Satish Verma, 14 march 2016
Between a calm and a thunder,
I amputate my days, from the mediocre life of mindless alienation.
I bemoan for sanctity.
Man remains innocent of,
another man’s melody.
I get frightened.
Birds are suddenly falling from the sky.
Where the heart denies
a heart, a perfect rhythm,
mind bares a wound.
History does not repeat the truth.
Blank shadows break the windows
and I collect the ashes,
from the burnt plots and ruined homes.
Sometimes you pretend to kill,
an argument deliberately
to know the depth of the answer.
The turmoil of half-being;
the unhappiness of fulfillment,
the transformation of a death into peace,
was it in harmony?
Satish Verma, 13 march 2016
A hand wipes away the dried tears,
chemistry working.
Somebody puts a hand on the globe,
gives a strong twist.
Flesh helps to forget the agony.
I squeeze the heart,
smell of pain wafting through the pores.
Despair and solitude maintained contact with me
I go blank, cease thinking,
graze melancholy.
Listen to humming of bees in the ears.
Scrawl a note on existence,
of a dropp which started an avalanche.
Talking of sensual divinity
and neutral attachment
a river moves on bald terrain.
Somewhere the water in the eyes dries up.
The salt remains, burns the cold prayers.
The hawks move in a swift dive.
Joe Breunig, 13 march 2016
My missionary work, to an extent,
has been accomplished under grace;
most of the poetry I’ve composed
has been shared with the World,
with the intent of drawing others
towards The Kingdom and the face
of Christ, beloved Lord and Savior.
Pushed far out of my comfort zone,
I’ve taken this notion of identity,
that’s found solely in my Christ,
and pushed bravely forward with it-
at the dismay of brethren who bemoan
the label of Christian poet and author.
I can’t and won’t apologize for actions
taken to glorify God through evangelism;
Christ is the living Word; His Truth
courses through my spirit, as I explore
my Faith and understanding of Salvation.
Author notes
Inspired by:
1 Thes 5:19 and
"A life fully lived out for Jesus is never a wasted life, because in it the true reward starts only the moment one dies, and from that time on wards the dividend for the earthly investment they made continues to comes back without limit for the eternity that is ahead of them." —Abraham Israel
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2016, All rights reserved.
Satish Verma, 12 march 2016
Half the night for you
half the night for me
in between,
when we are going to light our lamps?
A clock is ticking away
time elopes with stars.
When the gametes meet
a spark will chuckle in dark.
Tonight I am going to open my wrists
throwing the lines in water.
Take care of the lineage
flesh eaters are moving.
A pink rose looks at me
like moon in a honeycomb.
It was bittersweet, hurting, kissing
the thorn in my thumb.
Gert Strydom, 11 march 2016
Life is a gift, a chance to exist
and some people have been great
while others will be greater still
and we do shape our life as best we can
act out the roles
of father, mother, brother, sister, daughter and son,
find someone to hold as the dearest of all
but still human we are
when at times we err, we fall
and our dreams are shattered into pieces
but yet constantly we do try,
we do reach to the unknown
with something more
than just a flickering of hope.
Satish Verma, 11 march 2016
Standing in a milk line you were
talking of depravity, of blood lines
and the breast enhancement.
A teenage fringe bomber wants
to sew the civil society and explodes
himself before the empty bakery.
A young gal throws her son
from the ninth floor and then jumps
to get the justice from indifferent god.
Can we talk and wash away our
guilt? Crossing the river was
not enough, we need drinking water.
Bits of human flesh are plastered
on the walls. The death wears a
face of daddy to kill the times.
Gert Strydom, 10 march 2016
In the winter outside it’s already dark
where we sit in the bus, ordered to a determined trip
and vague acquaintances from the daily coming en going do rise
while some others do dare loud conversations.
Outside a sickle moon hangs bright when the bus does brake
and your fingers do lock around mine and your eyes glitter like shining suns.
Your smile do entice a smile of my own and the worries disappear
where we are in a dungeon as slaves travelling between work and home
and strings of lights hang high and catch the eye,
as a enchantment to the cold city
but most of the people are grim, some somewhat sad
others are very tired and the bus does wobble on
roars up the hillock like an overeaten monster
that does vomit at the set bus stop.
Gert Strydom, 10 march 2016
I have not seen the spark of life
and yet I do know that it does exist
as people, animals, trees and plants
are alive all around me
and all the secrets of love I do not know
but wherever I do look its compassion does glow
and God in His glory I have not seen
but still He does His goodwill on me bestow.
Satish Verma, 10 march 2016
Was busy
carving out the white clouds
like stanzas, unflawed.
Now I begin to fall apart.
No meaning was left in a drink.
You could see only your image
drowning in a scented charity.
At last I am watching myself.
Black paper. The ink was white.
Speechless. No body language.
Only you will discover the space
between the unspoken words.
Only buttons know the hollowness
of a floating gun. Meeting you in
an empty glass. Future will always
talk of a setting sun.
Gert Strydom, 9 march 2016
(after Jan Swanepoel)
Behind me the sun shines blindingly bright
and the stormy wind devours along with me.
When I pull the lever to full throttle, my thoughts are clear as crystal
and I am not blinded by glory, patriotism and the will of God.
When I bind myself to the last moment of my life
it flashes past me like a movie in a bioscope,
the reason for my existence comes together in one endeavour:
to baptise the hellish enemy in destruction
and down I dive out of the cobalt-blue
past the crackle of heavy ordnance, past canister-shot
while I keep the aeroplane aimed precisely on the target
but for a last moment like the drawings of a great artist
my life is caught in a flaming death
to which all meaning does cling.
[Reference: “Kamikaze” by Jan Swanepoel.]
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