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poetry
Catman Cohen, 22 november 2013
Hostage in the Bedroom
There’s a gun upon my bed
Not the kind made of metal
A vivid tattoo color
Above my lover’s
Secret devil
And that gun is like a demon
Aimed toward her pleasure zone
Urging hunters to take a shot
And take the trophy
Home
I see blood upon the doorstep
I smell murder in her fold
I fear ghosts will haunt her body
In the bullets I have sown
I hear hungry infants crying
The ones she gave away
And the bastards she is hiding
Are my regrets from yesterday
I feel the gun blazing
As she sucks my breath away
I’m a hostage to her body
In the mayhem
She purveys
In the middle of the night
I’ll make my escape
Run, run, run
Run away
I’ve got to run
In the middle of the night
When her back is turned
Run, run, run
Run away
I’ve got to run
There’s a gun upon my bed
It belongs to my baby
Burned deep inside her
On a night she went
Crazy
And every time I think
I’ll flee
Her dangerous painted gun
She draws it against me
And I feel myself succumb
I see blood upon the doorstep
I smell murder in her fold
I fear ghosts will haunt her body
In the bullets I have sown
I hear hungry infants crying
The ones she gave away
And the bastards she is hiding
Are my regrets from yesterday
Save me from her gun
She’ll never let me go
Save me from drowning
In her young and wanton soul
I’ve got to run
But there’s a gun
My baby won’t let me go.
Catman Cohen, 22 november 2013
Give me Back my Shirt
You stole my shirt again
The one with stains
Beneath my armpits
You lied and said
The shirt somehow fell
Into your suitcase
A dark black shadow
That hurled itself off a cliff
And landed inside your
Sad blonde soul
And when you sleep alone at night
In the naked stretch of your wine-soaked skin
Do you smell my harsh manly aroma
In the pillow of your theft?
Do you wet yourself in the taste of
The baby felons we might make?
Do you imagine yourself wearing
My body
Upon the sharp thrusts of my
Contempt
And
Love?
For a liar, a thief, a fetishist for
Fabric
That revives memories
Of lust long faded
You stole my shirt again
The one that has faint traces
Of your drool, in the way you
Drip yourself upon me
In the hot slumber of your
Babbling incoherent dreams
Give me back my shirt
It was a present from my sister
Who rarely bought me anything
Except for a blue cotton candy
Vivid blue
Like your icy sullen eyes
In the childhood
Of my lonely
Indelible
Lament
Gert Strydom, 22 november 2013
Wolraad Woltemade appears
He comes from the sea as a spectre
with seaweeds hanging on him
and rides his horse
that its hoofs crash like thunder
until he stops to climb down
and looks at the wide world,
are astounded for moments
and the horse snorts, sniffs in the wind,
wants to return to the sea again.
It’s clear that everything now is different
and he notices a ship sailing past,
hears factories droning in the distance
and smell the age-old fog of the sea.
[Poet’s note: After fearlessly riding into the storm swept sea to rescue several people from a sinking ship (De Jonge Thomas) on 1 June 1773, Wolraad Woltemade had perished in the great waves.]
Gert Strydom, 22 november 2013
Wolraad Woltemade (cavatina)
Beyond Table Bay far within the blue deep
man and horse waits
while their bones lie in sacred bravery
at the sea’s gates
still lunging to and thro in the great swell
their forceful traits
are burnt into the hearts of small children
and of many South African countrymen.
[Poet’s note: After fearlessly riding into the storm swept sea to rescue several people from a sinking ship (De Jonge Thomas) on 1 June 1773, Wolraad Woltemade had perished in the great waves.]
Gert Strydom, 22 november 2013
Wolraad Woltemade (cavatina)
Beyond Table Bay far within the blue deep
man and horse waits
while their bones lie in sacred bravery
at the sea’s gates
still lunging to and thro in the great swell
their forceful traits
are burnt into the hearts of small children
and of many South African countrymen.
[Poet’s note: After fearlessly riding into the storm swept sea to rescue several people from a sinking ship (De Jonge Thomas) on 1 June 1773, Wolraad Woltemade had perished in the great waves.]
Satish Verma, 22 november 2013
AIR WAS NAKED
After the putsch, through night he set himself alight
ensnared in flames of societal conflicts, for a
vision of tomorrow, in the birth of a bloody dawn.
The drone of history had failed on a loaded salt.
A solitary murder of truth was sufficient to unsettle
me for a downturn of unborn wounds of drowned
voice, of a requiem. The dead were coming back to life
in dark alleys of black skulls. The pink scarves
were still holding the snow flakes of standing
wheat for the thirsty children, of grieving mothers
who lost the homes to red hands, the white paper,
the hungry guns. The thieves were coming again.
I was never naked in my blood, my howling bones.
Satish Verma
Joe Breunig, 21 november 2013
Poem: Quiet Life
With nothing to prove
and no one to impress,
it was my Godly mindset
that lowered my stress.
With an identity in Him,
I found absolute Love,
with His grace and mercies
flowing from Heaven above.
From minding my work
and my own business,
it became much easier
to joyfully confess…
that Biblical principles
were successful for Christ;
so my truest ambition
is to lead a quiet life.
Author Notes:
Loosely based on:
Lam 3:22-32; 1 Thes 4:11
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2013, All rights reserved.
Gert Strydom, 21 november 2013
At times to me you are lovely
At times to me you are lovely,
yet solemn and somewhat serene
sometimes with expressesions I have never seen
as you in love daily do regard me
while at times love feels like slavery
and your beauty and sheer loveliness
is sometimes somewhat hard in words to express
as I am caught and never want to be free.
Gert Strydom, 21 november 2013
My darling has got tiger-eyes
My darling has got tiger-eyes that sometimes glisten
as if a golden colour is hidden deep in the brown,
as if the darkness of them
holds a hidden kind of light
and so my darling’s eyes do glisten
gold as the sun
that hangs in an open blue sky
as if with the heat of them
she wants to cover my skin.
Sometimes I want to be lost in the depths of her eyes,
sometimes I want to be soulless,
want to forget myself totally
and only want to know of our love.
Satish Verma, 21 november 2013
ECHOES
It was burning again
like goldenrods in drift valley of ethnic hate.
You start climbing down deeper in fear
holding tight your identity.
The anguish of ruined home
under the shadows of bribed hands,
runs on the bodies of pilgrims
who were protecting the unborn baby.
Along the shores of morality, a prodigal
becomes a martyr, forever a blind rock
in the womb of an infant truth, not yet
reached the gates of heaven.
A father begs for pardon, spawning the
tireless edicts, with its grieving craft
of burdens and weightlessness. The time’s predicament
will not tell the secret of death.
Satish Verma
Latest comments:
23 november 2025
sam53
piękne skojarzenie związane z KSP ...dzięki
23 november 2025
Jaga
"Na całej połaci – śnieg W przeróżnej
23 november 2025
Podział jest zbyt głęboki i wciąż trwa.
23 november 2025
powinno być jeszcze święto ponadnarodowe...
23 november 2025
dziekuję :)
23 november 2025
żeby wystarczyło do rana... :)
23 november 2025
czasami z niczego można rozpalić dobry wiersz...
23 november 2025
violetta
Trochę napadało przez nockę i dalej pada:)
23 november 2025
Ostatnio jakoś ich więcej :))
23 november 2025
U Was tam częściej takie widoki. U mnie, choć
23 november 2025
"Z sercem ściśniętym duszą otwartą Upić
23 november 2025
Dziękuję pięknie:)
23 november 2025
wiesiek
23 november 2025
Jaga
22 november 2025
wiesiek
21 november 2025
wiesiek
20 november 2025
wiesiek
20 november 2025
Jaga
19 november 2025
Jaga
19 november 2025
ajw
17 november 2025
wiesiek
16 november 2025
wiesiek