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poetry

Gert Strydom, 2 october 2013

Moments that linger

Every breath, every heartbeat of you
are known to me,
even how you stretch yourself out over the bed
in moments that linger and linger.

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Gert Strydom, 2 october 2013

Moments that linger

Every breath, every heartbeat of you
are known to me,
even how you stretch yourself out over the bed
in moments that linger and linger.

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Satish Verma, 2 october 2013

One wardrobe malfunction
was a blast, a kill;
undressing imagination.
I was ready for an ambush.

Like boa's grip, entwined, strangulating,
hardly breathing. I am in blue water
like a humpback whale;
donot go for the revenge.

It was not the fabric of flesh
hair and bones. I was tasting
the ash falling off the forehead
of a fallen saint.

The smile was going up for sale
in a gulp of greed.
Tomorrow morning I will find
amnion shaved on street.

Satish Verma

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Geetima Baruah Sarma, 1 october 2013

REMEMBERING GANDHIJI

Born to our great motherland India,
We regard you as 'Father of the Nation'.

Your greatness was your simplicity,
Your life was an example of integrity.

You followed the teachings of ‘Gita’,
Kabiguru entitled you ‘Mahatma’.

Gandhiji, we love to call you ‘Bapu’,
We, the nation, pay homage to you.

[Published in ‘iBuzzle’ on 1 October 2013]

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Gert Strydom, 1 october 2013

From my mother I got love that is endless

From my mother I got love that is endless,
that comes selflessly in silent sacrifice
and some people see this as insignificant
but Dad far too early was missing in death
and of him I sometime just have knowledge;
.his qualities come as a suggestion.

From mother
Discipline and zeal comes to meaning,
her steadfastness is a strange thing
in a world where people do not keep themselves in check.
I know what love is, in the forgiveness
of mother.

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Gert Strydom, 1 october 2013

From my mother I got love that is endless

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Gert Strydom, 1 october 2013

To my mother on her birthday

Mother, I am tired to come with empty hands to you
and it worries me that life passes so quickly
but to me you are always available
and sometimes my life is in disorder.
and I keep knocking at your door
and it is with an open heart that you are giving every thing
as never your love does end
when like a mere child you wipe off my tears.
I do not know how to say thank you for a life-time
and its only empty words that I am laying at you feet
but like you I do not know any other woman
and maybe I will always cling
to love that is honourable and sincere
and keeps guiding me to God in a world of darkness.

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Satish Verma, 1 october 2013

ENOUGH

A leached amputee
living with stumps of flawless
dying.

Round and round, blindfolded
moving in circle, drawn by rhyming
bells.

Perhaps you need to suffer
with the drunken race of
snipers.

I am in the silent valley of
barefoot secrets where moon waits to
die.

The poppies will buy the bullets,
a gift to unending kiss of
grief.

Tell every vulture on the tree,
there is endless arrival of
feasts.

Satish Verma

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steven cooke, 30 september 2013

War Artist

I scrawl these visions
in the light of exploding shells
and the grey sleep of a million corpses,
making my pencil the last witness
to the moments between life and death.

Truth shall guide my trembling hand
across a blank canvass that will inherit
this day’s memory of pain.
A transformation in the dark colours of suffering
that echoes the sounds of war
to a respectable audience,
taking their morning tea in England.

The epitaph of a race captured in a wooden pencil
sharing the blood of mankind
in another holy grail.
Come drink this sweet wine of youth
for it will never empty.

My pencil denied by the colours of life
creates glory on a foreign field.
The sons of mothers pose
in deaths final picture,
frozen for winter to play.
Till the heat of summer takes them away
on blue bottle wings to heaven.

A rotten imprint to torment the living.
They were once human as I remember
who came with wit and clean socks
seeking the approval of father.

All were looking for a road to be a man
but the road was a trench,
whose veins pulsated with the blood of the dead
giving birth to the shadows of tomorrow.

Shadows, shadows all is shadows
the pencil can tell no lies.
Life turned into spectres and flies
haunting the conscience of mankind.

We are no longer human beings
war in the trenches dulls the meaning of life.
Death is but a serial number and a victory
for tomorrow’s paper.
Life wasted in Judas visions for all to see.

And I who live in fear
cannot see the lines of humanity anymore.
Only images seeded in a fractured brain
whose portfolio burns in the corpse
that was once my soul.

This pencil has done its duty
The reaper can take these eyes,
eyes that see the shadows
dancing in the flickering flames of war.
A light that bears witness to my last heart beat
in the scribbles of a dying man.

My destiny foretold in my work
to spend eternity in the darkness
that surrounds the stars,
with a pencil that can draw no light.

Pass gently dear comrades from this earth,
time is the watch which knows no end.
Only the blind and the dead will hear
the last tick of this illusion.
For silence is the secret of the earth
everything dies, everything dies.

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Gert Strydom, 30 september 2013

You did seep into my heart

You did seep into my heart,
have made friends with my hands and body
and now that your are becoming well-known to me
between us no games do exist

as you did become a part of me.

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Latest items:

poetry

Moments that linger

Moments that linger

BITES

REMEMBERING GANDHIJI

From my mother I got love that is endless

From my mother I got love that is endless

To my mother on her birthday

ENOUGH

War Artist

You did seep into my heart

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