Gert Strydom, 12 january 2016
I do not need stars to tell me
that my life, my destiny is written,
that somewhere someone reads
some thoughts of mine
and that everyone has a impact
on each other.
As my eyes gaze into the dark night
trying to see past eternity,
I keep looking for the light,
to see the presence of the One
that guides me.
Gert Strydom, 11 january 2016
I see her dancing gaily
swirling the leaves outside
as if her spirit would forever be young
and although the autumn of my years
is all ready leaving its marks
I am still strong in body and spirit
and now a more mature man.
I see time creeping
into the corners of my body
and ever slowly chiselling
the features of who, I am
but still she embraces me
as if she’s part of the divine
with the knowledge of her ways
as if the entire world is mine
and yet sometimes I am cold
from her breath kissing my cheeks
and I realize
that I am turning old.
Satish Verma, 11 january 2016
Dismembering the wreath,
he went on celebrating his own demise.
Shadow had become a white shroud.
He was spitting blood, when slugs,
hit him from behind.
No body remembered his name
We had been dividing the roofs.
My moon and my sky.
I feel my eyes have turned into marbles.
Castaway I float on conscience, with
blemishes, doomed muscle.
Sun and water were baffled.
Raged against the invisible walls
I was breaking my knuckles.
No body knows, who will outbid
whon. I am lying low,
to rise one day
like sphinx,
on the breast of flames.
Satish Verma, 10 january 2016
Let it be as such,
my long cut tear,
Do not dramatize the wound
and put it as an exhibit.
No attempt should be made to mask the fated pain.
Wait for me at the end of the road.
Not for me,
I grieve for the fallen trees, tall glory of past.
It was a question of survival.
Survival of the best, which could not continue.
There is reversal of equatization.
Man has become superior to god.
They are using Him, I am afraid.
Urging him to commit a natural suicide,
a logical ending of a patriarch.
The stage is set for a mass mourning.
A big conspiracy had been brewing
in prisoner’s cell,
which had been in full possession of
whole truth.
Satish Verma, 9 january 2016
Messengers are out,
dynasty strikes.
A haze of dust storm filters down in tearless eyes.
Not caring, not grubbing my inward eye.
I am becoming blind.
A white moon starts bleeding
under the weight of wingless stars.
You never said,
I never heard the rich voice within
the rocks. A tale went to asylum.
we trembeled under the trees, listening to war drums.
Totems were incoherent. Temples were mute.
I am nude in my wounds,
cannot raise the hands, cannot hurt anybody.
A swallow has made a home in my home.
Satish Verma, 9 january 2016
Messengers are out,
dynasty strikes.
A haze of dust storm filters down in tearless eyes.
Not caring, not grubbing my inward eye.
I am becoming blind.
A white moon starts bleeding
under the weight of wingless stars.
You never said,
I never heard the rich voice within
the rocks. A tale went to asylum.
we trembeled under the trees, listening to war drums.
Totems were incoherent. Temples were mute.
I am nude in my wounds,
cannot raise the hands, cannot hurt anybody.
A swallow has made a home in my home.
Dale, 8 january 2016
I laugh at death,
a smile he does bring,
as he bears his jaws.
The more I feel his breath,
the louder I sing,
grinning at his gaping maw.
For sixty, seventy maybe eighty years,
he chases after me, constantly,
rapping my knuckles, hunching my spine,
but I have conquered all my fears,
so never does he frighten me,
though my vision dims and hearing declines.
He mocks my mortality,
but I could not care less,
for he will be my last dream,
my final unrelenting casualty,
although he has failed to impress,
as he serenades time's harem.
I keep luring him in,
only to push him further away,
for I am not ready to die.
I will only deny him,
living on for another day,
saving and savouring that last goodbye!
(C) Dale Mullock
Dale, 8 january 2016
Coffee coloured swirls in your eyes
spinning irides my morning surprise;
luscious pouting lips
taking careful sips.
Taking you into my senses
has always been a passion for me.
If only I could undress you one more time...
yet I know it will never be enough.
With a shiver of delight
you end my passion plight!
Your simple agile smile,
captures me with cunning and guile.
Your arms are a gift held forever in time.
The way you place your finger-tips
oh so gently upon the whole of me.
I so love the look in your eyes as
you slip the silk from my bronzed shoulders;
coffee silhouette framed in candlelight.
There in the soft glow of charismatic candles
sweet sighs echo of paparazzi scandals,
but in the heart of you
your aura shelters so true.
I come to you;
I walked into your arms surrendered.
No flash of cameras, no entitlements
just you, and I.
I bow my head allowing flowing blonde
tresses to be captured in your hands
as you lift my eyes to gaze into yours.
Eye to eye with only flaxen strands
to be swept away by loving hands
you are my one and only thought,
lips to lips bound by hearts is sought.
Trembling I take your hand in mine;
melded and entwined we are one.
Fevered yet tender we are surrendered
under coffee coloured skies,
alight with the whispered night,
with jewelled stars our only guide.
(C) Dale Mullock
Dale, 8 january 2016
Sedated sunglow shines tepid and true,
Illuminating the sky's seamless, chalybeous blue,
Albino candy floss clouds do float,
Shimmering in silvery, sugared coat,
But stood on terran spherical shape,
An angel surveys the landsacpe.
She smiles and summons solar heat waves,
Where she tiptoes lush greenery sprouts and paves,
This angel coolly whistles and whispers,
Awakening in harmonic hum her slyphic sisters,
Across jade garnished hills comes a rolling mist,
That surrounds and covers her in heaven's assist.
Around her feet argent frost sparkles and springs,
Sprouting wispy, wannish, brumous wings,
Hoisting her high into welkin's domain,
Flowers turn upward to her joyful rain,
Cast and spread from flapping winged form,
Pluvial prescription in sprinkler system storm.
The ever-echo of the ascending spirit in the sky,
Sprouting all manner of living things, emeralds to the eye,
Each globule glistens with a wink of soul to befall,
Engendering solemn sentience within us all,
Scattering a gentle but vital spark from above,
Which does susurrate out her heartbeat in love.
(C) Dale Mullock
Karen Adams, 8 january 2016
Szczęście to nie cel
Na końcu drogi
Szczęście to droga
Sama w sobie
Jeśli się nie rozwijasz
Umierasz
Szczęście tkwi w postępie
W procesie rozwoju
Nigdy w stagnacji
Życie jest podróżą
Zaczynamy ją codziennie
Każdy krok czyni nas
Lepszą osobą
Przynosi satysfakcję i radość
Trzeba mieć wyznaczony cel
I podążać ku niemu
Cała podróż już sama w sobie
Jest szczęściem
Uśmiech , radość jest drogą
A nie celem na końcu drogi.
Happiness is not a goal
At the end of the road
Happiness is the way
In itself
If you don't develop
You're dying
Happiness is in progress
In the process of development
Never stagnant
Life is a journey
We start it every day
Each step makes us
A better person
It brings satisfaction and joy
You have to have a goal
And follow him
The whole journey is in itself
It is happiness
Smile, joy is the way
Not a destination at the end of the road.
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