Gert Strydom, 12 march 2013
At the gate to the street
there are dustbins
and rubbish bags heaped up
and you have
to walk on the tar road
in order to pass
and it grieves me
that the municipality
now still cannot get this sorted out.
In town the rioters
pass under police escort
and rubbish is being dumped into the street
as if we are living
in the middle of a rubbish dump.
I have to swerve out
to avoid the rubbish
and the rioters are singing in revolt
and scream and shout jeering
and I see them throwing branches
and small trees
into the traffic
as if they have the right
to cause damage
and see the police
still keeping their distance.
Gert Strydom, 12 march 2013
He retched and almost choked in it
and as the stinking bile
hit his throat
the dizziness of one too many whiskey’s
hit the mark
and he collapsed against
the chest of drawers.
His wife with her cold calculating eyes
reminded him of a dead fish
with a heart of cold stone
with lips pressed tightly together,
but there was something in the stare,
something that pierced him
and reminded him of the disgust
welling up in his spirit,
and erect she stood rocking the child
her nose inch up, as if he was below her
in each and every way
and anger gave power to his hands,
jerking a drawer out
he hurled it with great force
splintering the wood
against her head.
Like a animal that had its revenge
he was turning away
when out of the corner of his eye
he saw red blood
dripping from the forehead of his wife.
Drop by drop fell
on the baby boy’s shining hair
soaking through to the child’s scalp
and in fascination he looked on.
Satish Verma, 12 march 2013
A randon creation
convulsed by grief.
Death of a pendant was not able
to recall the cleavage.
Kosher scream, the grandchildren
will not know the fakes of
reality show,
pure as honey, then the
scratching starts: look the tiger
was sitting on the branch.
Miracles will happen again
when the prince manipulates
the throne.
The dust melts in the local crowd.
Amid droughts there was a rivalary
to pick up the left over grains in field
between urchins and squirrels!
Satish Verma
Geetima Baruah Sarma, 12 march 2013
Sightseers swarm
To catch your glimpse,
Your spray of colours
On the lofty peaks.
Your appearance delights
One and all,
To experience rejuvenation…
A new day, a new life.
[Published in the 'feelings' column of 'Horizon', the Saturday supplement of 'The Assam Tribune' on 29 September 2012]
louis gander, 11 march 2013
Now everyone was nervous here and not a thing made sense.
The Judge had entered quietly. The room was very tense.
"Let's only hear the gospel truth and accusations quench!
This court is now in session!" said 'His Honor' from the bench.
The 'Whip' was not at all deterred and spoke up suddenly,
"Alive, He was, when I was done - untied and then set free!
But I had noticed something else when He had left my place.
I saw Him with the rugged 'Cross'. Now that's your real case!"
The 'Cross' responded bluntly and without an ounce of tact,
"It wasn't me, Your Honor sir, and that is just a fact!
I didn't do a single thing and really, I did care.
I merely was the backdrop for the 'Nails' had held Him there!"
The 'Nails', three, were hence accused but chimed in unison,
"It wasn't us who had Him killed (God's one and only Son).
When all the three of us looked up, the truth had come to light -
that wicked "Crown' had pierced His scalp and made a gruesome sight!"
Then hushed, the crowd, who set their eyes on such a cruel 'Crown' -
but it had sought the mercy of the Judge with sorry frown.
And then it weaved so carefully a short and subtle lie,
"It wasn't I who killed Him sir, the 'Whip' caused Him to die!"
And so it was that blame was passed around, around again -
so tell me, "What had killed Him then - just plain and simple sin?"
Yes, then that Judge, with piercing eye, had raised his brow at me,
and said, "You are the guilty one! I sentence you to be..."
But then that very instant, a gentle voice was heard.
His voice had calmed the courthouse down - and every heart was stirred.
"Release those who've repented and were faithful through and through.
For I have paid the highest price and saved their souls too."
The Judge slammed down His gavel hard - and said, "I will it so!"
And that is where this story ends. Are you prepared to go?
Don't be the Whip, Cross, Nails or Thorns- who passed their guilt along -
who tried to blame somebody else and claimed they did no wrong.
The heart you have you made yourself. You're humble or you're proud -
so if acceptance you must have, you're lost just like the crowd.
How long has pride now stole your soul? Days, weeks or months, or years?
Don't pass the blame to someone else, but show the Lord some tears...
©2013 louis gander ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
http://www.ganderpoems.org/
-------
Blossom Sol, 11 march 2013
The persecuted
That is
Non comparative
Non compatible
With ancient modern minds.
The blinds
Are closed
And have been shut for earth years, too long.
Sun creeps through it shadows yet darkness seeks no warmth.
Geetima Baruah Sarma, 11 march 2013
My heart yearns,
To go a long way,
Far across the fields,
Across the echoing hills,
Towards a place enchanting,
Lovely and silent,
Beside a gurgling stream,
Where I can see myself,
My reflection...
And speak out my feelings,
My tormenting desires,
To ease a heavy heart,
In the serene atmosphere.
[Published in the 'feelings' column of 'Horizon', the Saturday supplement of 'The Assam Tribune' on 11 August 2012]
Kahlia Mazacalletti, 11 march 2013
I must have died and gone to heaven; for I met you and you are an angel
Even though we have never met...I feel loved and comforted.
I see the true picture and there is no frame to put it in
Pease love me today and tomrrow.....for an eternity
You see you are just a victim of your own circumstance
And I want to get this right.
You are your own person, do not take it for granted
SHE is now the other woman in our three way love affair
Jealousy, EGO (Means Eaze God out), pride, these are all the qualities you posess.
Your morals speak for themselves
So goodnight my love and kiss the other woman
I am thinking of you, every hour, every day.
Alicja Kuberska, 11 march 2013
As the city sleeps
Only the single,
Yellow eyes of
The windows sense.
The street lamps delicately
Scatter the darkness of the night.
Silence with its arms
Covers the city and
Rocks it to sleep.
A gray, heavy fog,
Engulfs the city in a tight cocoon.
Sleep, sleep, sleep
Whisper the shops and neon signs.
Dream, dream, dream
Murmurs the houses and cars
Good night
Gert Strydom, 11 march 2013
Biting coldness grabs me with rain on this winter night -
where I walk along the promenade
and the wind is alive
and grabs on to me and grabs me again
like a impudent child
and bleak-white a lightning bolt crashes down
and I smell the explosion of that intimacy
while the red face of the moon bursts out of the sea,
disappears and are again present,
like a swimming champion
that breaks through the water with breaststroke
and for moments I stand to watch the water
which is black, wild and stormy
like a very angry woman
and I hear the moaning of the wind,
while the stars peer at me through the wind tossed clouds
with strange earnest faces.
Poetry
Prose
Photography
Graphics
Video poems
Postcards
Diary
Books
Handmade
