
that against these brave men
they could not win.
Today these white citizen force soldiers
are seen by the government
almost as war criminals
and a monument had been built on a hillock
where they are not even mentioned,
where those that lost the war are esteemed highly
as the victors,
so as if history
can be turned back
by a corrupt black regime.
No revolution at Soweto, Langa and Nyanga
did force these Afrikaners to their knees
and in their God was their only salvation
against a vast majority of enemies and deadly weapons
in their fierce struggle,
but a bold-headed man (the leader out of own ranks)
did silently with his whole cabinet
walk over to the enemy,
and each other Afrikaner whose blood did flow
was betrayed and robbed from a chance of a existence
and around his head the Nobel price was hanged,
in his own glory, by himself being messianic
he was caught for long moments
as if he was bringing peace, while the death
of white farmers now circle out wider and wider
in the thousands.
[References: “En die omega” (And the omega) en “Soldaat môre” (Soldier tomorrow) by Cornelius van der Merwe.]
Satish Verma, 20 march 2016
Today I am drunk with pain due to fragility
of reason.
Ungrateful city has defeated me.
I do not want any help
One piercing of morality is sufficient
to kill the portrait.
I have promised myself to commit my
hunger for a flame
which should burn probing the pickled
bones.
the kindness is tied to a smell of terrible
prophecies.
First pray for sanity and then smash
the book.
I will be trembling throughout the night.
Renato N. Mascardo, 20 march 2016
dark sentinel
like an
apparition
a blackbird stands on the
stone rampart immobile silent
at dusk
renato
saturday 19 march 2016
Joe Breunig, 19 march 2016
Are we God’s garden of wild flowers,
bringing fresh color into this World?
Can we find His fingerprints on us,
with divine patterns that are whorled?
With the coolness of His Holy Spirit,
there is a calming cascade of grace
that waters and refreshes our souls.
Under the Gardener’s careful embrace,
we’re given the individual attention
that promotes our spiritual growth;
He made the commitment to Humanity,
by the promise of Christ’s blood oath
for our everlasting Life in Salvation.
Though our days on Earth are limited,
no differently than the grass of Earth,
our innate potential is still unlimited
since we’re designed after His Image.
From the gifts we’re given, we can bloom
into the people He has imagined, with…
the lasting scents of Heaven’s perfume.
Author notes
Inspired by:
Psa 103:15-17; Matt 6:28-30
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2016, All rights reserved.
Renato N. Mascardo, 19 march 2016
the scarlet macaw climbing
up to its perch settles down
the hillside hues dim
sounds around dwindle away
dusk blankets its cage
renato
friday 18 march 2016
Satish Verma, 19 march 2016
Faceless fear leaps from the book
I close the chapter.
My ancestors start hovering about my
head
What did I achieve?
Glorified stones and shining plaques
adorn the garden,
round and round my spirit soars. Are
You listening?
Two things always haunted me. Space
and voices. I searched
my atlas and traced my home which
never was.
Nothing will alter my hurt. I am
afraid to lose my soft eye,
roving smell and final judgement.
Gert Strydom, 18 march 2016
At this place I have been before
where life like a smashing breaking wave just thunders on
and I do not remember anymore
as all those old memories are now gone
but in your eyes there is a kind of light
that keeps burning bright
and you have been my own darling
(of that I am pretty sure)
as there is something familiar to you
and yet holding you feels somewhat strange
as if again our lives have been rearranged
but still our hearts and feelings are true
as if past time and memories they do now endure
and knowing you stays amazing.
Satish Verma, 18 march 2016
After the death, mediocre paperweights rule
on the pages of life.
The leading light will wander in ruins for
centuries.
Hot winds spray the sparking dust on
smooth posts,
desert picks up the artist trapped in confusion
I pray for the rains.
Give me a chance. I want to replay the
forgotten script.
Can you spread a blanket on the wounds
that were not mine?
Nobody gives a call. They were overshooting
the quicksand.
Renato N. Mascardo, 17 march 2016
afternoon repast
my app
predicted rain
in forty minutes yet
the afternoon sun still bathed the
busy
backyard
the birdseeds on
the ground were almost gone
feasted on by the sparrows wrens
mourning
dove and the four
cardinals until the
chipmunk Chico frightened the birds
away
only
to be chased from
the scattered grains by the
belligerent squirrel Isco
who had
to leave
when Gerry the
shaggy groundhog scooted
in and stayed to savor slowly
kernels
yellow
black and brown on
the abandoned grass and
ground proving once more that size did
matter//
renato
thursday 17 march 2016
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