A Brown Rock-Pigeon, Flutters Just Past The Porch
A brown rock-pigeon, flutters just past the porch
picks up some small insects from the mown lawn
from where it continually calls its mate,
at a distance sparrows splash in water.
An auburn colour flames in the sun
stretching right over some gleaming feathers
while he keeps on catching tiny insects,
before his cooing attracts some more doves.
Yellow weavers chatter in the branches,
they fly whistling from one branch to another,
they are charming pied coloured females
that are basking under the hot bright sun,
the sun stretches shadows all over me,
in the distance there’s thunder roaring.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Above The Shed On The Winter Porch
Above the shed, the winter porch
a young wild dove
continually calls its mate
and when the door slides open
I see dots on its breast
and at the pond it quenches its thirst
and I see dots
and I see dots
that shines; when it is frightened it becomes sullen.
Above the shed, the winter porch
the oak tree rustles
and then my mother coughs badly from croup
where sometimes she sits and dream
as the sunshine flames up hot
and I watch her caringly
as the sunshine flames up
as the sunshine flames up
as if a field fire runs past.
Above the shed, the winter porch
a swarm of swallows peck,
sometimes doves land in a group,
and at times I hear my mother sneezing
while I am caught with a kind of hope,
but I know that time is running out
while I am caught,
while I am caught
and my life at times feels sold out.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Insects
Tiny insects in my hair
Tiny insects everywhere
Tiny insects in my pants
Watching insects make romance
Insects make me make me want to dance dance dance
They make want to dance . . .
Flying insects everywhere
Flying insects buzzing buzzing buzzing thru the air
Just like little diamonds in the sky
Insects buzzing in my eye
Buzzing insects make me want to dance dance dance
They make me want to dance . . .
Insects crawling all around
Insects squirming in the ground
Insects gooey squeaky chewy
Should I eat them--no
Id rather stomp them hurt them stomp
Stomp them while I dance dance dance
I hurt them while I dance dance dance
I stomp them while I dance dance dance . . .
Insects make me scream and shout
They dont know what lifes about
They dont have blood
Theyve got too many legs
They dont have brains in their heads
They know theyll rule the world some day
They bite and sting me anyway
They bite and sting and suck
They bite and sting and suck suck suck
They bite and sting and
Suck suck suck suck suck . . .
Dance dance dance
song performed by by Oingo Boingo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The hoopoe
Every time that I mow the lawn
he waits in a tree
on me to finish
and there are times
that he gets impatient
and his hoopoe resounds.
Just when I walk away
he flies fluttering down
and pecks everywhere
to get worms
and insects
and I see his orange brown quiff
standing up
and it’s as if his body
glows shimmering orange
and there are black and white stripes
going to the points
of his wings
while like a woodpecker
he hits his bill
here and there into the ground
and like a chicken
pecking up seed
picks up insects from the ground.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Seasons
I
As if summer will never end
irises are everywhere in the garden
with opening flower after flower
in light yellow, deep purple and rust-brown.
The bright hot sun hangs day after day
in a cobalt blue sky and even carnations, geraniums
and flame lilies are showing their beauty,
are still holding onto summer.
Doves are still cooing in the oak tree,
their are finches and sparrows cavorting up and down
and it’s as if nature is thwarting autumn
while dew is still shining on the leaves in the mornings
until later the sky becomes dull blue
while the sun is getting much more faint.
II
Slowly the leaves are falling
descending in different colours,
in one’s and two’s and later in a bigger number
tree-trunks become dark brown, red and some pallid
until every tree but for those that are evergreen stand skeleton,
the birds that remain sit next to each other shivering,
wishing for the winter to past
having difficulty to find seeds and other food
and the cold winter wind blows through everything,
filling the air with whirling dust clouds
with stripped branches flinging up and down
and everywhere leaves and branches lie in a jumble
until the wind dies down and the morning fog hangs like vapour,
at times only at noon is dispersed by the sun.
III
Days are cold and grey while the sun hides,
with a owl hunting during the day
searching for hungry mice sneaking around in the yellow grass
and all other signs of animal life is missing
but for doves sitting here and there
on telephone wires,
in disconsolation staring into the distance
and early mornings the grass is covered with white ripe
and it is as if every flower succumbs,
is shrinking crumpled and are folding close
until the first spring rain comes suddenly,
with sprouts and buds appearing and new flowers folding open
when fruit trees are covered with white, pink and yellow blossoms
and the sudden beauty takes your breath away.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Plants, Insects And Animals
Plants, insects and animals
Are many times more intelligent
Than most of the people think!
Most of the times
Plants, insects and animals
Say things they want to say to others
In their own minds in human languages!
From a close distance they can hear
What others say in their minds!
From a close distance they can hear
What humans say with their mouth as well!
They learn the human languages
From human race and other plants, insects and animals!
God communicates with them -
They remember God and prostrate in imagination!
poem by Asif Andalib
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The Green Starling
When you look at the green starling
it screams in the long grass,
gleams green in the morning dew
and catches your eye
as it comes out of a hole, out of a tree,
as it picks up insects at a small stream
as it comes out,
as it comes out
as if caught in your daydream.
When you look at the green starling
it sparkles here and there
as if it sometimes is holding onto rays
and it warbles
stretches out under the sun,
view it as a red balloon
stretches out
stretches out
and it would fly away if it could.
When you look at the green starling
it pecks at a sorrel
when at times it holds onto a big worm
before it sings a song of joy
flies up fluttering, spreading its wings
and for moments distract you,
flies up fluttering
flies up fluttering
and so a whole mornings swishes past.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Bulbul
The bulbul creates its own small rainbows
where happily it splashes in the pond
washing out good its own feathered suit,
while looking great eyed at the small pool
before it goes deeper into the water,
it rolls letting water-drops splash,
pressing down, its feathers, is dripping wet,
when happily it walks up and down, slapping wings
and then sedately starts to drink,
calling dozens of birds nearer;
twittering arrogantly, scuttling past the porch
and its raiment of feathers is shining from the water.
The bulbul creates its own small rainbows,
while looking great eyed at the small pond.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Yellow Billed Spoonbill
By the lake shore in the shallows where the waters are still
He walks in water to his knees the white bird with yellow legs and long yellow spoon like bill
With his bill in the water as he walk moving from side to side
His prey water insects, crustaceans and tiny fish in the water weed hide.
He and his partner build their nest on a high branch of a tree
On her nest of sticks she lays four white eggs though sometimes two or three
They both take care of their young a bird devoted to fatherhood as well as to his mate
Food from their stomachs to their nestlings they do regurgitate.
On river rapids never seen the still waters they need
Birds of the inland lakes and dams in the shallows they feed
Of humans 'twould be fair to say they have a healthy fear
To a human standing on the shore they never venture near.
Yellow billed or yellow legged spoonbill are names they are known by
On the lake I see one yesterday he did seem rather shy
With his long yellow bill moving from side to side in the shallows he shuffled up and down
The shiest of the water birds in the big park by the Town.
poem by Francis Duggan
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In the Highveld
(after Toon van den Heever)
I
In the Highveld with the sky cobalt blue and open
where rock rabbits, steenbok and baboons revel,
you see the wind skipping through the long grass
and you can still believe in God and His angels,
the rain gathers with thunder
where through the open spaces you can see far into the veldt,
you are astounded by the beauty of flowering proteas
and you still can realize your dependence
but when the city’s rumbling becomes too much,
the jacarandas start flowering in the streets,
buildings of steel and concrete start to curtail you,
you dream about wild flowers appearing everywhere
and it’s the places of a child that you miss,
in the Highveld where the veldt stretches out into the distance.
II
In the Highveld where the veldt stretches out into the distance
and the wind rollicks through the grass
the sky is pure blue and you can look for hours at it,
there you can find freedom from the city’s imprisonment.
When the wind rustles through the march you loose all sadness,
you see the African red-knobbed coot gathering her chickens,
you can hear the finches’ caper, branches full together,
you see every great small happening,
how wild flowers of every imaginable colour
grow as if planted in secret
(and I will go back if I only could)
where I can find some serenity, can have peace
where I will know about God’s heritage;
there the sun shines.
III
There the sun shines
where proteas and aloes flower wildly,
bright up to the horizon
coming out of the earth by themselves
with violets growing purple-blue right through the marsh,
with daisies stretching white over the veldt,
with long tailed widow birds flapping their wings
and the earth is covered with long green grass.
To this piece of ground I am trapped
even when my days are drawing to their end,
it goes even to my heart’s deepest yearning,
with every plant, bush and flower
as it’s bought with sweat and blood,
nobody can strip it from me.
IV
Nobody can strip it from me,
I have to go back to where the sun hangs golden
in the sapphire heaven, I have got to strip the city from me
(but if I only could)
the big desire stays and out of the town I must go
away from the ambulance and police sirens that cuts through everything,
trains whistling almost endlessly,
I have got to go to where only the frog choir and crickets sing.
Again I have got to get the smell of sugar bushes,
smell the rain, spring, summer and even autumn
I must get away from a world where tinned pleasure seduces,
where people use other people for their own pleasure.
I want to stand in the green fields of grass,
when the day dies.
V
When the day dies
letting its last rays fall,
with the birds flying to their nests
darkness comes to this part of the universe,
the doves at dusk still call to each other
as if their voices bind them in the darkness,
you can see the moon sailing golden-yellow through the sky,
you are sometimes blinded by the bright rays,
the city lights glitter far away
in all the colours of the rainbow,
here you want to bond your life to a loved one,
catching her moments long in your eye
when people come together here,
the madness of the human existence is exorcised.
VI
The madness of the human existence is exorcised
even in later years past your own youth,
when you are in the world that your heart desires,
you want to invite the new spring to stay with you
shaking out that which bothers and torments to the early summer wind,
feeling the effervescence of new life,
blinded by the sun you want to find healing
while the whole of spring washes through your life
with the light, air, the flowers, birds and sun splashing down
as if your autumn is only in your imagination,
you want to wash yourself clean from old age,
you are searching for exorcism from the darkness
there are still flowers sprouting out everywhere,
when the colours of autumn smoulder in the trees.
VII
When the colours of autumn smoulder in the trees
with branches being full of coloured leaves,
the sun is still heating as in summer
before the first biting winds begin to whine.
I see opened pod upon opened pod
that lays brown scorched without any signs of seeds,
the dull blue sky has clouds in milky white,
trees become a wild watermill
that is halfway skeleton, halfway still carrying leaves,
afternoons are still drawn out
and even when days earlier end in winter
it’s a time without equal,
as if the summer can last forever,
in the Highveld with the sky cobalt blue and open.
poem by Gert Strydom
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In The Lowlands
Oh hell trouble is coming
Out here in panic and alarm
Black shapes gather in the distance
Looks like it wont take long
The first drops land on the window
The first sign that theres something wrong
Light rain and a head full of thunder
Which way, which way
Two days till I get to you
Ill be late if I ever get through
Where I go therell be no kind welcome
Coming down upon me
Time will keep me warm
Feel my face
Now the insects swarm
In the lowlands
Fear will take the place of desire
And we will fan the flames on high
Try for heavens sake
The sky fell underneath a blanket
The sun sank as the miles went by
Sit back with your head on the pillow
When you remember it makes you cry
Ghost cars on the freeway
Like friends that you thought you had
One by one they are disappearing
Time will keep me warm
Feel my face
Now the insects swarm
In the lowlands
Fear will take the place of desire
And we will fan the flames on high
song performed by by Crowded House
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Doves fly past in pairs
Doves fly from sunrise
until late afternoon past in pairs
and the whole day their singing resounds
and just before the rainstorm comes (out of season)
the air is full of swallows
sweeping up and down
catching insects.
starlings, sparrows and finches scream
as if the end of this autumn,
is already the beginning of spring
where they are eating blue-black berries
in evergreen trees
and it’s as if nature
knows something secret about this winter.
The rays of the sun are now measured out much cooler
but the grass still has its green colour
and there are irises
which flowers out of season
from all the rain
and the giant sage bush
is covered with purple clusters
hanging in strings
and early in the mornings when I get up later
the black-collard barbet knocks me awake
asking screeching
when I am going to get up
and I look at him
where he endlessly are scolding me
and I wonder
why the birds
are suddenly so jolly?
or do they know
that the season
is at the edge of change
and that man with pollution
is causing irreparable damage?
poem by Gert Strydom
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Across The Road The Veldt Stretches Out Wide
Across the road the veldt stretches out wide
where coucals calls to each other and peer around,
there are tree branches scratching against the window
and early in the morning the sun splashes on the floor
when weavers twitter in the branches,
while doves coo in the higher trees,
in the garden there is a red poppy
and I am moved by the scene.
From the kitchen comes the smell of baking rusks
where you stir the dough for bread,
the dog barks so loudly that my ears ring,
around your neck a golden necklace sparkles
with a pendant in the shape of a clover,
you smile as if you can take me along
to memories of a day in the hay
and I am moved by the scene.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The summer
The summer is busy
catching speed
and I see how the bright blue sky,
is changed by clouds
that suddenly hangs dark and breeding.
In the distance a thunder rolls
and there are big drops
that falls about me in the red dirt
and I can almost see the grass,
bushes and trees
jump centimetres
from the power
that the clear drops bring.
Small sprouts are bursting green
out of the red brown ground
in the vegetable garden
and the magic of new life
is everywhere to be seen.
poem by Gert Strydom
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When Tree Branches Rub Against The Roof
When tree branches rub against the roof
the small bulbul runs past
during the afternoon hour
to the pool where it dives and rolls,
stretches out wings and shoot them out straight,
walking boldly up and down
stretches out wings,
stretches out wings
as he walks to and thro.
When tree branches rub against the roof
a light breeze blows,
while the sun burns hot as fire
and the neighbouring child calls
when the afternoon comes with its peace,
with thoughts from the past
when the afternoon comes,
when the afternoon comes
and sometimes I forget the present.
When tree branches rub against the roof
birds peck around everywhere
while moments are lingering
as leaves blow to the ground,
and I think of God as if He is here,
while the shades bring a kind of tranquillity
and I think of God
and I think of God
and find some deeper meaning to life.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Indian minors
Deadly like ravens, are the ever pecking
Indian minors on the lawn
with yellow beaks, legs and feet,
camouflaged brown with sharp black eyes
ever inspecting, single-minded killing
all insects that they find,
walking around like soldiers
that landed from the air,
looking for the enemy
as if it can be anywhere.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Continually the red weaver gambols
Continually the red weaver gambols around,
when the dove continually sings in sorrow
and he lands frolicking on the wet ground,
before it takes insects to its chicks
that twitter, jump up and down in the nest,
and at night when the moon rises silver-white,
when small sounds pierce through everything
then I hear a joyous song and then I hear him
tell about life, about every small thing,
when that small bird sings with caring affection.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Day's Of Summer
The scented air of summers breath, the warming summer sun
The tree-top call from Nightingale says Spring is on the run
The cattle graze at snails pace the sheep are being shorn
The cat has found the perfect place lay flat-out on the lawn
The background air is filled with noise, a tune the insects play
The crickets dance their noisy tune as they go on their way
The shimmer of the warming fields play tricks upon the eyes
The land it seems to dance and leap towards the very skies
The summer yields her grace and beauty right throughout the day
The lazy brook now slowly warming, trout in shadows stay
The fields of corn bring colour's bright, the insects sweetest potion
The ripening oats and Barley sway like waves on deepest ocean
The summer show... the best on earth no tickets here to buy
The limit just your senses and a clear blue open sky
poem by Dave James
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Distance - Between
There is a
Distance.
Between,
Mortality and eternity.
Distance.
Between,
God and humanity.
Distance.
Between.
So much,
So far;
The Universe and
The burning stars.
Distance.
Between,
Creator and creation;
Between,
All past and present relation.
Distance.
Between,
All living,
All dying;
Laughing and
Crying.
The distance - between,
The present scene, and
All that is unseen;
What's hiding, and
What's showing;
Where we are, and
Where we are going.
poem by Smoky Hoss
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The desert was the colour of cinnamon
The desert was the colour of cinnamon,
the hills in the distance were blue,
were rolled up like pan cakes
and I was searching for a stopping place
near to some water
the air was a metallic blue, the sand yellow;
time here came to a standstill
where the desertedness catches you sometimes,
in this barren landscape where decay just brings
more and more sand
and dust clouds hang lingering over everything
while the wind flutters and dust hits everywhere.
poem by Gert Strydom
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To spring (in reply to John Keats)
When the last impact of winter disappears,
the sun starts to glow bright in its longing,
cold days are dissipated by sunshine
you arrive in your pretty enchantment
with joyful countenance,
in a dashing conquering,
causing everything to sprout new
skipping along like a young child capering,
then you spread you bridal gown out wide
run jolly and overjoyed
so that insects, birds unite with you rejoicing.
Everybody are swept away by your jauntiness
when blossoms are snow white, golden yellow, blushing pink on branches
insects, birds, the wind, the weather are in love with you, are your followers
as if everything in your presence have great joy,
I hear your voice in every whispering
while you hop along, spread your hair and are flaunting
as a girl, slender and pure bringing arms full of love
full of life, full of passion and still young,
you sing the whole day long
drunk with love
stretching your arms out to me, circling out wider.
For you, everybody sings a paean
the wind, birds and insects sing glad
as if you sweep the feet out from under everything
from the big enchantment, that everything living gets from you
as if your rule will never pass,
suddenly all living things are exuberantly free
and you are so innocent, so without suspicion,
but for me you stay a love child
blinding with your beauty
and even the first rain worships you
seeks pampering from you.
[Reference: To Autumn by John Keats.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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