Satish Verma, 20 march 2015
Banded I walk
on the dirt road,
when discreetly, your shadow falls behind me.
Melting the distance
a voice loses the sharp birthmark,
becomes perfectly an onlooker.
Where I was going?
Greed was splitting the fat.
An owl creaks.
I pick up some daisies to walk into a crypt.
New mind was some steps away.
Coming out of skin
nakedness, brings out the tears.
We have stopped speaking. Only whispers
are parting the blackness.
Gert Strydom, 20 march 2015
The hotel room is eight levels up
and an interesting place
to find some intimacy,
to be alone as two people together
and the concierge carries out cases
touches his hat and leaves
and outside a battalion of umbrellas
are marching past
minutely small like playing dolls
braving the wet weather
and your Chanel perfume fills my head,
your smile goes right into my heart
and you are very pretty
and I am utterly lucky to have you
as a darling, companion and friend and wife.
Joe Breunig, 19 march 2015
With all of your mind, can you imagine…
living a sacred and a victorious Life,
whereby you become more like The Christ?
With all of your heart, can you believe…
that you’re covered by His righteousness
and an embodiment of God’s poetic finesse?
With all of your might, can you achieve…
the desires that He has purposed for you?
Can you envision His promises coming true
when daring to imagine, believe and trust Him?
Only your lack of Faith- can hold you back;
pray continually to fend off ungodly attacks
of evil, that originate within the darkness
of this world; know that you still possess
Salvation and have been… permanently blessed!
Author Notes
Inspired by:
1 John 5:4-5; 2 Cor 5:21; Rom 3:22, 6:23, 8:31-39;
Eph 2:8-10, 6:12; Isa 40:31; John 1:12; Prov 19:21
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2015, All rights reserved.
Gert Strydom, 19 march 2015
(a small ode to my wife Daleen)
Hers is a clean kitchen
with everything tidy in its place
while white dough, turns to bread
in the black oven
sweetly smelling and surely delightful
and in baking pans some more dough
is rising and in a little while
it will turn to baked rusks
and her darling hands
that cares tenderly
have played their part in life
with a gentle smile on her face
and the first sings of age
are just touching her hair
but from her glance,
love is spreading everywhere.
Satish Verma, 19 march 2015
Manipulating grief, dirty hands -
open the lid,
release imagos. Eyes are blank.
You unravel the last of roses.
Surface tension wavers. An imbecile
sky pours the eyes, nose and ears.
Courtyard fills again, morphed resurrection.
I am persona non grata
in my own home. The moon does not cry.
Mystical lights. Headstones not legible.
Lockjaw. Waiting for morning-glory.
Stars are blinking.
Still I am stupid, courting my failures.
Cushion of thorns, I am weary of heavens.
Me, this earth, I do not die.
Satish Verma, 18 march 2015
He had only one vision now,
as he chained himself not to be set free.
He was afraid of living.
No, he did not want anything from world,
or god.
He was not him always. Somebody in him
was watching.
Any gratitude he did not want to expect.
Not obliged anybody.
Wanted to go, but stayed.
Sons and daughters, he loved them –
for not getting cash mentions from them.
Some debts he would never pay back.
It is time for a deep breath of relief.
Empty house, empty soul,
and mind full of hurts.
He wanted to say goodbye.
steve, 17 march 2015
2:00 oclock in the morning.. as she "cried without a sound"...
Three days after Christmas.. in a sleepy southern town,
The year was 1956.. and Chevy's ruled the road...
When I was born.. Momma's tears was the only pain she showed,
The second born of seven.. while five stood in the wings...
Waiting for a chance at life.. and all the pain it brings,
I've watched her do our laundry.. on a washboard in the cold...
And even though her hands were blue.. her heart was made of gold,
Raising seven children.. alone and somewhere new..
I wonder where she got the strength.. to do the thing's she'd do,
She taught us to be strong and just.. and pray to "God" above...
And I knew if I lost everything.. I'd never loose her love,
We never had much money.. and there was no "silver spoon"...
We were blessed with so much more.. my Mom hung the moon.
sg
Gert Strydom, 17 march 2015
I believe there is a place called Zion
that was prepared by Jesus, who is my Lord and my God.
where joy and happiness does without end go on
and through the trials and tribulations I will go dry-shod
and even if other people do think it odd
He has changed my heart that was as cold as stone
and even if I am laid beneath the earthly sod
by His blood for my sins He did atone
and I will see His loving face
when the Lord Jesus does come
in a act of amazing grace
from that great Zion to take me home
and now a love that is unequal and divine
Jesus has made mine.
Gert Strydom, 17 march 2015
The smell of baled cut hay,
cut cornstalks, fuel from drums
the hot tractors cooling down
and in the semi-dark the hoard
of farm implements,
with a cold cement floor
under your bare feet,
to me it was like Aladdin’s den
a place where useful magical things
of great value were stored.
Satish Verma, 17 march 2015
He faked a letter to god
and slept whole night.
(Fallen in a creek from a moving train.)
Indeed, he saddled himself with luxury
of oblivion.
The success around him was most obstinate.
Pretending to condone the arthritis
of social limbs, he walked straight
to become what he would be,
a fakir among riches without fanfare. The
absolute renunciation, slapping the door –
shut, for blackness.
It was visible, the nakedness of brazen lies
falling like cottonwool around him. He touched
coral eyes of truth and wept, never to speak
again. Cosmos would split
for his journey to home.
This was meant for you, he said to himself.
Your own choosing without any regrets.
His fingers traced the figure of a mother
of the thin moon, who was assaulting
the crib of sun.
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