Gert Strydom, 30 january 2013
While visiting Voortrekker road
to buy a brand new car
a man lying on the sidewalk catches my eye
and he is stripped naked.
I notice that he is from another race,
his glasses lie next to him, his possessions are missing
and he is barely conscious,
severely wounded, is almost knocked-out cold.
The white car shines where it’s waiting,
when the pastor drives past waving,
a elder slows down and accelerates
and there is an odd painful moan
that comes over the man’s broken lips
when I call for an ambulance and feel speechless.
Gert Strydom, 30 january 2013
I
Hunger gnaws at my stomach
and a much deeper hunger of which the pain does not want to fade
when intensely the sun hangs day-long above me,
when I catch the smell of the farmer’s barbeque fire
and I have to cover my nakedness with rags
while I have got to graze on pods like a mere animal.
II
When the sun sets in the distance over the hillocks
in my hart there is a kind of uneasiness
and in the dark night when the stars are shining
it’s as if I can see my father beckoning in the distance
as if my days of rollicking and jolliness
has brought me to a time of deep regret
and I know that I have got to go back,
to be accountable to my father
and my heart feels heavy-laden while I walk the last bit of the way,
can hear blue thunder roaring in the distance
and in the rain my farther stands waiting
like only a farther can, for a child that comes out of the night.
Satish Verma, 30 january 2013
What were the lies in a truth
of the buried day?
Fabulous cries? Tears?
It was a tremble down
in the standing crop of men
ready to be genetically modified.
Each walk in the city
exhausts you to an innocent
tale of manipulated fiction.
Insects, yes insects
were climbing on the moon
like saints with flowing beards
to drink the blackness
of sky. There had been a method
in their madness, in death and whiteness.
Satish Verma
Tori8242, 29 january 2013
Oh, the twinge of helplessness
of pain tinged with relief.
Is nostalgia comfort?
Or just a comforting thief?
Where is the butterfly's solace from?
Well, the winged need no sleep.
Their joy and laughter overrule
the need for Slumber's Deep.
Silver sounds like singing bliss
and praises belted loud.
There is always a silver lining
if the Son is behind the cloud.
Even with metamorphosis of soul
don't pine for days gone by.
Would you rather be a caterpillar,
or a butterfly?
louis gander, 29 january 2013
. . . . and bring our love around again in selfless peace that has no end -
as with a circle bright and true, is love of fam'ly, love of friend -
though some may laugh while others grieve, forgiveness we can sure achieve,
through God's vast blessings scattered 'round so those in need can hence receive -
the Son of God who's virgin born - through whip and nails and piercing thorn -
our sacrifice, the ultimate - a perfect Savior, bloody, torn -
because God loved and likewise we, bring certain hope that others see -
these blessings of a risen Lord so that they too could also be
in peace that's pure as snowy dove while singing praise to God above -
while standing faithful hand in hand in this, our circle filled with love . . . .
©2013 louis gander ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
http://www.ganderpoems.org/
-------
Geetima Baruah Sarma, 29 january 2013
The veil of darkness fell
As refreshing dawn emerged,
The stretch of silence snapped
As feathered friends twittered.
A wish to watch their frolic,
I peeped through the pane,
Oh, but I could perceive
Only a number to name.
A flashback reminded my home…
Our courtyard filled with multitudes,
With hay in their tiny beaks,
To make shelter on our roofs.
Now perhaps, one can figure,
Their reason behind being sparse,
High-rise buildings and apartments,
Social upgradation at large.
[Published in the e-journal 'Indian Ruminations' on 14 November 2011]
David Adesrael, 29 january 2013
Although I'm not here, neither are you.
Could you then hijack my heart,
And guide it to somewhere new?
Somewhere where the pages aren't torn apart.
Somewhere where my eyes wont dismiss
The faint elegance of your passive life
Or the gentle nudge of subliminal bliss
As my wrists are circumscribed by this knife.
Would you then appear? As I disappear?
And recollect the fragments of time
I lost to you, all because of fear.
Make them wonderful again? Make them rhyme?
Maybe you did it once before,
I really don't know,
perhaps you'll do it forever more.
Until at last I'm out of the shadows.
Gert Strydom, 29 january 2013
At the end of night the morning star is still shining bright
and it’s as if the breeze sighs in the trees
while last bit of darkness cannot last,
is hanging over the earth like a shroud
and outside a animal sneaks past
while birds are twittering quiet loud.
With gleaming eyes it peeps through a window
and while I make some coffee it jumps in,
climbs on the sideboard, becomes part of a shadow
and lies stretched out when the day does begin.
Satish Verma, 29 january 2013
In the city of avatars
uncharitable names were cropping up
for wet and wild awards
scripted on lips of unreliable nights.
I wanted to quit archives
of headless soldiers and standing back
wanted to watch a river
of corpses flowing to morgue.
Another blast has killed a dozen
bystanders, who were shopping
for a white chador of peace
from blood-streaked owners.
Become a homosexual to catch up
the wave. Don’t tell, don’t give up.
The birthing of blue moon amidst white stars
will take place shortly
Satish Verma
Gert Strydom, 29 january 2013
At a crossroad just beyond the tunnel
of the Hartebeespoort dam
on a starry night
I notice a young woman next to road
and she is lovely
wears a blue dress
and a white jacket
while she is hitchhiking
and in the roof light of the BMW
she looks somewhat pale, so as if
she does not come into the sun
and her black strings of hair
hangs in waves down her shoulders
and the fragrance of almond blossoms
fills the car as she gets in
and after travelling a small distance
she urgently asks me to pull off the road
and we both do wait
until a car without lights does pass at speed
on the wrong side of the road
and without greeting the girl does disappear,
fades into the naught
and on the seat next to me lays a branch
with some white almond flowers on it.
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