Blood River
They came in thousands
and their spear points glitter,
while the sun’s first rays
folds over the plain.
In the laager the men are drinking coffee
and are eating biltong and gather,
to read out of the bible
and to pray
and make a holy oath and covenant
with the Almighty God
to stop an overwhelming foe.
Out of the fog they rise
and the impi forms
in into all its battle lines,
like a storm sea
of which the waves gather ominous
to smash to pieces.
At every wagon there’s thorn branches
and four hundred and seventy Boer farmers
stand with their flintlock guns,
while the women and children
are melting lead at the fires
and they wait fearless on the enemy.
Their war cries hangs chilling
and Abatagati resounds
like thunder out thousands of mouths,
while the impi
storms in a killing frenzy to the wagons
and spears like a swarm of bees
fill the air
and descent deadly.
Shooting and loading
are repeated without end
and rifle barrels get red hot,
while thousands storm almost unstoppable
to spear and bash dead.
The Lord hears
and thousands are stopped
in their tracts
and before the dark night comes
the river’s water is blood
and on the battle field
three thousand Zulu warriors are dead
and Umhlela and Dambuza
and their whole impi,
is destroyed
and there is nobody
to return to Dingaan.
[References: Abatagati=> Kill the magicians. Dingaan=> Zulu king. Umhlela and Dambuza=>Captain’s of Dingaan.=> Dingaan’s generals. Impi=> Zulu army. At Isandlwana 1329 British soldiers died en and at Rorke's Drift eleven people were declared heroes and still they could not stop death against the Zulu impi. Only three Boer Voortrekkers were wounded at Blood River and they had faith in a Almighty God.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Related quotes
The battle of Isandhlwana
Shaded by a wild fig tree
where the Tugela river enters the ocean
representatives of British queen Victoria
demanded that the Zulus give up
their independence.
The Zulu king Cetshwayo
would never again send his impi
into battle against the Boer farmers,
but the British his impi would spear
and bash to death
and he ordered
his general Nishingwayo KaMahole Khoza
to halt the British invaders.
The Zulu commander remembered the battle
at Blood River well
where four hundred and seventy
Boer farmers fought
from behind their wagons
which they had drawn against each other
to form a almost impenetrable laagered fort
where only three Boer farmers were injured,
using flint lock rifles
three thousand of his warriors were killed,
and thousands more injured
and he knew that the Zulu faced there
an enemy trained through several generations
waging war against fierce men and cruel beasts
in harsh circumstances
making them marksmen and exceptional horsemen
believing in a almighty God
with whom they made a covenant
while asking for His help
and some warriors reported
spirits aiding the Boer fighters there,
but maybe that was as superstitions go.
These British soldiers
wore red and white costumes
as if going to a festival,
didn’t look rugged at all
and even under the fig tree
they were red from sunburn
and although they probably
prayed to the same god
as the Boer farmers
his translators told him
that they didn’t look so devoted
and talked about a empire
and the power of their new guns
having come for a adventure
and he decided to give them one.
Nishingwayo looked
the British through thoroughly
saw Lord Chelmsford moving
his men over the Buffalo river
to Isandhlwana Hill
where the country deceivingly looked
open and stretched out
and at the foot of the hill
the British set up their camp.
Very cleverly the Zulu commander
sneaked his impi armed with assegais
and clubs,
carrying leather shields
into the narrow valley
running up to the hill
and then he send
a small force
to draw the British out
of their camp
to follow it in vain.
The witchdoctors warned
the Zulu commander
against a attack,
but a scouting patrol of the British
by chance encountered
the front Zulu position.
Ignoring his spiritual advisors
Nishingwayo got his impi
into war formation
forming up like a storming Buffalo bull
into a chest and two horns
on the confused British camp.
Lord Chelmsford and his men believed
that the battle formation
of the square
could withstand any attack,
with their Martini-Henri rifles
but at Isandhlwana that square broke,
shattered under attack
from thousands of Zulus
who with shining spears and clubs
rushed in like a huge thunderbolt
screaming their ear splitting battle cries:
Ngathi impi and Abatagati
sounding like thunder
from thousands of voices
and swarm upon swarm
of spears filled the sky
making the sun disappear
and the Zulu war formation
annihilated the British
closing in
like a tremendous crashing wave
sweeping all resistance away.
Stabbing, slicing, bashing
that great impi went right through
the British defenders
sparing none at Isandlwana
and marched away
heavy laden with booty
with some warriors
helping the wounded along
still singing their battle songs
and only two regiments
under Dabulamanzi pursued
the retreating survivors
to Rorke’s drift mission station
which was only
but a side show
of that great battle
which the British lost.
[References: Impi= Zulu army. Assegai = spear. At Isandlwana 1329 British soldiers were killed and eleven soldiers were honoured as heroes at Rorke’s Drift with Victoria Crosses. Ngathi impi=> “Because of us, war” Abatagati=> “Kill the magicians.” The Great Boer War by Arthur Conan Doyle (comments on the excellence as marksmen, horsemen and on the dedication of the Boer farmers as to patriotism and religion.) The word Boer is both Dutch and Afrikaans for farmer.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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a Brave Boer boy
At Italeni the bushes come alive
and abound with a horde of Zulu’s,
of which the spears glitter
and some are at the peak
of a hillock
and others on the plane.
Blood and fat
are spread over their faces
and they are raging
and in a blood thirsty trance
and scream luring
and tipple with a ritteltit war dance
and clubs and shields,
are thrown into the air
while spears flash into the air.
In the cloudless blue sky
an eagle flies past screaming,
while Boer horsemen
are riding past with guns at the ready.
Father and son gallop next to each other
and the hoofs of the horses hang thundering,
as far as they go.
When the first Zulu’s are in striking distance
they fire at them
and the front warriors fall
and the rest turns about
and run into the bushes
and cliffs.
The commando breaks into smaller groups
and the fleeing Zulu impi
are followed
and Dirk rides side to side with his dad,
to help the Malan brothers
where they are trapped in the cliffs.
Suddenly a whole impi of murderously mad Zulu’s
are around them
and Piet Uys’s gun
is jammed
and he stops to fix it
and out of the air a spear falls
that penetrates him.
He tell his men to ride away
but Dirkie wants to stay
and he rides only a hundred steps away,
when he hears the war cry
of a lot of Zulu’s
that storm to his father.
Horse and son becomes one
and horse and son
burst galloping through the Zulu’s
and he shoots three down,
but he is murderously
speared from his horse
and one flintlock gun that breaks
cannot stop a horde of spears.
Father and son lies together
while a Zulu impi
dances with joy up and down
and in the bright blue sky
an Eagle screams while it passes
while death
embraces both men.
At times when a storm
rises over that long hillock
people hear horse hoofs
rushing over the earth
and a rifle that thunders,
while shadows
threaten and creep nearer
and the cry of an Eagle
sounds over the cliffs.
[Reference: The heroic story of Dirkie Uys. Impi=> a Zulu army.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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God of our fathers
With their eyes set on the distance
our fathers
trekked into their promised land
as children of the God
of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.
After the murders on Piet Retief and his men
our fathers made a holy covenant
with the almighty God
to rescue them in their laager at Blood River
against a very big army
of about twenty thousand Zulus.
With their victory
they did not go forth
to wipe out every single Zulu,
rather with the Bible in the hand
they wanted to teach
other people about God.
When the Xhosas slaughtered
almost all their livestock,
were burning their own harvests
believing the medium Nonqawuse
that ancestral spirits
will rise to wipe out the white man
and thousands of them
were dying from starvation
our fathers reached out their hands
and in neighbourly love gave food to those people,
doing what they could
to try and save them.
When droughts, illness of the livestock,
locusts were ravaging, even when the British Empire
came to take the mineral treasures,
were burning down farms and towns,
were murdering women and children
in concentration camps
our fathers went on their knees,
placing their destiny in the hands
of the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob
knowing that his shadow was falling over them,
that He keeps account
was folding His Godly hand over them
l’Envoi
and now that thousands of farmers
are being killed on their farms
are being tortured, murdered and robbed
Afrikaners with qualifications
and experience, even artisans
are unemployed on the street,
people in cities
are hijacked, robbed and raped
I am praying to the God
of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.
to keep His hand over us,
to draws His laager
around the lives and property
of everyone that comes to Him,
to free us from this oppression.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Lord, I know that even in impossibilities You are able to act
Lord, you rescued my nation
when a onslaught of thousands of Zulu’s
came at Blood River
against less than five hundred
with flintlock rifles
and when Cubans with armour under Soviet control
drew up in divisions
and a war about Africa was loosened,
we trusted You
but now the Afrikaner nation has been brought
under rule by another culture,
that does not regard You
and murder and take whatever they want
and see the lives of others and possessions
as their own.
l’Envoi
Lord God, I know that even in impossibilities
You are able to act
and ask that You remember
the covenant of our ancestors
and take note of this injustice
and that You in Your righteousness
cause this oppression to end
that the sun may shine as well
over my people.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Maybe I Know My History A Little Bit Better Than You Do (In Answer To Sipho Sepamla)
Maybe I know my history
a little bit better than you do.
My friend, you are talking
about stories being heard
around coal-stoves
concerning animals
and no real facts
are expressed in your poem.
I know when my ancestor Joost Strijdom
arrived in the Cape of Good Hope in May 1678,
that I descend from the lovely brave Maryna Ras,
when your ancestors
were migrating from a place called eMbo
at the big African lakes under
leadership of chief Dlamini
and later under chief Nguni.
I know how my ancestors battled
against wild beasts, fought the zulu-impi
at Blood River
and overcame by the help of
the almighty God
and that I would not have existed
if they died at the hands of the Zulus.
I know how my ancestors build
farms, churches and houses
while yours were living
in thatched grass huts.
I know how my great grandfathers
and one of my grandfathers
was enveloped in a war against the British,
how they survived
and how my great grandmother
died in a British concentration camp.
I have even faced Cubans
under Soviet command
in the largest mechanised battle in Africa,
apart from those in the Second World War
and we had a decisive victory
that is now being denied
while history books are being rewritten
and fiction is creeping in
and maybe the new propaganda, the lies
of the new history suits you far better.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Blood River (In Answer To Don Mattera)
Maybe forever the blood river remains red
as a token of the thousands killed,
who came to destroy, plunder and pillage
while they madly were beating their war drums
like they did to Piet Retief and his men,
but by His almighty hand God intervened,
helped a tiny band of civilian men
with flintlock weapons to defeat
the tens of thousands who rushed with assegais
and killing batons upon them
and when the British army faced the same enemy
years later with Martini-Henri rifles at Isandhlwana
and with many more men formed an unbreakable square,
that square buckled, was swept away
while death came to them
but still thousands of white people in South Africa
are raped, tortured to death and plundered
as if barbarianism still remains,
as if a pact with the almighty God
means nothing, while black men
trample the freedom of others
and rob what they do possess.
poem by Gert Strydom
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A brave Field Cornet
From a hillock
two Boer commandoes
ride into an English camp
and a few of the British are shot,
a lot are caught
and most flee away.
In the direction of the Tuli river
the enemy are followed in haste
where they join comrades
driving a ox wagon
and the Boers are marksmen
and the English flee again
to find shelter in a farmhouse.
The house is shot to pieces
and for the third time on one day
the British flee again
and the next day,
the Boer commando captures nine wagons
with food and ammunition.
The day following Boer scouts
find an abandoned enemy camp
with burned out fires,
tents, horses and mules
and see a big cloud of dust
coming along in their direction.
There’s a Field Cornet
that does not ride away,
while two Boer commandos
escapes to safety.
At dusk Jacobus Potgieter
finds more men with a canon
set on a hillock
and with just more than twenty men,
he prepares
to give resistance to a huge enemy force.
The darker the night gets,
the nearer the cloud of dust comes
and Jacobus Potgieter and his men
are ready to shoot killing shots
and to let no Englishmen past them
and there’s a rambling sound,
but no enemy appear
and they are invaded
by a swarm of locusts.
[Reference: The “JJ Potgieter manuscript.” Second Anglo-Boer war. Boer commando= A group of Boer farmers in a citizen force militia under a Commandant (Lieutenant-Colonel) .]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Shaka The Zulu
Here he comes with his muscular
body, in his hands lay the symbol
of Africa the symbol that have sent
many great warriors six feet beneath.
The sound of his voice bring silence
among the bird of the sky.
Shaka the son of Zulu he believe that he
is a true son of Africa.In the battle field
with the great symbol of Africa in his hands
he believe that nobody can defeat him, his
peer believe that he is a god among the
living creature.
Shaka the Zulu he believe in the black power
with iron hands he rule the people of Zulu with
the help of the witch doctors he conquer the
Africa.The name Shaka bring fear in the camp
of the white.
poem by Enyinwa Okechukwu Enyinwa
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The writing is on the wall
Now the writing is on the wall
and with the umpteenth killing
a know leader is dead
and dishonoured in hatred
and now the king ask for tranquillity
as if “give me my machinegun
and a bullet for a Boer
and kill a farmer, kill a white”
has no consequence
and I wonder what he wants to do
with his machinegun
(and at the court
blacks cheer killers as heroes)
or is the plan
to kill us one by one quietly?
Or is he begging for a chance
to let the army loose
on white people?
Is he still too stupid
to read the writing
of another blood river
coming almost unstoppable?
poem by Gert Strydom
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Fuzzy-Wuzzy
(Soudan Expeditionary Force)
We've fought with many men acrost the seas,
An' some of 'em was brave an' some was not:
The Paythan an' the Zulu an' Burmese;
But the Fuzzy was the finest o' the lot.
We never got a ha'porth's change of 'im:
'E squatted in the scrub an' 'ocked our 'orses,
'E cut our sentries up at Sua~kim~,
An' 'e played the cat an' banjo with our forces.
So 'ere's ~to~ you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your 'ome in the Soudan;
You're a pore benighted 'eathen but a first-class fightin' man;
We gives you your certificate, an' if you want it signed
We'll come an' 'ave a romp with you whenever you're inclined.
We took our chanst among the Khyber 'ills,
The Boers knocked us silly at a mile,
The Burman give us Irriwaddy chills,
An' a Zulu ~impi~ dished us up in style:
But all we ever got from such as they
Was pop to what the Fuzzy made us swaller;
We 'eld our bloomin' own, the papers say,
But man for man the Fuzzy knocked us 'oller.
Then 'ere's ~to~ you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an' the missis and the kid;
Our orders was to break you, an' of course we went an' did.
We sloshed you with Martinis, an' it wasn't 'ardly fair;
But for all the odds agin' you, Fuzzy-Wuz, you broke the square.
'E 'asn't got no papers of 'is own,
'E 'asn't got no medals nor rewards,
So we must certify the skill 'e's shown
In usin' of 'is long two-'anded swords:
When 'e's 'oppin' in an' out among the bush
With 'is coffin-'eaded shield an' shovel-spear,
An 'appy day with Fuzzy on the rush
Will last an 'ealthy Tommy for a year.
So 'ere's ~to~ you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an' your friends which are no more,
If we 'adn't lost some messmates we would 'elp you to deplore;
But give an' take's the gospel, an' we'll call the bargain fair,
For if you 'ave lost more than us, you crumpled up the square!
'E rushes at the smoke when we let drive,
An', before we know, 'e's 'ackin' at our 'ead;
'E's all 'ot sand an' ginger when alive,
An' 'e's generally shammin' when 'e's dead.
'E's a daisy, 'e's a ducky, 'e's a lamb!
'E's a injia-rubber idiot on the spree,
'E's the on'y thing that doesn't give a damn
For a Regiment o' British Infantree!
So 'ere's ~to~ you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your 'ome in the Soudan;
You're a pore benighted 'eathen but a first-class fightin' man;
An' 'ere's ~to~ you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, with your 'ayrick 'ead of 'air --
You big black boundin' beggar -- for you broke a British square!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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The mountain pass
There are bullets that draw sparking lines
on the rocks next to him
and in the mountain pass,
Jan Pieterse and ten men
stand to keep
the English back.
The smoke of shots being fired
hangs like fog around him
and gunlock after gunlock,
are cocked time after time
and Jan Pieterse and his men
shoot carefully while the morning’s dusk appears.
At the bottom a Boer commando
goes through the river’s ford
and there are horse hoofs resounding
and a liddite bomb,
explodes like a flaming star
in the grey air
before the sun rises.
The dust clears
and the commando rides away
and it’s just Jan Pieterse and one comrade,
that is still alive
and they give their horses full reigns.
It’s only Jan Pieterse that gets away
and he turns his horse around,
chase back into the bullets
and liddite bombs
to get his mate.
With his wounded comrade
hanging over the front of his saddle
Jan Pieterse and each Englishmen
experience the first red rays of the sun
and his horse walks slowly on,
as if no bullet can touch him there
and nothing can kill a Boer hero.
The English stop shooting
and cheer about the bravery
of a enemy Boer,
that disappears with rifle in his hand
over the horizon.
[References: The historic heroic story of Jan Pieterse during the second Anglo-Boer war. The poem “Rit-rympie” by Toon van den Heever.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Phantoms in my dreams
Another river flooded with blood
with thousands of enemy soldiers
wiped out, as if their lives
mattered not to man.
Almost a hundred tanks shot out,
more than three hundred
armoured cars destroyed
and some tanks,
(more than the fingers
on my hands)
just left behind
with the occupants running away
to hide in the veldt
and to this day
the shocking reality
of that battle scenes
are phantoms in my dreams.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Young Koekemoer (in reply to A. Brodrick)
Way back in the days
of the old Transvaal republic
in the Marico district lived a young farmer
called Hans Koekemoer, who was a great horseman
and a superb marksman
who crossed many rivers with his roan horse
and owned a Martini Henri rifle
and he was a great lover, skilled and sought by many ladies
and no other guy could compete with him
but one day an impi of Matabele warriors invaded the great Marico
burning down farmsteads, raiding cattle and killing farmers,
women and children
and the farmers were called up on commando
riding out on their horses with guns in their hands
and they fought bravely against that impi.
Hans by nature lived up to his name that meant cocky
firing from the saddle, breaking away from the commando
taking on a squad of the enemy
and he even followed them while they were fleeing
in front of him, trying to hunt the last one down
as he feared that they would capture or kill his beloved fiancée Sannie
and to the other farmers in the commando he was missing,
probably killed somewhere and while they rode back victoriously
their spirits were marred as they had lost the best young farmer.
Hans had been wounded and unconscious his horse
carried him to safety and a English missionary
came upon him removing a rusting assegai spear
and nursed him back to health
through a fever, bringing young Koekemoer back to life
over a period of some weeks
and just after his return to his farmstead
one of Hans Koekemoer’s cattle
was ill and he had to care for it through the night
and early the following morning while he was riding in the veldt
searching for a lost cow he saw a gathering of young men
galloping at speed in the distance
and first thought that it was a commando
that had gathered during the night and he rode up to them
and saw them passing a white banner
congratulating a bridegroom and bride and wishing them well
and they were riding at speed in front of a black coach
and Hans was curious about who had wedded so suddenly
and being cocky by nature forced the coach to a halt
and out stepped his girlfriend Sannie, with a Englishman,
a short wealthy shop owner
followed by Sannie’s father old dark Dirk Coetzee
an honourable man, a brave war veteran and a member of parliament
who wanted to know if young Hans had risen from the dead?
Young Hans replied that he wanted to talk to Sannie
the most beautiful girl in all of the Transvaal
who promised to wed him, swearing on the Bible
at the last communion service
and that he Hans could marry any of many a girl
and would instead drink a sip of brandy on her health.
Then lovely Sannie walked up to him
with a glass decorated with blue flowers in her hand
and he shouted: “to your health” before downing it
and Sannie was shaken but did not know why,
she looked into his eyes and forced a smile on her lips
and felt a spark going down into her hips
and he took her hand and looking into her eyes
kissed Sannie and her lips tasted of peppermint
from the shop owner’s kisses before his.
Sannie tied her skirts down before running hand-in-hand
with young Koekemoer
to where the roan horse was waiting on them
and the horse drew away galloping at full speed
while Sannie locked her arms around him
and in vain strong young Weppener, squinty Du Randt
and the rest of the riders gathered around the coach
jumped on their horses to catch up with them
and not one of them or her father
ever set eyes on Sannie again.
[Reference: Jong Koekemoer by A. Brodrick.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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One Heartbeat
Blood, sweat, and tears
Sacrificed everyday
Even when they tell us
Man, there's no way!
You have to believe
When no one else will
Together as one
That's how we feel
No pain, No gain
We often hear
Lay it on the line
We have, No fear!
A family of many
We have become
Not just a number
As to some
We win as a team
And lose just the same
Not laying the heavy
On any one name
Zulu, Zulu
We huddle and breathe
From many chest
Comes, One Heartbeat
Cougar Football
Go Cougars!
poem by Lagaya Evans
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Gideon Scheepers
There’s a Boer commandant
that proofs himself at Magersfontein
and help to beat the British there
and at Paardeberg on horseback,
rides right through them
and they cannot touch him.
When his commando
enters the Cape Colony
rail tracts are blown away
and British trains stand and wait
and there are many Cape Boers
that joins him
to fight against
the overwhelming British might.
The British give guns
to the black population
and send them to farmsteads
to murder women and children
and to rape
and to Gideon Scheepers it’s more than enough
and it hits him like a hammer blow
and every black man
that his commando catches carrying a firearm
is hanged.
Then it happens
that the British find Gideon Scheepers
lying ill in the field
and they execute him
and somewhere in the field
he is pushed into an unmarked grave
and even today
nobody knows where
Gideon Scheepers lies.
[References: The rank of Commandant is equivalent to that of Lieutenant-Colonel. The heroic story of Gideon Scheepers during the second Anglo-Boer war.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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The deeper right
When my ancestors faced Mzilikazi,
Dingaan and the British
they thought of no honour
or heroic deeds
while spears and rifle barrels
gleamed in the morning sun
and their eyes were set on You
and with the Bible in the hand
they wanted to convert heathen
and to make impressions in this land,
but somehow
my people were murdered by barbarians
and covetous people,
the Godly call was lost
and survival went into their very souls
to make laws for their own protection.
Still in our simplicity
we tried to stay with You
and now I ask that our property
remain our own,
for the oppression to be gone
so that the sun can shine over us as well
and we also can have a life
and if they that sit in the highest chairs
still want to deny
the deeper right that belongs to us,
do not want to honour You,
further want to trample us
and try to indoctrinate
it compels me to ask:
that You let the broom loose
which Your prophet had predicted
and wipe this continent clean from end to end
and bring salvation to us.
[Reference: The deeper right here refers to the right of leading a life.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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A host of people came south
According to tradition
at the beginning
of the seventeenth century
the tribes of Zulu, Xhosa,
Swazi and Pondo people
who have a related language
and similar culture
and now live in Southern Africa,
migrated from the north
from a legendary place
they call eMbo
somewhere at the great lakes
in central Africa.
As part of a large group
under command of chief Dlamini
the vanguard under chief Nguni
went ahead and discovered
the rivers and hills of Zululand
splitting away from the host
where they killed the local Bushmen hunters
and a metal working offshoot
of the Karimba tribe
and to them these other people
is nothing more than phantoms
spooking in the cliffs,
the caves and in the reeds
near to the river.
Then the followers of Nguni
divided up into different clans
search for the best valley to settle.
One of these people
was a man named Malandela
and they settled near to a river
that they called the forceful one,
building beehive huts
and on Malandela’s death
his two sons divided
the followers and possessions
between the two of them.
The younger son was named Zulu
which means heaven
and he went with his mother
and followers
to find a place of his own
near a basin in hills
at the Mkhumbane river
and his people planted
a euphorbia tree over his grave
and from then on referred to it
as the place of the great chief
and all the earlier chiefs
except Shaka are buried
in that valley.
Believing that their spirits
and that of Shaka haunts this place
the Zulu army before battle
went to this valley
to pray at ancestral graves
and thundering out the salute:
“Because of us, war.”
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In front of a firing squad
Japie almost burns himself
when he mess some coffee
and it’s still dark,
when at four o’clock one morning
British soldiers arrive
at the Greyling’s farm.
There’s an Afrikaner farm boy
standing against the wall
of a farm house
and English Captain Jack Seeley,
wants to know to where
his father’s Boer commando is going?
Japie Greyling refuses
to say anything about it
and Jack Seeley
order his men,
to aim at an Afrikaner boy.
Six British Martini Henri rifles
are pointed at a ten year old child
and he hears gunlock after gunlock
closing behind a bullet.
I ask you a last time
says the relentless Englishman
and a Boer boy
looks into death,
but still there’s nothing
that he lets out about his people
The British Captain keeps
walking nervously up and down
and the blue eyes
of a Boer boy,
cuts right through him
and the child says
let death then come,
but talk I wont.
All the British soldiers
are astounded by the courage
that comes from an Afrikaner child
and on command,
the rifles are lowered
before they ride away
and Japie Greyling
is left alive.
[References: Historic heroic story of Japie (Jacobus Johannes Cornelis) Greyling during the second Anglo-Boer war. The poem “Japie Greyling” by J.F.E Celliers. The book “Fear and Be Slain” by Jack Seeley.]
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Warriors Of The World United
Here our soldiers stand from all around the world
Waiting in a line to hear the battle cry
All are gathered here victory is near
The sound will fill the hall bringing power to us all
We alone are fighting for metal that is true
We own the right to live the fight we're here for all of you
Now swear the blood upon your steel will never dry
Stand and fight together beneath the metal sky
Brothers Everywhere
Raise you hands into the air
We're warriors
Warriors of The World
Like thunder from the sky
Sworn to fight and die
We're warriors
Warriors of The World
Many stand against us but they will never win
We said we would return and here we are again
To bring them all destruction suffering and pain
We are the hammer of the Gods we are thunder wind and rain
There they wait in fear with swords in feeble hands
With dreams to be a King first one should be a man
I call them out and charge them all with a life that is a lie
And in their final hour they shell confess before they die
Brothers Everywhere
Raise you hands into the air
We're warriors
Warriors of The World
Like thunder from the sky
Sworn to fight and die
We're warriors
Warriors of The World
If I should fall in battle my brothers who fight by my side
Gather my horse and waepons tell my family how I died
Until then I will be strong I will fight for all that is real
All who stand in my way will die by steel
Brothers Everywhere
Raise you hands into the air
We're warriors
Warriors of The World
song performed by by Manowar from Warriors Of The World
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Blood of Thousands
Thousands upon thousands are slain
Each year, are killed in cruel, cold blood.
Thousands cry out, but to no avail—
They are attacked with cruelest hate.
They scream and shout!
But do we care? No! and we never will!
Let’s murder some more! Kill more from inside!
It doesn’t hurt us in the least!
They’re as dead as dead can ever get—
They’ll not trouble us again.
They are gone and now you can rejoice!
Take pride in your murder of innocent blood!
Who are these thousands killed every year?
The infants in your womb!
Murderess! ! Fiend! Heartless animal!
You don’t deserve motherhood!
Abort them. Go ahead. At least they’re in a better place,
A place you’ll never go! At least it’s over, and they
Didn’t have to deal with you, selfish pig!
I hope that guilt tears you apart the way you did to them!
This is abortion.
This is evil.
This is.....
Murder!
poem by Paige Scott
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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