Bus ride at night
At quarter to five
the driver refuses,
that I get on a bus
in Burnett street
because it is already full.
There are men, woman and children
and we talk various languages
while we wait for the bus
and I see a car guard
dancing in the street
while he does tricks like a clown.
We wait on the next bus
and the afternoon passes
and the bus is very late
and it stays away
and just Putco and North Star busses
stop at other places.
At dusk the bus appears
and it’s got a double deck,
but is also full
and on the top level the roof is so low
that I bump my head
while it draws from the curb.
There’s no place to sit down
before we travel halfway to the city
and there’s a crowd of people around me
and we sit tight against each other
and in the front a child is holding onto a bar
while she licks the window with her tongue
and try to draw spit lines.
The bus braids through cars,
but it takes longer than an hour
to ride two stages
and a woman calls her husband
to pick her up at church square.
In Visagie Street the cars stand in a traffic jam
and it becomes night
while we wait in the traffic
and I embark from the bus
and twist through the pedestrians
and everywhere there are people
that stand in dark corners
and alleyways
and shout at each other in foreign languages.
At Church square I see stars in the sky,
but uncle Paul looks friendly
while the lights
of a few cars passes by
and I see how his men
are protecting him
and there’s nobody else in the street
and I wonder what to do
if the last bus has already left.
I wait at night at a bus stop
and an old black man
comes and stand near me
and we are both glad,
to catch a ride
on the last bus.
The bus is lighted brightly
And it’s comfortable and hot inside
and I see the zoo passing by
just before the bus stops for me
and red lights
disappears in the distance
and the evening wind tugs at my jacket,
but my house is near.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Six o’clock on a Friday morning
It’s six o’clock on a Friday morning
and I wait for my bus
and across the street,
the lights are burning cheerful and yellow
in the square and dome shaped windows
of the state library
and I wonder what documents are kept there
Street hawkers sell newspapers and sweets
in front of the Pretoria News,
while passengers are already
catching busses in rows.
There’s an icy chill
that hangs in the morning dawn light
and there’s a skew pointed obelisk
that is in front of the high court chambers
and a newspaper heading
talks about the recession
that is blowing hot and cold,
but it’s freezing
and the cold even eats
right through my leader jacket.
On the east side of Vermeulen Street
the sky becomes a light yellow,
while the blue of the heaven
folds open all over the rest
and streetlights stand in a long row
up the street past traffic lights.
Schoolgirls dressed in blue
are watching school boys with red jerseys
and young women
stand and shake
from the cold and I wonder,
how the old red delivery bicycle
behind the pillar
are not getting stolen
where it stands every morning on its place.
There’s a street sign that points to the Pierneef museum
into the L te Groen Eureka factory building,
but it’s still too early
to go and look at paintings
and I wonder how
the Pierneef paintings inside looks.
On the side of a building
I am amazed at the Tswane sign,
but this big city
will always stay Pretoria for me
and I wonder how people
can build buildings so pressed into each other
and look at old and new buildings
standing rowed in onto each other
and the bus stays away,
while others come and go
and I wait
a while longer in the cold.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Church Street, Pretoria
Right down the street the traffic lights are green
and a couple of homeless men stand around a fire
in a half drum and ambulances and police cars scream
while they past rows and rows of flats for hire
and a couple of kids stand smoking at the stream
and this is reality, the heart of the city.
On the sidewalk pedestrians walk in crowds of men,
women and some children, some booted up to the knee
others with mini skirts short enough to condemn them
and my city stays lovely to me.
People queue for fried chicken, fish
and chips at shops and cafés and the smells fill my nose
and tomatoes and onions, lamb and steak are fried with a hiss
and in the traffic an angry speed-cop tries to retain his pose
when a minibus taxi almost runs him over, gives him a fright
at a flickering traffic light
and cars stream by into the coming night.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Lights in the night
The sun fades in its red glare
over the mountain top
and traffic lights, street lights
and electrical signs
get an own life
that appears
like flowers folding open to the night.
The city lies dotted out
with thousands of lights
like a big jewel,
that a master artist
unfolds against the dark night.
Cars, busses and motorbikes
draw white and red stripes
like they drive past
crossing and going straight
while the evening
is getting life.
The evening air is beautifully open
and away from the inner city
there are big stars
that hangs sparkling against the heaven
and the Seven Sisters, Orion
and the Southern Cross
are the first to catch my eye
and I wonder how transom
our tinned stars
look out of the universe
and how trivial our lives are
when we look at the great works
of an Almighty God.
poem by Gert Strydom
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On Lillian Way
night
cold gray against greenish black
street lamp globes against
rectangle buildings
sitting in a parked car
along the deserted alleyways
off santa monica boulevard
car windows fogged
the cold green street lights
filtered through the prism
of a broken windshield
delicate spiderwebs of
white light diffusion
only in L.A.
a prostitute stands
against the bare wall
under a street light
with traffic going by
on the sidewalk
across the street
cocaine sellers asking
“what do you want? ”
“what do you need? ”
beside the building
a bottle and can collector
inspects a long low
excuse for a trash barrel
the prostitute
draws a lot of attention
cars pull to the curb
windows unwind
in the car adjacent
derelicts are fixing dope
shooting up in the
luminous twilight
now the whore has a trick
a car door slams
and tires spin away
much like a river
the wind has stirred up the palm leaves
and palmetto shadows
extra currents for a
3 a.m. late night traffic flow
much like my soft core
more than usually hard core
translucent shadows
on the concave street
vertical street signs
body schisms
poem by Theresa Haffner
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Night was coming
Night was coming
with a piercing huge orange sun
breaking through
white and black clouds
in the west.
It found a gap
and the sun was hanging
like a orange ball
above the street
and it was blinding.
Cars passed barely visible
above the orange glare
and some had already
turned their lights on.
The sun dipped down
below some trees
and for a time
it glowed behind them
and soon it would be dark
and the first stars
were already appearing
and a full yellow moon
was rising,
but below bright lights
was already burning
right across the city
in colours of amber
streetlights
green, yellow and red
traffic lights,
blue lights flashing
on police cars
and almost every bright colour
caught on neon signs
while people came and went
to different destinations
some smiling and relaxed,
others in a hurry
and some others
locked in a world of their own.
poem by Gert Strydom
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There are people
There are people
that claims the street as their own
and stand
at parking places on the sidewalk
and do no work
but to look after cars.
If you park there
and ignore them
and do not
want to use their services
you immediately
become a racist in their eyes
and they will make a scene,
threaten to damage your car,
or make sure that it’s stolen
or so they tell you
since they believe
that you owe them something.
Some spray soapy water
without invitation
on the front window
of your car
when you stop
at a traffic light
and wipe it off
demanding a price.
I wonder why the education
is still lacking
since they have already
got their liberation
and just as odd
these people are ignored
by their compatriots in government
as if they do not exist,
while the country
falls slowly
but surely to pieces.
There are people
that claims the possessions
of others as their own
and at night
prowl around in the streets
shooting, stabbing
and robbing
and estranging people
from their cars.
l’Envoi
Still I wonder where
the problem lies
and would really like
both of my cars back
and I do not know
about white people
that sneak around
in black neighbourhoods at night,
hijack cars,
brake windows
and demand possessions
with loaded guns.
All that they do,
is try to make a living
or hurry away in their leaving.
{Reference: “First liberation, then education.” Political slogan of the ruling party.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Heat In The City
Bumper to bumper traffic in the heat of the city
The air is thick and dusty full of smog and gritty
Dirty Yellow Cabs contributing to noisy confusion
While a hot dog stand on the corner sells profusion
The pavement is sticky reflecting the heat in waves
Throughout cars are swallowed by hot asphalt graves
Overcrowded busses spit out passengers one by one
While temperatures are rising with an unforgiving sun
Vegetables and fruits for sale covered in dirt and grime
On the sidewalks of the city bait flies in the mean time
People rushing downstairs to the Metro escaping the heat
Only realizing that it is just as bad and by far no retreat
A broken fire hydrant provides the illusion of cool relieve
But only street children bathe in the grey water taking leave
A lonely traffic cop damp with perspiration looks atrocious
Hot sweaty faces wait for his signal resentful and ferocious
Curriers on bikes with sunburns between cars are speeding
Steaming masses waiting for the light before proceeding
The smells of the hot city are overpowering and very strong
Torturing its inhabitants without sense of right and wrong
poem by Kristina Louisa Carr
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Space Between All Things
All the walls of your house,
were painted in deep blue,
you're at that indecisive age to choose colours that reflect you,
and everything and nothing,
is in the space between all things,
that fascinates as much as it agitates,
words turn me into what I say,
as you pull your yellow stained fingers,
through your un-kept hair,
I noticed that the corners of your jeans,
were folded neatly into squares,
your thoughts are the strangest place that you've ever been,
stranger even than Los Angeles,
it's like a cinema where they never ask you to leave,
So while you wait and are you wait,
and concentrate on being as far away,
from fate so while you wait,
and concentrate on being as far away,
She had a north Atlantic film star grace,
that's why her tears are out of place,
that kind sadness has more style,
so nothing will make her smile,
except as soon as anything happens,
she'll drag me on the street,
and hand in hand we stand protesting,
while everyone is still asleep,
So while you wait and are you wait,
and concentrate on being as far away,
from fate so while you wait,
and concentrate on being as far away,
so while you wait and are you wait,
and concentrate on being as far away,
from fate so while you wait,
and concentrate on being as far away,
Are you wait,
are you wait,
are you wait,
are you waaait,
song performed by by Idlewild
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Cars Are Cars
Words & music by paul simon 1983
Cars are cars all over the world
Cars are cars all over the world
Similarly made. similarly sold
In a motorcade. abandoned when theyre old
Cars are cars all over the world
Cars are cars all over the world
Cars are cars all over the world
Engine in the front. jack in the back
Wheels take the brunt. pinion and a rack
Cars are cars all over the world
Cars are cars all over the world
But people are strangers
They change with the curve
From time zone to time zone
As we can observe
They shut down their borders
And think theyre immune
They stand on their differences
And shoot at the moon
But cars are cars all over the world
Cars are cars all over the world
Drive em on the left. drive em on the right
Susceptible to theft in the middle of the night
Cars are cars all over the world
Cars are cars all over the world
I once had a car
That was more like a home
I lived in it, loved in it
Polished its chrome
If some of my homes
Had been more like my car
I probably wouldnt have
Travelled this far
Cars are cars all over the world
Cars are cars all over the world
Cars are cars all over the world
Cars are cars all over the world
Cars are cars all over the world
song performed by by Paul Simon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The city has a deadly wound
The city has a deadly wound
and on the street without a place to go,
sits an old man and his old wife
and their small white dog.
I see a blonde girl watching cars,
to buy a piece of bread
and her face tells that she has problems
and I wonder how she washes
the dirt of the road from herself?
a Red haired guy sleeps in boxes on the sidewalk
and at a traffic light there’s children that sniffs glue.
At another traffic light
there’s a couple with a baby,
that stands in the hot sun
and is dependant on motorists for their fate.
Just before a traffic circle there’s a man
with short pants,
where day after day
he sells koeksisters.
a Man with dark glasses and a hat
strokes his guitar
chord after chord and sings sad songs
and I see that his hat is empty
where he is in a small alley
while minibus taxis hoot the whole time.
Taxes are getting higher
and everybody has to bare the brunt of it,
but the poor are on the street with their pain
and wait for the misery to pass
like flowers trying to blossom in a desert
and they are surprised and scarred by life
and wait in vain for a place in the sun.
[Koeksisters=> a Baked delicacy with syrup in it.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Before Christmas Day
you ask someone to be with you
you make a call
on that busy and lighted street
despite the traffic
and the honking sounds and the
people walking fast
you feel so alone
no one is available
and you understand
you have no choice but to
dance loneliness away
you cross the street
not minding whether you will
be hit by one of those sane cars
and the finger of the driver
gives you the f sign
and then you smile in return
it is a happy world you
have there
and they begin to think too
otherwise
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Early morning ride
Early in the morning
hawkers are standing next to the street
and they sell flowers, newspapers,
cigarettes and sweets.
At church square two doves are pairing
on uncle Paul’s head,
while people walk to and fro
and some are in lines
to buy bus tickets
It’s another thing when you are
stressed out
and are scared,
to be late at a new job.
a Bus stands with a closed door
making fumes,
while the driver is walking around inside
and already there are a large number of people
lining up in a queue.
a Pair of love stricken young people
are holding hands
and talk about the previous nights
party and drinks
that they enjoyed
and I try to see the route
to know were I have to get off.
School children tease each other
as far as we go
and time gets wings
and rushes by
and suddenly
I have to disembark.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The day is dying in a local town
Rose petal pink, orange tingeing into white-grey
the evening twilight fades away,
the soldiers, from general down,
the lawyer, the city lark, accountant, the office clown
are disseappearing into the enclosing dark,
the homeless man, the vagrants sit smoking
in the municipal park,
with a few mucho men joking
in the packed bar, the evening star
glitters her hello, shines down
across the hugely deserted town.
Crème liqueur, dark red wine
are whirling in glasses of lovers,
mistresses, in the hands of men,
some lovely women
and a few local swine
who cavort and dine
and some are cold as cadavers,
intent on getting more
than their money’s worth
from those that they adore
and pour more and more
whiskey and wine.
Tyres burn embers from the road,
light dwindles with the day
traffic lights shine brightly green, amber and red
some drunks, some fighting men goad
each other in the local pub
while prostitutes walk around ready to play
asking, “hey what’s up? ”
ready to take any paying man to bed
to lie any way, even inverted
but most places are totally deserted
except the local houses
where lights gleam, people gather with spouses
caged behind bars, steel palisades with dogs patrolling
with no police cars rolling or anybody strolling.
The skyline dwindles into dark night
and street light after streetlight
appear like cheap cosmetic jewels
with curtains in windows flapping like towels
forgotten on the washing line
and everything declines into rest
while busses, trucks, trains and machines
are doing their best to work on
and everything human disappears and is gone
while unknown lights keep passing by
are passing in the dark sky.
poem by Gert Strydom
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To me you are
To me you are the woman
that walks up and down
at the traffic light
and smiles almost shy,
when I look up
and still give a view
of her breasts
To me you are
the hunger and pain,
that I hear in the voices
of children in back streets
where they loose all courage.
To me you are
the crippled gum sniffing children,
that swing walk
with eyes without hope.
To me you are the vagrant,
that struggles along shuffling
and worries about the next
sleeping place and food
and smile without teeth
when he gets a few coins.
To me you are the beggar
who stands unobserved
at a busy traffic light,
while cars are streaming past
where nobody knows or comprehends
his despair.
To me you are the drug dealers
who hangs out in clubs
and look whom they can still catch,
with their contaminating
deadly poison.
To me you are the street thug,
that brakes car windows with bricks
and steal the valuables of people
and sell it at only a Rand or two.
To me you are the criminal
that steals cars in the streets
and are happy
with the despair,
that he is dealing out unscrupulous.
In reality you are the big city
that gives and takes,
where people live like termites
past each other
and rowed in,
as if others do not exist
To rather stay far away from it all
and to get rest and peace there
at times wants to take predominance,
but I love you
like a husband does his wife.
In you is where
some people still build dreams
and wish and live
and have an own place.
In you I see children
giving bread to birds
and people,
giving money to car guards.
In you are places
where people are making a living
and really help each other
and still I believe,
that in places in you
there are more good than evil.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Empty Streets
The town is quiet, empty
Street lights cast shadows
In doorways and windows
Curtains drawn, people sleeping
A night rain is falling fast
Through the amber halos of street lights
Lighting the roads and pathways
There is not a soul to be seen or heard
The parked cars line up colourless
The dull reflection of a shop window
Offers little comfort in passing
A stray cat sits ahead in some shade
Staring intent before running away
Into the empty night gone
What little wind there is, cold
A car passes, unknown passengers
The temporary warming light
Soon gone disappeared
Hand fishing for keys in pockets
Through a door into shade
The empty streets replaced
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Rain drive
I see a big storm
hanging dark against the sky
and lightning bolts,
that hit smashing to the ground.
There are big drops
that hit whipping down
and the black road
wet and somewhat slippery.
There’s no way
to ride away from the storm
and the traffic
stand still in front of me,
but with a motorbike
you can cut past cars.
It’s as if clouds of steam
rise out of the hot tar road,
but the screen
of the helmet
is covered by the rain
that I have difficulty seeing
to were to go
and which cars are moving or standing.
With Soutpansberg avenue that lies open before me
I open the throttle
and there’s wind, rain
and thunders that fall flashing blue
around me
and resound somewhere behind the motorbike
and the rain on my hands
hits like hail.
.
The leather jacket keeps the top of my body dry and warm,
but the bottom
is soaked and wet
and I feel the coldness
rising from below.
There’s busses coming from the front
that throws water whipping
as far as they go
and somewhere in the left lane,
there’s cars stopping for a pothole
and my motorbike catches speed
past in the right lane.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Not An Answer Why.
Fay managed to get out
while her father worked
and she came
and knocked at your door
and said
You want to go out?
Sure
you replied
and you both went down
the stairs of the apartment block
across the Square
and down the slope
up Meadow Road
crossing over
the bombsite
behind the coal wharf
and on to the main road
where you walked along
side by side
Let's see what's on
at the movies
you said
and you stopped outside
the movie house
and peered at the programmes
Fay said
My daddy doesn't think
movies are right for children
he says they're sinful
and full of lust
and sex
and greed
and she stopped
and stared along the road
at the people passing
and the cars and lorries
going by
on the main road
and the evening air
choked up with fumes
and the street lights
giving a false perspective
It isn't all like that
you said
Some movies are about love
and laughter
and people enjoy going
it takes them out
of their dreary lives
Fay said
I've never been
inside a movie house
never seen a movie
Well why don't you come with me
to the matinee on Saturday
I can squeeze some money
from my dad for the two of us
Fay looked at you
and seemed interested
but then said
No I can't
if my father caught me
there'd be hell to pay
and apart from the lecture
on the immorality
of the arts and such
he'd belt me some
and not let me out again
for some time
and you said
Ok but some day
you're going to find out
things aren't always
as the parents say
then you're going to
have to find your own road
and walk your own way
and she looked sad
and walked away
from the movie house
along to the subway
and down the steps
into the bright lights
and noise of traffic
over head
and you touched her hand
and she gripped yours
and you walked down
through the subway tunnel
she in her flowered dress
and brown shoes
slightly scuffed
and you
in your tee shirt and jeans
and you pretended
not to notice
the bruise on her thigh
which caught your eye
as she skipped along
her dress rising high
as she went holding tight
your hand
her fingers wrapped
about yours
and up and out
on the other side
of the subway
with its bright lights
and evening sky
and too many questions
and not an answer why.
poem by Terry Collett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Where the journey of life really goes
My blue honda motorbike
with a full tank of fuel
is broken
and is being repaired
and while I count my money
I see that I have enough,
but for the last journey
of the week
and I wonder how
I am going to be able
to take that ride?
At the bus stop a car guard
is watching cars
and a black woman
that needs five rand for a ticket
and is dressed elegantly
in a red work suit,
gets the money from him
and he doesn’t even know her
or wants anything in return
and its weird seeing a near beggar
giving to the prosperous.
a Bus without any sign of destination
stops in front of me
and I wonder where
this bus is going?
I cannot stay standing
at the bus stop
and I know that I must travel
on this bus.
When I get aboard
the bus looks right
and there are other people,
that I know
that also rides on it.
I tell my destination
to the driver and pay
and he gives
a ticket to me.
When I ask to where
the bus is really going,
he wants to know
to where life’s journey really goes
and my money
is placed back in my hand.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Without Someone
I watch the cars move
I watch the lights up on the window
I walk along the street
Im only thinking of you
I watch the clock staring from the wall
It hardly moves at all
Its you Im waiting for.
Chorus:
Without someone I can depend on
Im lost without someone
As I go on, I hope youre remembering Im lost without someone.
All alone, no one around
I watch the shadows falling faster
The city lights begin to glow
And then I start to realize
I count the hours as they slip away
Into another day
Wondering where youll stay.
Repeat chorus
Still watching the cars move
Still watching the lights upon the window
Im walking down the street
Im only thinking of you
I hear the night as it calls to me
It plays a symphony
It says youre gone from me.
Repeat chorus
Repeat chorus
song performed by by Electric Light Orchestra
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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There are few things in life
I
There are few things in life
that will equate,
the freedom
that you get on a motorbike.
II
Speed and power is something
that can easily grab you
and maybe you can fetch the same
adrenalin rush
if you parachute
or go down with a bungi rope,
but it’s maybe better to be part
of a iron horse
and alone with your self
and with the wind and the sun
see the road flashing by.
III
Let cars stand in rows
and busses full of unknown people
stop at many places,
while my blue motorbike
passes them
and drive to my destination.
poem by Gert Strydom
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