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.]
Satish Verma, 9 march 2016
Graveyard of stillbirths.
I am walking on severed legs.
She was pushed off a moving train.
Could not be raped.
No I don’t see any sickly aberration.
It was ossification of stunted intellect.
Who was desperate to exit the hazy
flesh? Peel off my skin. It is dirty.
You are becoming furniture. Drunk.
Immovable. The bed was moving.
Holding the breasts of mannequins
you walk down the stairs for a rejoinder.
Gert Strydom, 8 march 2016
I
From the place that he calls home
mighty Prince Lucifer rose
stretched himself out under the sky’s dome
while everything was still at repose
throughout the world men were quarrelsome
a flock of birds did past close
but to him no final defeat had yet come
and he tasted the bittersweet victory
of the Lamb of God being nailed to a cross
and from that day his life had been transitory
filled with small victories and great loss
as his revolt (the age-old story)
had come at a personal cost
as had been recorded by history.
II
For mere moments he stood in awe
caught by the perfection of the rising sun
but still in place was God’s character, His law,
while a new day had begun
and he remember how it once had been,
of all the beautiful and great things that he had seen,
how perfect, how matchless had been his life
but now by his freewill he was leading a life of strife
and new strategies was in every thought
but for all the chaos and calamity that he brought
the omnipotent power of the Son
was still helping everyone
while God was ever-present watching him as a tiny speck,
continually holding him in check.
Satish Verma, 8 march 2016
Why do I always remember the time
of departure?
The parting maze of tears?
I accept another day that will never be
the same.
I will carry the cadaver of sin,
the crime of silence, amidst the dancing
dunes.
Who will go after the barbs of rays?
Father, go slowly in the sea.
I am closing the windows now, take
care of the clock
and potter’s wheel.
The cruel age is harping on the new
designs.
My epilogue is short with love of
death which does not go beyond you.
Gert Strydom, 7 march 2016
In a building there are people singing “Gloria in excelsior”
and it’s beautiful like a choir of angels
but I do receive a track that insists on my salvation
and the traffic light does change.
Around me people past in a bunch
and on the other side an old white man holds out his hand
with a “good afternoon to you, sir” he greets me
and just there tries to block my way.
A flower vendor tries to push a bunch of deep red roses in to my hand
and says “buy them for the madam”
while the wind is jerking on his thin shirt
“mister, she will really like the roses.”
Right at the home affairs building
a camera is lifted to focus on me,
a hand with a pen is held out
and I slip and almost do lose my balance
and right there I wonder about the things that are happening in this town,
I want to escape into the veldt,
do see everybody standing with a stretched out hand
or maybe I want to return back to my Pretoria.
Satish Verma, 7 march 2016
One by one kites were alighting on the roof top.
Door were banging and a smell was rising
like the anger of a house.
It was sobbing morning in frenzy
before the sunrise, when every instrument
was asleep and god was shut in the shrine.
Splinters had pierced the innocent chests
and blood ran on the stones.
A beautiful day for the suicide bomber.
Pain wore an illuminated crown.
On tower of violence and brutal death
birds are waiting for a feast of tender flesh
from the shattered limbs.
Quietly rises the sun on a decayed century.
Satish Verma, 6 march 2016
An ultimate lie becomes a reality in life,
Like slit in the throat of a lamb in a meadow.
A wounded ego scrambles
for an explanation,
which is not coming.
Who can stop this verdict of a non-trial?
The tragic nonending of a conflict
between doubt and inherited faith?
You search for a perfect rhythm in
a turbulent crowd,
search for a silence in a flaming torch,
in the moment of truth,
when an entity is disintegrating.
Joe Breunig, 5 march 2016
The shape of Love is not a heart,
but that… of a solitary cross;
the burden of Christ’s sacrifice
was a desire to redeem the lost.
For Him, to reflect the Love of
The Father, is unimaginable to us;
such mercy and grace required God,
Who was embodied by Christ Jesus.
By the actions of one man, sin was
birthed into this world by Adam;
and now, through Christ, its affect
can be diminished, as we imagine
ourselves being made in the image
of God, according to His Holy Word.
Through the crucifixion of Christ,
the power of God in Him was stirred
to raise Christ from Humanity’s grave
in the sacrificial act of God’s Love;
therefore, we should mirror our Lord
daily, pulling down Heaven from above
by living with Grace, Mercy and Love.
Author notes:
Inspired by:
Eph 1:7; Isa 53; John 3:16
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2016, All rights reserved.
Satish Verma, 5 march 2016
In the shell lies the eye of a dark sea
I call for a boat in delirium.
Waves drown the hunger of a climax.
I do not know where all the gulls have gone?
Time slips like flesh between the knuckles
and an extra pain of your separation.
I am shipwrecked on the slopes of whispers
and don’t want to have a second death.
Looking back at the years
as a sentence in exile,
I never reached the home.
Ultimately you need the hunchback to
climb the stairs.
Gert Strydom, 4 march 2016
When from me she is out of sight
in my innermost mind
her eyes do burn bright
and I do constantly find
some thoughts of her, of her great grace,
as if in the depths of my soul she does glow,
as if each expression of her face
I do intimately know
and yet at times it seems that I do know her not,
that knowing her breaks my heart and takes a lot
but still the emotions of her eyes
in my inner thoughts never dies.
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