Gert Strydom, 31 august 2015
Such a day occurs, begin
when the flowers shower bees
and butterflies with sweet nectar
drawing them in,
in a celebration to spring
when the spring rain falls
with the sun shining bright
reflecting its light on every raindrop
and flowers, trees and grass
jump in length, growing as if by magic
when the yellow gooseberries are in fruit,
when every fruit tree bares to its capacity
and more than all of this,
when you are with me,
smiling as if your face is alight,
filled with its own hot rays, in a radiance
almost as bright a the sun,
when the sky is cobalt blue, or a darker hue,
when your eyes tell me that you are true
and the signs of love are everywhere
around me, around us
as if God Himself is walking on earth,
again treading among mere men
and all men act as each other’s brothers
and joy, happiness and sincerity
does blossom like the flowers.
Satish Verma, 31 august 2015
Loneliness of non-being and,
reality, fill up the vessel.
I search for the eloquence while,
emptiness will be my forte.
Countless words are crossing
like a promise in milk-white days
I gather sunlight through grass leaves.
Life had been full of shadows,
lengthening, penetrating
the tapestry of love.
The descent was steep.
Coming home I found
no humming words.
Sitting in dark
I wait for shooting stars.
Measuring the blood, drawn from our hurts
was a royal reward
for your fingers.
You are allowed to compare blood
with brown coffee.
Sand in our eyes,
we walked bare-foot
on burning coals.
Satish Verma, 30 august 2015
Forgetting the ultimate name
of clean truth
the essence of time latched on to the dangerous arguments.
Something went wrong.
I watched the foot crumbling,
everything was moving towards dark.
I wiped the magnifying glass
to witness the hunger
of everyday life,
blue veins of the shriveled legs.
Sinking deep in smeared eyes,
a panic leaps.
Nothingness to nothingness,
I could not use any syntax.
Repeating same sentences,
you are lost in labyrinth stabbing the walls.
Sunset will send
the blurred sparrows to home.
Antiquity will become a burden.
I am restless, a candle must be lighted,
It is too dark.
Satish Verma, 29 august 2015
A cyan globe
rolling in the black sky.
I was visualizing
an earthset
on the horizon.
Lianas
threw a noose
around my neck.
Did I
start the fires?
My dissent
was of any relevance?
Who was standing
on the moon?
Self-centered was your vision
I was trying
to turn the tide.
So much bragging
could not go well with me.
The tongue had the burnt taste.
Gert Strydom, 28 august 2015
In the depths of a grim winter when life
felt desolate
there was a fluttering, a twittering
at the front gate
when chilly the wind rocked the big trees.
I could not wait
to go to look and see what made that sound
and a little redbreast sang to all around.
Satish Verma, 28 august 2015
Shadows were talking,
we arrived nowhere.
Text was smaller than life.
Millennium hung on our eyes,
rattling the long distance calls.
Our house was ruined,
multiple windows
turned into walls and poems died.
Your face has become an empty vase.
Dismembered cast off
in the corner of the house.
A dreadful ruffled
body of the past glory.
I was nearly buried in quick sand.
Now I talk to trees, the carpeted clouds,
and move again.
My hands suffered
lifting the polarities.
Random tears disturbing the heart beats.
Knowledge was painful
and diminutive people spoiled my collections.
The stones, flowers
and wings separated our lives.
Joe Breunig, 27 august 2015
O Lord, my everlasting God,
Your splendor warps my thinking;
this Cosmic playground of Yours,
encourages me to keep expanding
in my search of finding You near,
in the nuances of my existence;
I’m surrounded by circles of Life,
which are endless in persistence
and repeatedly bring me back to You.
I’m dumbfounded with awed amazement,
that You conceived a dynamic world
of challenging, eternal excitement
that constantly extols Your majesty.
By countless wonders, You’ve shown,
the source of Love’s creativity flows
outwardly from Your Heavenly throne.
Author Notes
Inspired by:
Psa 8
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2015, All rights reserved.
Gert Strydom, 27 august 2015
(after T.T. Cloete)
When the Namaqua sand-grouse
does bring water to her children
she flies over the dunes of the desert to the river
where she jumps into the shallows
does whistle cheerfully
and splashes her breast, feathers, and fluff wet
before she carries water on her body
in her own kind of aerodynamics.
[Reference: “vleis” (“meat”) by T.T. Cloete.]
Satish Verma, 27 august 2015
In ascending numbness
you can think clearly at night
and see the half-moon throwing
the silhouettes in dim light.
I suffer in my poems,
foretelling of a sinking flame
insulting the roots.
The rising failure, like visitation
of Icarus shooting from the surface
in pain. An answer without questions
erupts wearing a death-mask. Was
it a speculation of claustrophilia
carrying a prism? The marbled
globes are melting. The danger
was evident,
you can smell it.
Touché.
Gert Strydom, 26 august 2015
I wonder if time does exist outside our world
or does the gear-work of the universe just go on and on
with a own kind of aloofness
that stands loose from all earthly things?
Poetry
Prose
Photography
Graphics
Video poems
Postcards
Diary
Books
Handmade
