Cape Town Days
Streets are full of vivid bougainvilleas
while clouds start to touch Table Mountain,
white horses are running from the sea to the beaches
and the southeaster blows at its full strength.
Later in the afternoon the Table Mountain is stark,
naked and clear, the ocean stretches out tranquil and flat
with it dark blue much deeper in turning to green
and the hot Mediterranean sun basks in the sky
and you long to be on Clifton beach
between a myriad of topless girls
with shiny brown tanned bodies
and in your office you can almost smell
the coconut suntan oil,
can almost hear them talking
and their sweet laughter,
can almost taste the salt of the sea on the wind.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Table Bay [2]
I can hear the waves roar,
slamming shingle on the rocks, the beach
drawing in and out
on Bloubergstrand
and the cadence is a age old shuddering
of waves breaking, continuing like before
and in the distance Table Bay
lies stretched out specked with
hundreds of little lights
like a enormous crown
with the flat mountain top
on display, etched against the night sky
and its full tide, the moon is full
yellow and magnificent
and the place of good hope,
lies on the shore
with waves breaking forever more
and lonely the beach stretches out before me,
in a long white ribbon
and the dark water goes out to the horizon,
almost as far as I can see
and the sea wind is fresh and new
and there's no light in sight
on the wavering ocean
just a darkness that envelopes me
as the waves
are throwing pebbles out
and drawing them in
before breaking on the beach
and there's nobody to be true to,
nobody to trust, only the reality of the here and now
and all hope, all promises, all joy and pain
remains the same
swept in and out of a confused world
forever breaking, forever rushing in.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Then I Longed Back To My Own Place
I was looking at the wide ocean
while standing for moments on Table Mountain,
I saw seagulls swarm under in the bay,
when the Southeaster blew everything into a jumble;
then I longed back to my own place,
to my home at the Sugar-bush-hillocks.
At the Strand I wanted to dream on my own
when a mishmash of people suddenly streamed around me
bolstering from busses, swimming in their underwear,
with one screaming deafening with a shrill voice;
then I longed back to my own place,
to my home at the Sugar-bush-hillocks.
At Clifton the girls were topless
they were coaxing and I wanted to blush,
at Sea Point lights flared into the night
but in Gauteng one was waiting on me;
then I longed back to my own place,
to my home at the Sugar-bush-hillocks.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Hues of blue
From the holiday apartment’s window
I see people swimming in the blue pool
and the water looks icy cold
from the dark blue colour
Some girls and women have
bathing caps on in colours
of white, green and blue
and others swim without
while some lie
around the pool.
While the day gets hotter
the colour of the pool changes
to a lighter hue
and just across the road
the beach is full
of people lying in the sun.
Some swim with the waves
breaking white
and some are deeper
in the aquamarine water
and still deeper
some surfers
are riding the waves
the of a navy blue ocean.
poem by Gert Strydom
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In Margate
The curtains in the bedroom
are drawn close
and you lie
in semi-darkness.
Through the open window
I can smell the sea
and hear waves breaking
beyond the road.
The wind pulls at the curtains
and every now and then
the white beach
and the blue ocean peeps in.
We came to Margate
for a holiday at the sea
to bathe is shallow waters
to swim with the surf,
to have some fun
and tan in the hot sun,
but darkness hangs
like a shroud over you
while the white beach,
the bright blue sky
and the dark blue ocean waits
on us to come.
poem by Gert Strydom
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A stroll at Sea Point
I walk right into
the wind that blows softly,
for a meeting
with the dark blue ocean
that stretches out far
under the bright blue sky
and suddenly I know
that Sea Point had been
a prosperous neighbourhood
but now there are numbers of old folk,
children hanging around like hippies
with liquor, cigarettes and drugs
and car guards catching my eye
while seagulls screeching
with impudence grab
flabby chips from a man’s hand
and like screaming helicopters
hang above him
and he angrily
also throws his piece of fish into the air
and saying: “take that too.”
The sea stays pretty dark blue
and when I walk along
I smell the salt,
I hear the thundering crunch
of waves without end
breaking and spraying
and it feels if here I am really living.
poem by Gert Strydom
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See Off This Mountain
Shes a blue ridge cradle shes a mother to some and home to the laughter of road weary ones so well sing all the old songs sing to grandmama road and well sing cause we miss her
Were sad she had to go if I could see off this mountain through the clouds in my eyes I would see off this mountain on the nights stars fell and see off this mountain through the te
N my eyes I would see off this mountain and the stars fell from the skies in the air I hear a fiddle down along hickory way and the mandolin guitar like we used to play and down on
s rock brothers boasting a dare we tell them theyre crazy and pretend we dont care if I could see off this mountain through the clouds in my eyes I would see off this mountain o
Nights stars fell and see off this mountain through the tears in my eyes I would see off this mountain and the stars fell from the skies the air tastes like moonshine in the wind a ca
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Ival tune it soars with our laughter but well all leave too soon so I raise a toast to family put thanks in my glass in the arms of your loved ones its the only home that lasts i
Ould see off this mountain through the clouds in my eyes I would see off this mountain on the night the stars fell and see off this mountain through the tears in my eyes I could see
His mountain when the stars fell from the skies when the stars fell from the skies going up to grandmama road going up to grandmama road Im happy as can be cause cant you see i
Ng up to grandmama road
song performed by by Edwin McCain
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Smokey Mountain Boy
(words & music by rosenblatt - milrose)
Im just a smokey mountain boy
Come back to the hills I love
Where the tops of pine all bend in the wind
And the deep blue sky above
The closer and closer I get to home
The more excited I am
Those were the mornings Id roll out of bed
Start the day off with a hot corn bread
Smothered in huckleberry jam
Im just a smokey mountain boy
Come back to the hills I love
Where the tops of pine all bend in the wind
And the deep blue sky above
I can almost hear the hounds running through the woods
Close on the trail of the hare
How I long to be with them following the hounds
A-huntin again
Gettin me a big old grizzly bear
Im just a smokey mountain boy
Come back to the hills I love
Where the tops of pine all bend in the wind
And the deep blue sky above
I traveled around and met lots of girls
No matter how many I see
I left some pretty ones behind
I know back home is where Ill find
The girl whose love is meant for me
Im just a smokey mountain boy
Come back to the hills I love
Where the tops of pine all bend in the wind
And the deep blue sky above
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dreams to Nightmares
I stare at the wall and close my eyes
I started to dream about parts of the world
Beaches to oceans to schools of fish
My dreams turn to nightmares after awhile
The cool, damp beach where sand comes to rest
The emptiness in the pastel blue sky
The sand placed perfectly in place
The smell of salt water against the shore
The crystal clear ocean calm as can be
The current not even moving sea life
Fish eating at the bottom by the sand
The sound of calm waves hitting the shore
The colorful fish ranging from green to blue
Fish from all different sizes
The sound of fish jumping out of the ocean
They swim without a government to follow
The beaches turn to cemeteries
The oceans turn dark gray, and fish floating dead
The sky black as can be with flashes of light
You wake up realizing life is so much different
poem by Kasondra Sytnik
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Over The Land Is April
OVER the land is April,
Over my heart a rose;
Over the high, brown mountain
The sound of singing goes.
Say, love, do you hear me,
Hear my sonnets ring?
Over the high, brown mountain,
Love, do you hear me sing?
By highway, love, and byway
The snows succeed the rose.
Over the high, brown mountain
The wind of winter blows.
Say, love, do you hear me,
Hear my sonnets ring?
Over the high, brown mountain
I sound the song of spring,
I throw the flowers of spring.
Do you hear the song of spring?
Hear you the songs of spring?
poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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Baby Dreams
Full moon’s beaming
What is baby dreaming?
Of sweet little sonnets,
Blue baby bonnets,
Trinkets and toys,
Kisses and boys,
Fairies and wings,
Shiny, diamond rings,
Red floating kites,
Tinker Bell and Snow White,
Angels on clouds glowing,
Trees buried in winter’s snowing,
Princesses in their gowns,
Princes in their crowns,
Polka dotted umbrellas,
A shoe and Cinderella,
Little girls as they play,
Toys on the sleigh,
Sitting on Santa’s knee,
Ornaments on the tree,
Decorations in the grove,
Gingerbread men in the stove,
Jesus in his stable,
Cookies and milk on the table,
Elves as they pose,
Rudolph’s old shiny nose,
Carolers in their attire,
Stockings above the fire,
You are tucked cozy in the bed,
Dreams dance in your head,
The full moon is beaming,
Baby, what are you dreaming?
poem by Whitney Albright
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Ode to Salt
This salt
in the salt cellar
I once saw in the salt mines.
I know
you won't
believe me
but
it sings
salt sings, the skin
of the salt mines
sings
with a mouth smothered
by the earth.
I shivered in those
solitudes
when I heard
the voice
of
the salt
in the desert.
Near Antofagasta
the nitrous
pampa
resounds:
a
broken
v oice,
a mournful
song.
In its caves
the salt moans, mountain
of buried light,
translucent cathedral,
crystal of the sea, oblivion
of the waves.
And then on every table
in the world,
salt,
we see your piquant
powder
sprinkling
vital light
upon
our food.
Preserver
of the ancient
holds of ships,
discoverer
on
the high seas,
earliest
sailor
of the unknown, shifting
byways of the foam.
Dust of the sea, in you
the tongue receives a kiss
from ocean night:
taste imparts to every seasoned
dish your ocean essence;
the smallest,
miniature
wave from the saltcellar
reveals to us
more than domestic whiteness;
in it, we taste finitude.
poem by Pablo Neruda
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Under The Dark Of The Vine Veranda
Coral dust blows
off the white beach
onto the slatted table.
Overhead, a trellis
of brown wood and green leaves
and, pushing through, dense clusters
of pink and white
Ladies’ Finger Nails,
sweet scented with a trace of lime.
An orchestra of cicadas,
the rustling of a million
tiny silver bells.
A fine sprinkling sound.
Like frost.
poem by Brian Taylor
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Like that
It is chandeliers
brought alive with candles
and diamonds and emeralds
thrown up to them
and the beach after a storm
a homecoming
a log thrown on the fire
the taste of lips
a baby’s smile
a song remembered
a walk with children
a dog wagging its tail
a welcome
a meeting of eyes
a sea-wet shell of pearl
alabaster
a kitchen smell’s promise
an old friend after so long
the scent of daphne
laughter between
an unexpected touch of hand on arm
the first primrose in the hedge
fresh paint
the moment the tide turns known
a smile from a stranger
a love letter half read
the first bike
new socks
a baby rabbit that doesn't run away
lavender
a new knowing
wind-dried bed linen
a first memory
hand knitting
the garden after rain
tears of laughter
raspberries
a sky full of stars twinkling
cicadas singing at night
the smell of mountain herbs
a trickling brook
greenness
it is like that
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Inebriation
High on the stony mountain,
Swathed in fog,
Sounds a chilling, lonely gong.
I wander through the valleys,
Through the villages and trees,
And past still pools,
Searching for somewhere I lost.
Far beyond those mountains,
Once it lay,
My somewhere, that I forgot
In the bottom of a glass.
I left there, and my mind was full
Of that mountain fog,
And now I cannot remember where ‘twas.
There was sunlight there,
Of this I am certain.
No misty valleys, no clouded hills.
It was flat, and full of light,
And clouds, and dancing people.
But I lost it,
And I fear I shall never return.
poem by Sophia White
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The City And The Town
this is what the city has to offer
neon lights, ambulance screams,
loud music, beer and ale,
a small room, a busy life,
a little sleep,
exquisite dinners,
late shows, gags, gigs.
but i have enough of all these,
i went to the little town
and have this wooden house,
beside a river, there are flowers
blooming and vegetable gardens,
and tranquil horizons,
a beautiful sunset
a brighter sunrise,
crustal clear rivers,
home fishing, and mountain treks,
and fresh smell of green grass,
and cool shades of trees,
mountain shadows,
full moons and singing birds
love calls, and fresh fruits
direct from the trees,
wild chickens, and
horses to ride and carabaos
to pasture, goats to feed
and turkey chases,
a very peaceful sleep at night
under the moon
lamp-lit room and some cicadas
in concert with the frogs
and crickets and worms
and then the rain
starts to fall
you hear the sweet hum
of the nearby river
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Alone on holiday away from you
White, red and yellow lilies
grow rampant and wild
next to the train tracts
between Somerset West
and the Strand
where I am on the train
from Bellville
and there’s a
white-hot sun that burns
high from above
and I can smell the sea
while I look
at the magical
dark blue water,
but you will not like
the cold water
and the light breeze
that blows today
and here and there
there are people
sending kites
into the air
and I see them
hanging flapping above
while a few
diving down with speed
and there’s sandpaper
in the beach wind
that hits me with sea sand
and the waves
rollick like wild horses
and in the distance
I see the road turning
past Gordonsbay
and I am alone on holiday
away from you.
poem by Gert Strydom
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I saw something of it
I saw something of it
in the morning sunrise
on Clifton beach
and a bit was part of the rushing surf
and it was in the aquamarine sky
and in the green colour of the sea
and somehow the white seagull
had some of it,
but fairer still
was the blonde topless girl
that smiled at me.
poem by Gert Strydom
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A Wind From... Elsewhere
The wind blows here... the wind blows there
The wind seems to blow from... everywhere.
But the wind I love... when it blows... blows fair...
This wind... when it blows... blows from... ELSEWHERE! Can you see its graceful fingers... playing in your hair?
Nay! You cannot see the wind... e'en though you know it's there.
It's flitting... it's flirting... it's prancing everywhere
This wind... when it blows... blows from... ELSEWHERE! It blows unexpectedly... with a gentle breeze... it blows...
The Great Hand of Miracles... brings it... then it goes
To greet the early morning sun... to dance to and fro
From the highest, loftiest mountain heights... to valleys... far below. 'Who is He that sitteth upon the circle of the earth...
Who gathereth the winds in his fists—Who maketh a wind to pass over...
Thou hearest the sound thereof...
But canst not tell whence it cometh... and wither it goeth.' The wind blows here... the wind blows there...
The wind seems to blow... from everywhere.
But the wind I love... when it blows... blows fair—
This wind... when it blows... blows from... ELSEWHERE!
poem by Elga Haymon White
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Running On The Beach
Early just after dawn
there is salt in the air,
a light wind pulls at my hair
while I race on the beach
clothed in only bathing trunks,
trying to outrun the incoming surf,
which at times splashes against my body.
I pass some big rocks
while the white sand of Clifton
clings to my feet and legs,
the air starts to burn in my lungs,
while I pick up the pace,
finding new energy under the summer sun,
with the sea only touching at my feet.
In the distance stark naked
two young women tan,
the one is lying on her stomach
the other is sitting up and facing me
and I notice that her stomach is flat,
her breasts are DD sized with nipples hard,
she says something to the other girl and is smiling.
I want to avoid them, keep to the solitude,
the freedom of racing at speed,
with the sun and the wind touching my body,
while all thoughts are stripped from me
but one of them have got other plans,
gets up and steps right into my way
with legs wide and eyes bluer than the sky.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Food On My Table
Come and see the food on my table,
For it is prepared for you and me;
And, i am waiting for you in the room of my love.
Life is full of surprises and i want to show you my love,
And here comes the sun of the morning to touch your heart;
For, it is right for you to be beside me at this table.
The food on my table,
As soon as you receive my letter means that i love you;
For life is full of surprises and i want your love,
So come and let us share this food on my table.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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