Greg, 30 july 2013
Grabbing to the green slime that drips from the horror wall
Attached to blackness and squandering faith
A waste on plastic tables melting
Blueness into tear drops of the Now
The shrouded cloud of psychedelia enveloping in cosmic form
The divinity of urban culture so affluent on judgements of any kind
Good Bad Terrible and Lovely
All words that describe the fate of the simpleton
The writer curled up in an impotent ball
Afraid of life and blaming all the rest
Symbolism as a way to hide; not to express
The inner Jew of fear
The subconscious node spoken to me by the realms of Gods
To say:
Hey you are the worst creation to ever come to be
And by acknowledgement you are trapped
Freedom is the trap as well
There is no where to go
And no one to be
The being of self denial is the illusion of the awareness of illusory nature
Divine apathy is the mode of my own distortion
I am the sand beneath your feet
Directionless and made to die; I am the lonely traveler; Alone-ness, essential-ly
Gert Strydom, 30 july 2013
We know violets are blue, roses are red,
carnations too
some hollyhocks are pink and indistinct
I do love you,
unlike flowers words sometimes do fail me,
with feelings true
yet something reaches out to your centre-core
changing us more and more as we adore.
Gert Strydom, 30 july 2013
With big brown eyes you look at me
when you awake
and outside a wild winter wind blows
when you do touch me
and with a glance that is full of trust
you close your eyes
with the brokenness that others see
and I know that I do not deserve you.
Satish Verma, 30 july 2013
the solid rock,
from its tallest perch
was tumbling down, after navel – gazing –
in songs of darkness; had the hidden
aloofness in space and time,
i have become a tree, intend to teach
the truth of roots; eating the body
of gods, one prayer changes the fright
of depth, meanwhile you become the ethnic wait
in sprawling riots, the inside of ire was
very red; screams, bends, shakes, takes away
emotional blackmail, hairs standing like
candles burning, the conditioning was over –
in granite falls, it was rain of tears on
flames of freedom at the street, a crowd
becomes a large leaf swaying on the waves of a red
river, flowing sensuously in a young city
Satish Verma
Gert Strydom, 29 july 2013
In the house of my Father there is a place
for each one that comes to Him
and constantly I am astounded by His love and sacrifice
but sometimes I want to hide my life and cover it
as I am stained by my own conceit
and now in my years of old age
I am longing back to the days spent with Him
while time is drawing a line through my years
and I realise that I want to embrace Him
but sometimes I do not know where to lie down my head
when I walk along the dark road of life
but my hesitation is only for a short while
before I want Him close to me
and wherever I am His house always stands open for me.
Gert Strydom, 29 july 2013
Your hand is in the rain
that falls for fourteen days without end
and when the first yellow peaches appear
and everywhere the rain drizzles down,
when rusty brown leaves fall from the branches
then You are still caring before the first winds do moan
and the cold is present everywhere
with the exhausting of winter
that feels as if it cuts right through everything
and in the rays of that dismal sun
it’s Your love that still circles out wider.
Gert Strydom, 29 july 2013
Although we do live in a dark planet,
a place of sin
while time moves forward constantly
demons cannot win,
God holds the hope and love of tomorrow.
We do go in
the next moment, rather with happiness,
than with all of our sorrow and sadness.
[Reference: “The Minute” by Karl Shapiro.]
Satish Verma, 29 july 2013
Night enters into the drift.
I get through a fossil, quite beyond
the light, a search begins for a tortured
being in some ideal's mire.
The battle begins, of fears and doubts
and upon the trampled sun-blind truths
of past in dry desert of hungry sands
where the veined clot rises to the lung of moon.
Revival of black magic takes place, marking
the boundaries of denial, you will not cross
the line of fire, till the shade between evil
and good was obliterated and sins become
bones of dreams.
Will you wait on the gate, till eternity
accepts you as a forgotten child of
wronged parents? I shall start calling
the names of innocent bystanders.
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 28 july 2013
Tonight moon will write a poem
on my hand
about an almond love.
I find a breeze.
Nightmare: I was caught stealing words
from your lips, a lark
flies into death, paralyzed
by peace!
I will have the baby, I cried
at the insult to a rape
of truth, after the brawl
Pyramid was not made in a day.
Who slept in the arms of ambers?
Look, it was an atomic illusion of a guilt
of centuries. Time walks with bowed head
like a blind man.
Baked brown in heat of wars like
a salted pistachio, perched high on dry
grass, a swallow watches the rising
lake with no stones floating.
Satish Verma
Satish Verma, 27 july 2013
Monologue of a monolith
to live in a moment
was futile. A young house was in disorder.
Not listening, I would find the missing links.
Grey ash to be smeared on forehead in horizontal
lines for shifting the planets.
The age creeps quietly, irremediably poor,
unchanged in hysteria: after hysterectomy
the womb lies in dirt. Ethnic violence will fill
the carts of mutilated bodies, move to market,
selling the rage. Be in today, or tomorrow,
the blood brings honour.
Do not complain of weather, these arthritic
fingers, crooked toes, you will end on a cliff
after the logic of war fails. A bald year
moves, untrusting the noble men, I ascend
a coin to find the circa of topless democracies
destroying the pillars of feet.
Satish Verma
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