Gert Strydom, 11 june 2013
During the days of winter
geraniums, roses and snapdragons
are flowering
and even the begonias
which are sheltered on some shelves
make their flower cups
and there is an unexpected beauty
to our perennial garden
as if forever some flowers are blooming
while the hoopoe, some doves,
weavers and sparrows
are continually visiting
and there is laughter in your eyes
and a kind of expectation
while you plant new seedlings.
Gert Strydom, 11 june 2013
In this cold winter
the evening wind cuts merciless
right through clothes
and in the early morning
ripe lies like fallen snow
and covers the lawn
and every flower bud
but still the doves coo
their song of romance,
still a flock of wavers and sparrows
twitter their thanks
as they peck on bread crumbs and seeds
and your hand is hot in mine
and together our bed
is a cosy and lovely place.
Gert Strydom, 11 june 2013
Although I had been hurt severely by love,
far too long I had been searching for you.
Far too long through this world I did rove,
but never did I want to remove
even a single moment even if we did argue.
Although I had been hurt severely by love,
now our love, our commitment does prove
its own value even if painful things you do.
Far too long through this world I did rove,
even if I sometimes do disapprove
still together we do continue.
although I had been hurt severely by love,
you do remain the one, who fits my life like a glove,
with whom happiness I want to pursue.
Far too long through this world I did rove,
before together we did move
and when I met you all of my wildest dreams came true,
although I had been hurt severely by love;
far too long through this world I did rove…
Satish Verma, 11 june 2013
The yellow beaked vultures were waiting.
A cloth bag contains the bleached
remains; his father.
Impeccable gift unmasked.
After the inferno, hydrants went dry. The guilt survives
the dispossession, pondering over the black dew
now covering the pink roses.
The illusion persists. Master is coming home.
jug was empty. A miracle will start
the kitchen. An infant cries in the backyard.
The windows were sleeping. Let the sun
stand outside. A yellow moon at night will
open the door.
Satish Verma
Renato N. Mascardo, 11 june 2013
in the act of knowing
separated for most of the day
disjoined for a tad less than forever
we meet always as complete strangers
memories of the past of what passed between us
make each meeting less awkward and just as new
making the joining as adventurous each time
we never can get used to each other we hope we never will
every time we come together to fuse your solitude with mine
to ward off the isolation that leads us to crave and repine
trying to really know what we can only imagine
when separated in our individual cocoons of singleness
you and i meet anew in the act of knowing//
renato
sunday 09 june 2013
Gert Strydom, 10 june 2013
Last night I could have sworn that I heard your name
in a song that the wind was singing
as past me in a cool breeze it came
and some of the branches of the trees were swinging
and it was as if it was softly whispering at times
of happy things, of other different climes
about the places where it had gone
and the wind blew on and on
and kept on blowing right into the new morn
Gert Strydom, 10 june 2013
Out of the times of remembering
I will paint a word-painting of you
that tells the world how wonderful you are
that where others do despise me you are still trusting in me
when you do love my in my most wrenched times
and for this reason I will begin with everything that is beautiful,
with the depth and loveliness of our love
and nothing that will derogate or fabricate
will be in my words,
not even my own pain and fear,
only your sacrifices and how you build your own life around me
and only the most beautiful things from your spirit and soul
and that which really does matter will be in my words,
and the depths of your humanity I will paint.
Gert Strydom, 10 june 2013
A yellow and a red weaver pecks at porridge on the grass,
some sparrows gather twittering around the water bowl
and I cannot think about a more beautiful picture
when the air is ink blue and dew shines on the flowers
and it feels if right here man can reach to God,
as if nature is as it once was,
when even the sun-birds frolics around
and it feels as if the bees are beckoning me,
when a kind of serenity comes to the garden
and together you and I write a own story
when every rose and iris comes to perfection,
when there is something magical to each flower
and here and there one is snow white,
when doves coo in the chestnut tree,
when I do love you and your garden,
when a kind of youth comes to my days of age,
and morning-glories examine the sun open mouthed
where it hangs high in the bright blue.
Satish Verma, 10 june 2013
That vertical sink
loaded with cargo
fraught,
with pools of blackened blood
burned me.
I never arrived
at a moot prologue
for the journey of dead.
The sun turned away
in a doubt
under a smoked trance of helplessness.
Perhaps it was true of a murder
in serene weather
when the astrologia was opposite.
The charred landscape
dithered about the lilies.
Will they come back?
Satish Verma
Naeem, 9 june 2013
I pondered miles of mountains and hills,
swum the oceans till I touch their ends.
I put my hand on flames till it turns to ash,
stared at the sun till my eyes turn blind
I scratched the skins deep till they bled.
Yes; I have done till I know what lies ahead;
-till I smell the fragrance of the pure dusk;
-till the graces show truth behind this mask.
And I let breezes drift through my soul and mind,
so may my God let me know what I left behind.
-Nr.
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