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poetry
Joe Breunig, 20 august 2015
Poem: Tarnished Halos
Halos are a pagan tradition
of hanging a sunlit nimbus
over the head of great people;
it’s a crown of light rays
to shed an implied importance.
The genuine humility of Christ,
will always shine more brightly
than the human ego, that insists
on sporting tilted, tarnished halos.
For Him, it’s of no consequence!
Our Lord is a spiritual high priest,
attributed with characteristics of
pureness, innocence and greatness;
these halos are nothing more than a…
fashion accessory of shiny nonsense.
Author Notes
Inspired by:
Heb 7:26
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2015, All rights reserved.
Joe Breunig, 20 august 2015
A Taste of Psalm 50
From the daily rising of the sun
and its subsequent sunset, know…
that you’ve been summoned by God.
Evident from the Universe’s glow,
His Presence, perfect in beauty,
shines eternally over all of Zion.
Christ’s majesty has been revealed!
Behold the Lamb, Who is the Lion
of Judah and the ruler of Heaven.
Though He may be presently silent,
final judgments will be executed;
His decisions won’t remain latent.
Unto Himself and the Heavenly host,
He gathers His consecrated people;
under the bright, celestial sphere,
His righteousness fills His temple.
Now witnessing His glory, we notice
the continuing reign of His justice.
Author Notes
Inspired by:
Psa 50:1-6
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2015, All rights reserved.
Gert Strydom, 20 august 2015
Somewhere in the African bush
The male lion leads the attack
and with help of each adult member of the group
they corner a female giraffe
against three thorny acacia trees
that grows together.
Nervously the giraffe jumps
and hooves flash past heads
while the giraffe is trying
to shake the male lion off.
More bodies hanging on,
the giraffe becomes heavy
and heavier still
and the added weight of the forth lion
pulls the giraffe down to the ground.
After ripping the giraffe open
and devouring as much as they can
the group of lions lay sleeping
in the shade of the acacia trees
while vultures, hyenas and a few jackals gather
around them at a safe distance.
Suddenly there is a commotion
and the male lion senses danger
while the vultures, hyenas and jackals scatter
and three younger adult male lions
come roaring out of the long grass
to challenge him
and in the blink of an eye the battle is lost
and death comes in the way
that life on the African plain is.
Satish Verma, 20 august 2015
A Touch Of Class
The tree, the sky, the moon, of
summer prick the eyes.
We suffer majestically.
The aberrations will
now rule the city.
Incorruptible winds
languished in crooked lanes.
A pale hand will paint the unlatched doors.
When stars meditate in unison,
moon upcurves.
The blue becomes dark,
my eyes climb the hill.
The day has ended without a conclusion.
Clouds are frightened.
Virtue when cuts open the heart,
it does not bleed.
Pseudo reality reigns,
and we amputate the limbs without analgesics.
The philosophy of being
is quietly murdered.
Green leaves start dying.
A terrible dream flicks the hope,
a touch of class with littleness.
Gert Strydom, 19 august 2015
He did long for the presence of His Father
The crushing mob
did push closer and closer to Him
before He could go back to His Father
and they wanted to see an innocent good man suffering,
wanted to feel His blood on their fingers
when they roared: “crucify Him!”
And Pontius Pilate did try to wash off his own guilt
and their abomination from his hands
when suddenly the sun did go cold
and darkness did come to the earth
when the creator God did hang on a cross,
did long for the presence of His Father
and did carry the sin of all humanity
and the populace did wait on a wondrous sign to happen
while the curtain in the temple did tear right down
and God Himself did die as a mere sinner.
Satish Verma, 19 august 2015
Holding My Toes
An evening primrose glides,
on my rough hands.
I pluck a laugh from the lips,
of a parched face.
It knows the meaning of death,
kissing the pink eyes.
Of the lost fidelity
and the innocence of the dying sun.
How to tell myself,
you are not coming.
Gradually the house,
will go back to its still air.
The white ants,
will draw a pattern
on the stale books.
The traffic of private tears,
will begin to move.
The truth is a happening,
with all the little gods.
I demand nothing,
only pink rose buds, of early winter.
There is no one to know,
that weeping grass,
keeps me touching,
holding my toes.
Gert Strydom, 18 august 2015
When I do think of you
When you were in my thoughts tonight
my heart could have jumped around with joy
or with the remembering
I could have drowned in a sea of tears
but between us there is more than just tears and sorrow
and now I want to think of you
with all of the longing and passion
that lies between a man and a woman.
Satish Verma, 18 august 2015
The Terrible
This terracotta urn
contains the ashes
of an earth-baked dream.
You worship the setting sun,
rape of dawn will continue.
Intravenous entry of hope
had failed.
Outside the window
crowd of heirlooms, falling like stars.
Thoughts come and go, we hunted opportunities in vain.
Tonight I will dropp the wheels
on the tarmac, to roll the pride.
My flight had knocked out
the sleeping pain. Now amnesia
will help me to climb on the moon’s shoulders.
They dragged her in the field,
the most deprived one. Was outraged.
I send you my grief, my sadness,
O, god. The flag was flying half mast,
rapist was absconding.
Gert Strydom, 17 august 2015
Just the two of us
Your smile is the summer sun
and just as hot
as it shines at high noon
and your eyes do sparkle
the open blue sky
when for moments I am lost in them
and maybe are looking much deeper than I ought to
and I see a lifetime lying in their depths
when your lips do flame of aloe
and an unsaid moment hangs between us
and in that short time that lingers
it’s only the two of us in the whole universe.
Satish Verma, 16 august 2015
My Poems Wept
I had to let them stay.
My anguish & anxiety.
Denuding me, filling me with hymns of pain.
The blank days drifted in slow motion.
I tried to sing,
imitating the cuckoo on the tree,
to shake off the clouds from the eyes.
Everyday the pain was new,
dreams were old
in the eternal churning.
Grizzled clouds hanged on trees
for witnessing the chaining of desires.
Empty words went into seizures,
clogging the arteries of crisp brain.
Deep within a seed
opened the eyes sitting
quietly near the blast of pain.
Green sprouts drank the light.
My poems wept
and truth started a dance.
The time and space intermingled
to celebrate a birth.
Latest comments:
16 january 2026
Jaga
Bogactwo błędów, ileż to szkół otwartych...
16 january 2026
Szybko się psują :))
16 january 2026
Stary zegar w czasie przyszłym już dokonanym,
16 january 2026
Nieobliczalny, choć mierzony w milisekundach:)
16 january 2026
Uznali, że nie warto wskrzeszać przeszłości.
16 january 2026
smokjerzy
smycz już się wydłużyła...:)
16 january 2026
a podobno chcieć to móc...:)
16 january 2026
czas rozsiewa różne dziwne plotki o sobie...:)
16 january 2026
jeśli tylko
Chciałam być poduszkami chmur pod stopami..
16 january 2026
Tego nie robi się żólwiowi..
16 january 2026
Niektorzy mlodni jak zyją czegos takiego nie
16 january 2026
Zęby zimy ;))
16 january 2026
wiesiek
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Jaga
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31 december 2025
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