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poetry
Gert Strydom, 11 december 2015
I gave my love to you
(after Christina Rossetti)
I gave my love to you,
but to my heart
you did not want to be true
and from my love you did part
and to me for reasons unknown
you viewed my love as childish, told me to wait
you made my enemy your own
and my heart was thrown to the whims of fate.
With my shattered heart to Him I did come
and found some solitude,
from all my wandering a home
and although my heart was marred and crude
His love was selfless
and His power filled my nothingness.
[Reference: “Twice” by Christina Rossetti.]
Satish Verma, 11 december 2015
Arrogant Curves
At the dance of the naked moon
a single leaf quivers
I go into trance.
A fetus in womb turns.
The first appearance
of the magnitude:
a sad cloud leans on the horizon.
Hostility of the summer
is melting in blue sky.
It will never end.
The eternal soft music of silk
the death had been hunting.
I will call for a song-
I need a transcendental soul
to sing an elegy for my unborn revolution.
Give me a hand,
a presence, a touch.
My fading blanket of stars.
at the golden gate
was not a voyage
to total emptiness.
When the assault comes
I confront the sad poems
stained by blood.
A solitude of corners
is better than arrogant curves.
Joe Breunig, 10 december 2015
Poem: Broken Bread and Whine
O my Lord, help me move beyond
this downward expression of:
confused, constant complaining;
where’s the reflection of Love?
Is my simple Christianity like:
Stale bread with a harden crust?
Is my sad, suffering condition
a spiritually dry, wheat rust?
Lord, let me be broken for You,
so Your bright Light in me shines;
in service, let me be poured out
like sweet, sacramental wine.
The dryness of my worn Faith
has become worthless rubble.
No one wants “bread of affliction”
as a prompt for past troubles.
The bitterness of sour grapes
is never a healthy sign;
help get me off this crash diet-
of this broken bread and whine.
Lord, let me be broken for You,
so Your bright Light in me shines;
in service, let me be poured out
like sweet, sacramental wine.
Will people stop offering
me their cheeses for my whine?
Please break the endless cycle of
this spiritual decline.
Stop people from offering
me their cheeses for my whine.
Please break the endless cycle now,
before I run out of time.
Author notes
Inspired by:
Matt 5:16, 26:26-27; Rom 14:7
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2015, All rights reserved.
Joe Breunig, 10 december 2015
Poem: Within This Circle
Within this circle of
the human condition,
selfish babies will cry
and most people will die…
hoping to see God’s Love.
Within this circle of
this Life’s circumstances,
it seems no one can trust
as souls are going bust,
hoping to see God’s Love.
Within this circle of
clueless Church families,
the Unsaved remain queued
up for Hell and still brood,
hoping to see God’s Love.
Being focused on ourselves,
we’ll never reach paradise;
we require each other,
as strong sisters and brothers,
with a true Faith that’s precise.
Author notes
Inspired by:
Eccl 9:1-12; Gen 4:9
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2015, All rights reserved.
Gert Strydom, 10 december 2015
No other painting
I also wanted to see your beautiful fairies
and when you painted one it was a reality to me
but when it got a name
coincidence was a maybe
and that painting was my property
but when you did cut it up and burn it
I was upset, angry and you were impudent and stupid-cocky
and I totally astonished
and no other painting could match that one.
Satish Verma, 10 december 2015
Fall Of A Tender Doctrine
Talking of existence and being,
amidst chaos and misery
my heart aches. In truth,
I become a shred of broken
life. Your integrity at a price,
anything for sale.
How easy we are degenerating,
absent-mindedly we clamour for antidotes.
At least death is not corrupt,
when it eats the age
without a mask.
Seeing without eyes
was a great achievement,
I thought. With no thoughts
I watched the immensity
of truth. My choice always had a wet eye.
When the thinking becomes zero,
I enter from smile to grief
your glance penetrates the wall.
I stumble again in light,
lung filling with verses,
untitled. A moon is going
to be eclipsed very soon.
The fall of a tender doctrine.
Gert Strydom, 9 december 2015
Field of maize
Maybe you do remember a field of maize
that stretches into the distance
where your father did take you by the hand
and at times did draw his fingers through your hair
where the memories do remain
in the thoughts of a child
from the cares of the world free
with hair blown into strings by the wind
but constantly you do live in a world of glass, steal and concrete
and forgotten are the days in the bright summer sun
but in our garden there is a flower
that looks like corn
where it comes out of the earth
and later does dazzle with amaryllis flowers.
Satish Verma, 9 december 2015
Unspoken Secrets
It comes rolling out
from the trees, a sliced moon
inside out, undressing. Pain
quietly walks away.
I wash out my battered dreams.
A spiritual rain drenches
the mind. A shaft of blue light
provokes to inherit the sky.
I hear the music, what is not there.
Anonymous creation,
unnamed, unsung, I am waiting
for a human touch.
I know we have killed all
the manners. Men are becoming roads,
disappearing in landslides.
In names we dedicate
our customs of beautiful past.
Note book narrates but
nobody writes on the wall.
Someone scatters the virgin
seeds like unspoken secrets.
A scream becomes a custom,
mining the unknown.
We will gather the wings
of fallen birds and portray
a non-being on the mirror.
Gert Strydom, 8 december 2015
The red arum lilies
The red arum lilies that I did bring to you
you pressed into the ground at the garden-flat
as if you wanted to forget me
and when we later did marry and live together
you found those flowers again,
did know of a better place for them
and pulled them one after the other out of the ground
and planted them at the palisades in a row.
Satish Verma, 8 december 2015
Strange Relationship
Death has been my partner,
my best friend.
Every day the fear,
greets me in my bed,
and body starts dying.
I join the play.
The sun clips the clouds,
my lungs fills with aroma.
A golden bird starts singing
on the swaying leaves of palm.
Death smears me with ideas,
larger than pain
before and after it was foggy.
I sleep, half-opened eyes,
watching over with face
to the window.
Life moves from grief to grief.
A tiny seed pulsates
in the crevice of mind,
I love a view like that.
One hundred moons
and a dying sun.
An immence contrast.
Whom shall I choose as a prologue?
I cannot tread the center
of unborn story. The clouds
are always crimson before
the night. Life has
a shadow of death – and a strange
relationship survives.
Latest comments:
14 january 2026
Jaga
Kocham cztery polskie pory/ wiosnę, lato, jesień,
14 january 2026
Nie zawsze czas uczy pogody.
14 january 2026
Jeśli znajdziesz drogę, wszystko się może
14 january 2026
Łapią słońce bez bikini/ takie trendy dziś
14 january 2026
To prawda. Za to piękna gra światła :))
14 january 2026
smokjerzy
jakieś wychudzone te pietruszki...:))
14 january 2026
jakiś tam...;)
14 january 2026
od zawsze próbuję upchnąć zbyt wielkie w
14 january 2026
jeśli jest dokąd wrócić...:)
14 january 2026
i prawie mu się udało...
14 january 2026
Weronika
Chciał się powiesić na wymyślonej gałęzi.
13 january 2026
sam53
na pewno jakiś sposób...
14 january 2026
wiesiek
13 january 2026
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11 january 2026
Jaga
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