Dome of Pearl
One summer day we went
with me to Paarl mountain
which glistens white
in the rainy winter season
like a huge pearl
Your hair tied in a French plate
swished to and thro
were you walked
on the narrow track
up the slope in front of me.
I could see every muscle
moving of your delicate bottom
and embraced you from behind
while we stopped to catch some breathe.
Your sweat and perfume
was very alluring
and we were thirsty
and drank some Coke
before continuing the walk up
on that cream coloured
domed granite hill
looking somewhat like
ice cream without a cone
in huge dimensions.
We went right up to the white
height indicating beacon
with a deep abyss under us
and the wind rustling
through your fringe and my hair,
the sun burning down ferociously
and breathtaking the whole Franschoek Valley
stretched patched green, yellow and brown
with grape orchards up to Simonsberg
which lay somewhat flat in the distance
with clouds shrouding its peak
and your felt somewhat dizzy.
[Reference: Paarl meaning pearl.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Related quotes
Self-centered....
the blond
has a hand that carries a cone of
vanilla ice cream
it is summer
he looks at the sea
and lets his ice cream melt
not licking it yet
the sea is so blue
a woman looks at his
well chiseled body his
butterfly back
his abs and
strong arms
the ice cream melts
the man looks at the sand
and estimates the size
of his shadow
the sand is so white
the woman with her long black hair
in a two piece
the main attraction of this poem
backs out
and buys her own cone of
vanilla ice cream
and she licks it until the ice cream
is consumed
the man goes to the sea and makes
his needed dive
indeed the sea is so blue
and it is a sad summer....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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At Cape Point
As I drive past Cape Point
and the winter rain sieves down,
I see the track going up the hill
and see walking up the slope
my girlfriend and I
on a long gone summer’s day.
Her smile was like the sun
and the tranquillity
as we walked up the hill
is with me still and what we said
does not matter at all
and at the top we looked
at the great rollers of the sea
where two oceans
and two strong currents meet
and saw huge waves crashing below
and through the telescope
we watched a liner sailing bye
and the wind ruffled her hair
and only the two of us were there
my girlfriend and I
and as feelings go
never have I felt a thing like that
and was the great world
as lovely as just then
and now I would give almost anything
to be back there
while my solitude
is giving way to loneliness.
[Reference: Cape point: A place where the Atlantic and Indian oceans meet and the hot Agulhas (Mozambique) and cold Benguela currents.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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A moment in time! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
Summer at peak;
a young man
in a white singlet.
Summer at peak;
a young girl
in short sleeves.
Summer at peak;
A child licks
Ice cream.
Summer at peak;
an infant
On inhaler.
Summer at peak;
A young couple
Cosy in cinema hall seats.
Summer at peak;
A vendor
Sells lime water.
Summer at peak;
Gulmohar petals
lie limp on grass.
Summer at peak;
Dust haze,
Road rage.
Summer at peak;
beads of sweat
slide on lips.
Summer at peak,
Street wars,
Blame it on heat.
poem by Mamta Agarwal
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Ice Cream Hair
My mom's hair is made of Chocolate Ice Cream.
My dad's hair is made of Mint Ice Cream.
My sister's hair is made of Vanilla Ice Cream.
My halve sister's hair is made of Strawberry Ice Cream.
My brother's hair is made of Coconut Ice Cream.
My halve brother's hair is made of Blue Berry Ice Cream.
My baby sister's hair is made of Banana Split Ice Cream.
What is my hair made out of?
All of the above,
and a hint of sprinkles; -) .
poem by Jasmine Aira
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The farmer and his wife (Sestina)
A girl was lying down flat on her back
with a straw hat at eye height over hair,
she was sun-struck, curling and fair
with a rain cloud ominous and black
drifting in a blue sky and a small track
meandering past and it needed some repair.
Some of your makeup is in need of repair,
there’s a guitar bag slung over your back
where you walk pass the girl at the dirt track
with the strong wind frizzling through your hair
and the sky is already turning black
but the evening up to now is fair.
Slowly you walk past the local fair
with some of the stalls needing repair,
the guitar you are carrying is black
and you walk straight on, do not look back
at the whistles of some men with long hair
while home you take a narrow long track.
Watching our horses on the racetrack
you are really sexy and very fair,
our horses do parade with shining hair
you notice that the stands need some repair
and I am standing somewhat at your back
while you are dressed prettily in black.
The highway is like a ribbon that is black
where it meets the old overgrown farm track,
there are huge blue-gum trees some way back
and you agree that the price of the Lucerne is fair
where some cows graze at the pen, needing repair,
swishing with tails to drive flies from their hair.
I pull my fingers slowly through my hair
and there are streaks of grey in the black,
but the cattle are only doing fair
while my love is coming with the field’s track
that must constantly be kept in repair
and I hear her singing over my back.
There were torn out hair a long time back,
when I met my darling and she was fair,
at a fight at a track, I was in need of repair.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Early one afternoon
Early one afternoon
I walked through the streets
of a small village
and it had to be in Italy
and was probably in Corona
or Tuscany.
a Baker with a white overcoat
and white hat on his head
rang on his bike’s bell for me
and pedalled pass,
with an old green bike
at the Pizza Palour.
There were long white breads
and green wine bottles,
in the baskets of his bicycle
and he had a big bush
of red blue lanvender flowers in one hand.
Across from me there were three small tables
with white table-covers,
at the Villa Toscana
and I could read some dishes
from the menu on the wall.
At the wall a young woman
with dark hair and an indigo dress
laughed sharp and bright,
while she waited
that a well built waitress
pour some more wine.
The image of the beautiful waitress
with black hair and deep dark eyes,
that bends forward
still stays with me.
In front of me at Le Art
there were a row of paintings,
depicting nudes to the finest detail
on painter’s easels.
I walked nearer
and I could see rows of violet lavender bushes
against the ridge in the distance
and Villa’s, that stand yellow gold
up on the hill
and looked impressive
against the deep blue sky.
When I got back to myself
I was at the fountain
in front of the mural
in our garden
and the golden Persian cat,
watched me from the top of the wall
with a woolly tail that curled down
and it looked with golden eyes at me.
[Reference: Tuscan mural by Mandi. See the painting at my webpage: http: //www.mabooki.com/poems/display/1417_Early_one_af ternoon.htm]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Boracay Fantasy....
this summer when we are together
in boracay
near as tongue to a cone of strawberry ice cream
licking,
i get so close to you that i can feel the 'tanness'
of your tan
tasting like chocolate without sugar
a little bit bitter but
enduring
after the sun has passed its joys upon you
brown smooth skin
broad spacious nape and black flowing hair
surfing upon a pair of mountain breasts
with trees as nipples
scented with
southern sea breeze and smelling like fried dried fish beside steam white pearly rice
early morning
with barako coffee and cream and freshly scrambled mayonnaise egg
on a sky blue saucer.
how i wish for a premature evening
beds softer than sand, thoughts ever lovelier than lovers
and such questions as,
'what is this moon saying? '
tonight, you are telling me
your room has no lock and your sister is dating
that new guy in town.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Hope I Get It
(marvin hamlisch/ed kleban)
Everyday for a week we would try to be a table
Be a sportscar, ice cream cone
The teacher, he would say
Very good except diana, try, diana, all alone
So I dug right down to the bottom of my soul
To see how an ice cream felt
I dug right down to the bottom of my soul
And I tried to melt
So the kids in the class said:
Ooh, I feel chocolate, hey, I feel vanilla
He said ok ross, what do you feel?
And I said nothing, I aint feeling nothing
Deep down nothing is all my teacher had
Everybody felt something
But I felt nothing
Except the feeling that this bull-shit was absurd
song performed by by Diana Ross
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The never-ending road
I saw the landscape passing by,
while the car swept
on with a never-ending road.
Buildings rose up into the air
and everywhere people were
packed square by square
in offices, flats and apartments.
White yellow mine dumps
and huge cranes glided by
and I felt small as a fly,
against the immensity of it all
Acres of corn surrounded me
and all the way to the horizon,
I saw no tree.
The green was all around me
and a mechanical spray point,
where showering water in an arc.
The land flattened
while I drove South
and grey thorn bushes flashed by.
Here and there
some rocky outcrops
stood red brown against the flat plain,
but everything begged for a dropp of rain.
In the far distance up in the sky
a lightning bolt twisted to the ground
and when the rain came gushing down,
life sprouted from the sand.
The road stretched on
and in the distance
the black of the tar
met with the sky
and except for the windmills I passed by,
that road could have been
anywhere on this good great earth.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Long Journey
Motorcycling along
the N1 freeway
from Pretoria in the north to Cape Town
the flaming sun rises over the horizon
small like a ripe apricot
while its dimensions gets larger
and then tomato red
a little later it turns orange and like a ripe fruit
hangs untouchable up on the sky
and corn fields, fences and trees
fly past almost blurring
in the twilight sketched like pencil drawings
and the sun like a huge pit being spitted
crosses the sky
changes to yellow and then to white hot
and the sky turns from dusk grey
to bright blue
and later to a darker hue
and the hot wind bristles
as if with loving fingers
touching and stroking your whole body
and in the early fresh morning
you draw in at a garage,
make a pit stop, to check the oil,
to fill your motorcycle up
and have a breakfast
at a Wimpy roadhouse
and the smell of fuel
hangs in the air
and you find children there
looking with huge curious eyes
at your motorbike
and gazing at you,
as if a hero character
has just walk right out
of a cartoon magazine
and you remove your helmet
take off your leather gloves
visit the loo where a guy or two
looks at you and comments
on your motorcycle, your leather jacket
the weather and the road
and in the restaurant
the waitress pours a Mega coffee,
smiles dazzling
when she puts it on the table
with your breakfast of steak,
French fries and coke
and you can swear
that there’s a twinkling in her eyes
before she walks away
with a French plate swishing to and thro
and buttocks leaving a distinct impression
of female grace
but the sun is drawing water
and time is flying,
you motorcycle thunders alive
and you return to the freeway
where at speed you pass
cars, greyhound busses and trucks
and the road feels almost without end
right through the flat Orange Free State,
later the acrid hell hot Karroo
where you see grazing flocks of sheep
like white specks
and some windmills
flashing and reflecting the sun
on their huge spinning blades
somewhat like lonely landmarks
and you make some more pit stops
to refuel and stretch your legs
have another meal
and just before driving through
the last tunnel on top of a hill
dusk envolopes the world, the sun dwindles away,
the evening star is just above the horizon
and a little later star after star flies pass
like leaves in autumn falling from a tree
and you are free, almost at the end
of your journey
or maybe you are always just passing by,
travelling to a new destination
with the wind, the sun and sky
and some people that you meet on the trip
and sometimes you go very fast,
at other times almost creeping slow
until suddenly destiny causes the journey to end.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Coke and Ana Cristina
Red and White
Red and Whire
Coca-Cola what a beautiful sight
White and red
White and red
With out my Coke i'd rather be dead
In a bottle or in a can
For a Coke i'd rather stand
Some say it kills the inside
others say the out
BUT I SAY in or out i'd rather die happy with out a doubt
Coke and Ana what a lovely pair
If you snag her Coke you had Better Beware
Ana and Coke what a lovely match
Ana's nice but Coke's the real catch
Ana with her Coke will not Pout
If you ask her why she will Shout
Cause I LOVE COCA_COLA TILL THE DAY I DIE
AND I LOVE IT MORE THAN SUN, EARTH, OR SKY!
the threat she left me with this summer was:
If they try to take my Coke away
I will snatch it back and say
I got reflexes like a cat
Ree-awr
poem by Katharine Angelina Matias
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Orchards
Orchards in the Spring-time! Oh, I think and think of them,—
Filmy mists of pink and white above the fresh, young green,
Lifting and drifting,—how my eyes could drink of them,
I'm staring at a dirty wall beyond a big machine.
Orchards in the Spring-time! Deep in soft, cool shadows,—
Moving all together when the west wind blows
Fragrance upon fragrance over road and meadows—
I'm smelling heat and oil and sweat, and thick, black clothes.
Orchards in the Spring-time! The clean white and pink of them
Lifting and drifting with all the winds that blow.
Orchards in the Spring-time! Thank God I still can think of them!
You're not docked for thinking, — if the foreman doesn't know.
poem by Theodosia Garrison
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Somewhere in the hillocks
Somewhere in the hillocks
there’s a place
where you go through a rocky gateway
where blunted brown rocks lie
in the red brown sand
and here and there are trees
sticking out like half bare fingers
against the sky
as if leaves are struggling to grow
and terrible winds
at times rip it off.
The grass of the veldt is yellow
as if it’s already winter,
but maybe not a lot of rain
falls here
and in the distance
I see clouds white and grey
hanging over the blue mountain top
while the sun at places
comes through it
and would have liked
to be with the painter Jacobs
at that place.
[Reference: Painting by D Jacobs that belongs to me.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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I Remember You As You Were In The Winter
I remember you as you were in the winter,
with a warm cap worn like a kind of beret,
with the silences that were in your presence,
while your hair were autumn, your eyes
blazed with a kind of inner passionate fire
while the great wind swept rain and leaves
and your words, deeds and intimate sighs
in wonder went to the very depths of my soul.
While you embraced me like a morning glory
climbing against me constantly, always searching
for some deeper meaning, for more intimate bliss
while the timber of your voice was full of tranquilly.
I feel your eyes wandering and the sun is far gone,
with your brown cap, your autumn hair and blazing eyes,
while you are drawing me to you and now its summer
while your kisses glow with passionate burning fire.
Your memory constantly visits me, are always there
like fog rising in the early winter mornings
and to you I yearn, are like a migrating bird
always searching for the newest bright summer
and the memory remains of your presence
as you were in winter with a myriad
of small gestures, words, intimate sighs
with hair of autumn, green blazing bewitching eyes.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Monkey Butt with Choca Mocha
It's not my favorite...
But it's hot!
This flavor tasted that I've got!
It satisfies a need that's fed...
A craving that has stopped inside my head!
A temporary drop,
In my pocket.
I will admit a feeding has been met!
A soothing to a drooling has been cooled.
Addicted to a moment of regret that's soothed!
Put a double on the cone for me!
With a cherry on the top...
Sitting on whipped cream with meaning!
Put a double on the cone for me!
Since you're out of Maple Nut...
I'll take take two scoops of 'Monkey Butt'.
And come back and get that 'Choca Mocha'!
Put a double on the cone for me!
With a cherry on the top...
Sitting on whipped cream with meaning!
Put a double on the cone for me!
Since you're out of Maple Nut...
Give me 'Monkey Butt' with 'Choca Mocha'!
Wait!
Leave the 'Monkey Butt'
And add two 'Choca Mochas'!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Life of a Flower
As the snow melts with upmost intensity
Out of the white field under the blues sky a green spot rises
The rise of a legacy of a summer, a legacy of blooms
The sun rises and white is no more
White once now is green, green signs of life
Life that will live for a summer time, summer that never ends
From green to yellow, yellow that perfects the view
View out of sight, so far away you can see the Earth curves
From yellow that blinds the eyes to cloudy skies
Now is time again, say good bye till summer comes back
From brown, the name of a legacy that lasted a life time
Brown surrenders to white, so smooth takes it by force
And Earth sleeps again under the white blanket
Forever and ever life lives and dies
Perfection is all.
Late autumn
The yellow veldt, the skeleton chestnut trees
specs of orange-red aloes in the kopje
are near to the old white house
and in the late afternoon shades draw long lines
while I walk up to the house on the red-brown dirt road
and most of the flowers in the garden are stripped bare
but a few irises are flowering yellow,
purple and cream brown
and the sky is dull blue and the early evening cold
is already on the wind that is rustling everything
and after years I open the garden gate
are coming back to my childhood home
stripped from illusions,
and I am bare from the childhood innocence
but full of hope
and looking through a mature man’s eyes.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Have hues a role?
Grass lends beauty to ‘green’;
Tooth lends beauty to ‘white’;
Sky lends beauty to ‘blue’.
So do lips to ‘red’.
Red lips excel red blood;
Brown horse excel brown ass;
Yellow gold excels yellow brass.
So does black hair, black skin.
Black hair yields to white hair;
Green meadow yields to gray one.
Brown curls yield to fallen leaves
So does tender skin to one wrinkled.
The stuff rules; the merit rules;
The young rules. Have hues a role?
13.03.2007
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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A walk along the beach
I see a ship
passing beyond the breakers
white on the top
and red at the bottom
and the sea is calm
and a light wind
is blowing on the beach.
Alone I walk
on the hot soft sand
looking for shells
but here and there
I find one that’s not broken
and walk on further
and further
almost as if following a track
that’s just out of reach.
Climbing down
a small cliff
I am suddenly on a seclude beach
and in the blinding light
shells are everywhere
and I know
that no one else
has been here.
Some are brittle
like the leaves of flowers
and others hard as rock
with orange and pink embouchures,
a scope of blues,
hazing mother of pearl
shimmering like a rainbow,
brittle green circles
with holes in the middle
and some are more pure white
than snow.
I pick a ransom up at dusk
and lay down on my back
and watch the sun
setting above the sea
and time trail from me.
I must have been stuck
in my own thoughts
and caught by the serenity
when suddenly I noticed
a beautiful naked girl
looking at me
with a kiss in her eyes
that penetrates into my soul.
Her eyes shining
with shivering iridescence
(just like mother of pearl)
and her teeth gleaming
whiter than anything.
The second kiss
is on my lips
and hot and sweet.
Some perfume
almost dazes my head
and her nipples brush
protruding against my cheek.
“You have beautiful shells, ”
a husky voice says
and no words can express
my thoughts
while I kiss her back.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Table Bay (Cavatina Sequence)
(after Matthew Arnold)
The sea lies flat like a huge lake tonight
but for the spray
that is endlessly sweeping in and out
on the white bay,
some couples walk on the beach
on holiday;
holding their hands under a yellow moon,
some bright beacons and stars will be out soon.
In the distance Table Mountain rises
its huge old bulk,
is gigantic black and flat against the sky
like a ship's hulk
where it marks the African continent;
sails of yachts sulk
as they lie limp in the windless great harbour
while tranquil people are home from labour.
Lights gleam far away at sea, are passing,
with a long lost
feeling of the great endlessness; as waves
fling, churn and toss
the hopes, fears and happiness of nations;
the great-great cost
of ending impoverishment, the ills
of vast centuries as destiny wills.
At a time faith and the will to be great,
did flow to sea,
like rivers in torrents that did rush in;
people were free
from the wars on the great black continent,
no destiny
could harass the nations, the pyramids,
that any living it now does forbid.
Like waves endlessly crushing on the beach,
and never spent
drawing back again, rushing to and thro
the sheer moment
between us has something that is lasting;
evanescent,
with some joys in our mutual discourse
life also flows to its ultimate course.
[Reference: 'Dover Beach' by Matthew Arnold.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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