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poetry

Izuoma Ibe, 8 july 2016

Croos-Roads

We stood at a cross-road
Each deciding on which to take
Suddenly you lifted the lamp of love
Then we saw this way you lead
So smooth was this road at eve
Our steps each spelt doom
Yet we evade gloom
But today we sit in gloom silence
This road has its rules;
When I fall you lift,
When you fall I lift.
Now is our fall
We should lift
Our part of the rules

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Gert Strydom, 8 july 2016

At times we are only set on passing (American sonnet)

At times we are only set on passing,
without any place to stop or call home
and then we miss the smallest little things,
while it feels as if we do not belong,
as we are set, forever more to roam
as if we hear faint whisperings among
a myriad of people, with dusty loam
that sticks and clings to our very feet

and then we miss the small bird’s happy song,
see unfamiliar faces in those we meet,
in life we are constantly swept along,
as if the ocean has only some foam
and to it there is nothing really sweet,
at times we are only set on passing.

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Satish Verma, 8 july 2016

Revocation

A grandson sails through the century
jumps into the chair of grandfather
and revokes the death penalty
for the iconoclast who refuses to be alive.

A truth should be deemed again
to find the mystery of death.
Between man and divinity
lies the fiction
which no body wants to write off.

Green goes the sea in full moon
the earth has a debt to pay.
Sometimes you walk a long distance
to know when the sun will rise.

Unchanged remains the odor of wind.
The chest feels the punch
fetching the burden of roaring sounds
in the domain of soundless solitude.

The grandfather is lifted by untainted words.
Still swallowing the emotions
the peacocks on a tall tree scrambling,
scream in unison.

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steven cooke, 7 july 2016

The Politics of War

To ask a flower to kill a bee
is to ask a man to become the beast.
That is the will of war

The skylark rages it’s voice above the battlefield
For destiny lies below.
No argument with this world ,
but a foreign invader has entered his field.
The song of life is threatened.

The immigrant guns have freedom of movement,
they scream a betrayal of life.
The seeds of the poppy are in turmoil,
the sound of the shells
replaces the tractors of life.
And in this chaos the poppy symbol is born,
in a reluctant will of sacrifice.

Innocence of poppy will dull man’s pain,
but nothing is real.
War belongs to foreign shores
for English tea must not be disturbed.

And history will prostitute these red petals
in the hope that we will remember them.
Remember a moment in time,
a dream that flows in atoms unseen.
This speck of man within the cosmos.
A vote of no confidence in God,
for eternity is a lonely place.

Mortals and ghosts remember them.
Remember the soldier who sang down this road of despair,
who marched on a foreign soil.
Made proud under the willow by glorious woman
and prayed for by siblings to come.
Made ripe by a glorious English summer.

Victory is a tinsel thing.
War salivates for the fools and the brave.
The devil is on the move
groaning in his orgasm of pain,
that spills this cup to quench the end.

And the streets of home will be swept clean
By the invalid that saw them die
Yesterday’s confetti, this mush that blows in the wind
gathered by a broken man,
smoking his last park drive.

And when the misty morn greets the milkman.
Fear of nations will give a copper pension,
a loaf of bread for a young man’s life
and a bugle to let the devil know,
“these souls are out of bounds“.

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Gert Strydom, 7 july 2016

The peach tree

During the yellow-brown autumn season
leaves rain down in golden squiggles
retaining their own kind of smell,
as if the tree is still cherishing them
while the fallen leaves are turned into foil.

Plundered and stripped to a skeleton
the tree retains the revivalist energy
and in the beginning of spring
it is covered with new flowers
and with leaves that are appearing

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Satish Verma, 7 july 2016

Anniversary

Hydrangia was in full bloom
when I left.
Machine had failed me,
when I was looking at the
third eye of the sun
in crimson sky of west.

I was running away from myself
keys were chasing unbroken latches
the moon was yet to be born
in blackness.

The foetus turns
strikes the womb with violent kicks
who was the father of unknown child?

Let’s go and meet in dementia.
Three cheers for the wedding boot
turns the man into a snail.

Death now enters
to cross the threshold of tears
and listen to soulful
nightingale.

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Gert Strydom, 6 july 2016

The gardener

The man must know that spring is almost here,
around him the garden is lovely,
and seedlings he is planting in rows

and his fruit trees run up to the top of the hillock.
At the break of day he is already in his orchard,
around him the garden is lovely,

where He is praising God for His blessings
and when he washes the mud from his hands,
at the break of day he is already in his orchard

and there is a realisation coming to his mind
and he is happy that all of this comes from his hands
and when he washes the mud from his hands,

he knows that God is more than just merciful
and his orchard goes as far as the eye can see
and he is happy that all of this comes from his hands

and its not as if he deserves this prosperity.
The man must know that spring is almost here
and his orchard goes as far as the eye can see
and seedlings he is planting in rows

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Satish Verma, 6 july 2016

…… Stunned Me

It was dull green
under the weather,
foliage of a tall weeping Ashoka.

All day the sun had beaten down mercilessly
At night, under the shimmering shade of stars
somebody left a body of a child
wrapped in a red rag at the foot of the giant,
where the roots were jutting out from earth like a basket
to receive a birthday present.

A gift from a veiled shame.
Shutting out the breath,
a purple death by asphyxiation
A pink doll: mist draped in dew and flower.
Death was no stranger
among the saints and beasts.

Stone to stone,
stunned me.
I was discovering the life.

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Gert Strydom, 5 july 2016

The old guitar (cavatina)

Without a song or sound it lays waiting,
gathering dust,
in the right hands it could sound quite lovely,
to sing it must,
songs of happiness and of some despair,
very unjust
life sometimes is; death brought the great silence,
that is now a lingering odd presence.

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Satish Verma, 5 july 2016

Countdown

Are you genuine, I ask?
Your face, a stone wall,
I had been bruising my psyche against it.
I have no strength to bury myself alive,
in the mass grave of lies.

An ancient fear
descends from the hill.
Wants to marry a tree.
Or worship the terror
of a diaspora.

The vultures are dying every day,
We were talking of pregnancy,
desire and death.

The sparrows are gone.
Heat is rising.
I am starting the countdown.

number of comments: 0 | rating: 0 | detail

10 - 30 - 100

Latest items:

poetry

Croos-Roads

At times we are only set on passing (American sonnet)

Revocation

The Politics of War

The peach tree

Anniversary

The gardener

…… Stunned Me

The old guitar (cavatina)

Countdown

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