Gert Strydom, 19 october 2015
The small redbreast sings and dances
up and down, up and down
while it is longing for the rain
and under the tree my two dogs are barking,
are jumping to try and catch that bird
and it’s a curious kind of thing
but the small redbreast is not disturbed
until the first lightning bolt comes
and great drops of rain pour down around him.
Satish Verma, 19 october 2015
The enormous evil pours
its darkness on streets.
Violence throws its tentacles.
Overpowering fear stalks
and we shrink inside.
Ancient wounds fester again.
Our pain knives the clitches and
suddenly we search for the roots.
When the centuries fail,
who will link the dates?
The spaces in mind
are thronged by promising tomorrows
of soft pornography.
The virus spreads far
and wide and calender bares the ignobles.
The mob was coming.
Windows have new paint.
We will collectively burn
the scriptures in the city.
The deep tunnels hide the debris
of our broken limbs and shredded belief.
Gert Strydom, 18 october 2015
More than words can say
are the feelings
that lies deep in my heart
and although you tell me
about the intensity of your feelings,
there are no words
that can carry mine to you
as I do love you
more intensely than the bright sun,
more than the grains of sand
that you can hold in your hand,
deeper than the bright blue ocean,
past the distance of the most far off star
and when you are close
with your arms wrapped in love around me
my breath is taken away
and it feels as if eternally
I can bind my life to yours
as I do love you
with feelings up to now unknown
and the glance in your eyes,
the smile on your face
has got a sparkle that goes right through me.
There is electricity every time
that your hand touches mine
and like two love struck teenagers we are infected
with something that no other people has got,
with passion that keeps starting afresh,
with a flame that can never be smothered.
Satish Verma, 18 october 2015
It was happening.
It was a perverse state,
one by one we were tearing apart,
our wholeness, our human heritage.
A distorted image of beautiful order.
We went assembling the torn limbs.
Each desire was sutured
like a wound, to become a scar.
It was a collective grief of history.
Abrasion of ‘me’, grotesquely
disfigures the face
of soft weightless peace.
Love has never been the same.
The little things have become
enormous ghosts trampling our senses.
Ugly scrawls are scaring.
Satish Verma, 17 october 2015
Walking alone in
the dishevelled inner space
I find peace in my failure,
an innocent patch of a silent hurt.
The futility of hollow beliefs
crawls like a spent thunder.
Truth remains unborn.
I cross a bridge where eterniry begins.
The freaks chase the shadow for a while,
the idea so excruciating
they melt in conspiracy of silence.
In oneness and suchness
the harmony drips
from infinite pores.
The seed has a history.
Lost in resonance of outer space,
now wakes the blood,
distorting the ripples.
Milena Sušnik Falle, 16 october 2015
Na beli steni,
kjer najina slika
je visela,
visi zdaj
izdolbena
drevesna korenina,
s pentljo
iz rdečega tila;
poteza zgrešena –
enako daleč,
enako dokončno
toplina sobe
v hlad položena.
Milena Sušnik Falle - Slovenija
Gert Strydom, 16 october 2015
(In answer to W.E.G. Louw)
We did receive this country as property
that we did rather live in
as to conquer with a flint lock rifle
and we came to the open wide veldt,
did erect walls
to hold out the enemy, the predator
and the baboon,
did create cultivated fields,
even at places
where crops do not really belong,
out of our own crops of maize, wheat
and cattle did live, did map down a piece of land,
until Ratel armoured cars, Olifant main battle tanks
and Mirage fighter planes
did have to stop the enemy that were surrounding us,
where we did won battle upon battle and did destroy the Cubans
and a bald headed man did bring about great calamity,
where his brothers cannot anymore eat a piece of own bread,
where he did create beggars out of the Afrikaner nation,
did forget of the right of existence of his own brothers
and all walls do decay
and foreigners from right over Africa do stream in.
[Reference: “Mure” (Walls) by W.E.G. Louw.]
Gert Strydom, 16 october 2015
A child is a strange thing
that does take your most expensive books,
to stain them with his own drawings
and here and there words are twisted
and when that boy did find some of my first poems
he did write love poems for his girlfriend
and it was my own words with which he was wooing
that he did write down word upon word
and that file of mine was just gone
until I did find it beneath his bed
and to his mother those poems were inane, foolish and bad
but not for that child
and I wonder what he now does think of my verses,
if at times he still does place my words in his own ink?
Gert Strydom, 16 october 2015
Baby lies so fast asleep
that I dare not take her
into my arms,
too big the chance to wake her.
Rosy cheeks and a raspberry mouth
like a little angel, a sweet delight
but she’s someone else’s.
Sometimes at night
nothing can cuddle her tears away
and a shrill little voice
hangs in the air, piercing the darkness
cutting right until day
and those are the times
that mothers and fathers do pray.
Robert amedeo, 15 october 2015
Come not to ask, Plead or Implore
Come to tell you, how much I adore
Soothing away any and all fear
Whispering what she's wanting to hear
Tell of silent stars in the timeless skies
Beauty reflected thru her beautiful eyes
She inspires, you admire, spouting more lies
Chosen ordained to be my mate
Sanctioned sacrifice seals her fate
Erasing another on the devil's slate
Lovely specimen this girl named Kate
When the Moon is full and the time is right
She never awaken from that chosen night
My head spinning the evening growing late
Tomorrow I will ask her, for our first date
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