Filemon
Early in the morning
before the first coffee cups are set
and the first brew is made
Filemon arrives.
At a time I see him
riding a big black bicycle
and how he struggles
to get all the parcels
to the post office.
Later he drives a blue-grey station wagon
from which he carries a load of parcels
and never there’s a difference of a cent
on the money that he banks
and even when he’s doing his work
to the best of his ability,
a decision is made
that he must stay a messenger
and have to drive people and parcels around.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Related quotes
And though various organizations in America and England collected money and sent food parcels to these refugees, nothing was ever received by the Spanish.
quote by Martha Gellhorn
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Paris Rain
Sitting on a porch
In splendid Paris as the doves
Guffaw and then scour -
We watch them flutter away
To their uncanny retreat: a slow resignation.
The candid lights flicker
And the sound of the automobiles are blaring -
The deafening cacophony of the sirens.
Among the foreign tongues,
She sips on her coffee as her eyes are filled
To the brim with enthusiasm.
The lights are trapped inside your eyes.
She told me, wearing her vibrant array,
Her mesmeric grin and her usual floral dress
That I have come to pick up in her absence.
The people chatter in a mad clangor
As they sprawl over their coffee
A rower came by underneath the winch
Where the river streams resiliently like
The lock of Janine's hair -
I run my hands through her hair and I am reminded
Of how hope slithers into my core.
It started to rain, gently
The supple bending of the cypress to the wind's
Amorous bluster is poetry to our eyes
The sound of the people scrounging for shelter
Is a saturnine humor
And how the rain engulfed her floral dress,
Leaving it with smudges of the heaven's tears
Made her glow in such a resplendent burst:
To see the Sun this close under the rain,
Lost in Paris is captivating -
We watch the rain drops shatter
Like glass tears from the heavens filled
With mire and her steady fixation
On the dank concrete made me jealous -
I wish to be the concrete, her stare
Is as precious as the ebullient trance like how one
Stands in front of the sea, naked
And wan as the wind starkly brushes your soul.
She continued to take fewer sips on her coffee mug,
Her stench defeats the petrichor,
The rain ceased and the doves began to scatter
All over the Paris asphalt, bickering over parcels of
Bread - she sat down again,
In front of me, on a porch in Paris.
Without the rain, Paris still razes with a beauty unfazed.
I was living in one of her dreams which slowly
Transpired into mine as well,
But then again,
Without Paris,
Without the rain,
Without the doves,
Without coffee,
Parcels of bread even,
Without the automobiles of
Uncouth machinism,
Without everything,
Everyone,
Way away,
Alone with her immense eyes
Is where I want to be.
poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
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Fortune's a right whore. If she give ought, she deals it in small parcels, that she may take away all at one swoop.
quote by John Webster
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Long Black Road
They used to tell me boy you aint goin nowhere
With your cheap guitar and your big long hair
You gotta realize all your responsibilities
You gotta get out to work and face reality
You gotta get up in the morning take your heavy load
And you gotta keep goin down the long black road
So I drifted for a while down the road to ruin
I couldnt find my way I didnt know what I was doin
I saw a lot of people coming back the other way
So I kept on goin when I heard them say
You gotta get up in the morning take your heavy load
And you gotta keep goin down the long black road
I made a lot of money I was makin quite a mess
But they all told me money wouldnt bring me happiness
You gotta work like a man in a real mans life
Youre gonna have to take all the trouble and strife
You gotta get up in the morning take your heavy load
And you gotta keep goin down the long black road
song performed by by Electric Light Orchestra
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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What a folly to dread the thought of throwing away life at once, and yet have no regard to throwing it away by parcels and piecemeal.
A Bicycle Poem
do not worry how the bicycle looks
ride it.
do not think how the wheel and its
spokes work
do not attempt to understand its structure
ride it.
do not think how the other people looks at
you with your bicycle
just ride it.
when you are riding it already
just feel the joy of the air that meets your face
the speed by which it takes you
to another destination
just ride it, disembark when you get there
you do not even have to own it and keep it for the rest of your life
when you get old
remember that bicycle that once gave you all the joys of riding
before you die
give it to the young
they shall have their own joys too
riding it
and perhaps they will write a poem about you
or if not
about the bicycle at least
who knows?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Dream On!
Clouds hang low today covering the ridge,
if I drive up there on my bike I can hide in
a steel blue cloud and people will say:
where is he? Him! He is trying to find
the milky way where postmen wear red
uniforms and say good morning sir before
handing you the gas bill.
Sigh, here back on earth the post has been
privatized low status, casual work, they
wear jeans and anorak and have no time for
a chat, their route is long and a man with
a timepiece follows them around.
When coming down from the ridge I will not
carry tablets, stay silent drive home and
make a cup of coffee.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Publishers
I write letters, cut cd’s,
mail parcels and let emails heap up,
but my words are blown away
like specks of sand in a gale.
I sometimes wonder
why feelings and life
can blind you for a time with hope
and if the haste for profitability,
lets merit die along the way
and if everything
has to be eaten by the power of reality.
poem by Gert Strydom
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I Have Heaven
I have heavens in my garden of bags,
These house the palaces of your design,
Openly the maidens have worn their candor.
Some lucky frown has fallen down,
Bags of ability and worry swear to it,
But fortune wails and wonders from the heart.
I have parcels of assertion in these gates,
Earth shall be the straightforward home
Of a world of worlds, calling their sirens.
I have the charm,
I saw obvious enchantments in the path,
Towards the bag of pride was an escape.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Grief at Christmas
Grief comes at Christmas as at any other time
But at Christmas grief is more poignant,
And can cast a spell of gloom
While some happy round the tree, feasting,
And enjoying the moment
Others have no room,
For happiness has fled out the window
The parcels wrapped in red
Are lying where Santa Claus left them
And the cards are left unread.
For people who lost folk at Christmas?
Time drags and heavily hangs.
Oh why did they die at Christmas?
It’s so hard to understand
poem by Daphne Grant
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A Welcoming Of Their Own Grief
I remember a time,
When being honest with integrity...
Actually made a difference.
People had respect for those,
Who used their minds and were direct.
I also remember,
When people were not so quick...
To protect obvious mistakes made.
Or wasted the time to debate,
A welcoming of their own grief.
I remember a time,
When being honest with integrity...
Actually made a difference to leave.
And people did not pass judgement,
Before they listened to comprehend.
And today people have grown accustomed...
To ignore the message to then blame the messenger,
For their mistakes made to say as if offended...
They should be forgiven for not being accountable,
As they played unconsciously until it became too late.
And I remember the day when I walked away to leave,
This insanity to embrace my peace.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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October the Post Office Cat
Some thought she was a stray
That had come for scraps along the way
That might be left from the lunch
Of the post office staff; a kindly bunch.
But others knew her for what she was,
October the Post Office Cat.
She had a duty like any employee
To be on time and serve the public daily
And as any other as all know,
Had an official position just so.
October the Post Office Cat.
As soon as the walks were swept
And the doors were opened for the daily visits,
She found her space upon the walk
A bit removed so that none would balk
As they came to do their task or mail whatever.
October the Post Office Cat.
She often times was given the duty
Of minding some child whose custodian
Had business to attend
In dealing with the letters or packages within,
So she laid there carefully in the sun
Till end of day when her work was done.
October the Post Office Cat.
She was known by all who came along that way
Parking carefully throughout the day
Making sure that she was not disturbed
As she, her duties did perform.
Watching and listening to the sounds of pleasure
That only can be bestowed on one to treasure.
Yet adults knew not how to measure.
October the Post Office Cat.
On the post across the way
A yellow sign was placed on display
By the lady who ran the insurance office
Who wanted to be sure that others notice
That this was the path taken each day
As the cat came to begin her official stay.
October the Post Office Cat.
There came a time when she did not appear
And it was certainly a time to fear
That something had befallen this special one
Who worked so hard to please everyone
And the sign was removed so that all would know
That she wouldn't be there anymore.
October the Post Office Cat.
Then mysteriously the sign reappeared
On the post for all to read
Which proclaimed that this was the crossing
Reserved for the cat that all were missing.
And it's said that she comes each day
Although never seen by adults on their way
But the children know that she is there.
October the Post Office Cat.
poem by Sidi J. Mahtrow
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Early in the morning
Early in the morning
I see her getting warm
in her small blanket,
while we drive to work.
Sometimes I wonder
about what she is thinking
and the cat eyes in the road shines
and I concentrate past the sharp oncoming lights.
Still it’s nice to be together
in early dusky morning
and at times her hand rests
loving on my leg.
The wild bean café’s coffee
is very nice and hot
and she buys a pie which I eat later.
Today goes slowly
and I wonder at what time,
she is going to leave work
and if she will get me in time?
poem by Gert Strydom
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What for is money?
I thought on how could be the life
Without having to work for money.
After all this is the money which we work for.
Had we only have enough money to spend
We won’t have to toil our body or brain.
Solution also seemed very easy to me.
Just have a lot of mints to mint money.
Make as much money as may people need
Give them as much as may people want.
All problems are seemingly soon gone.
The root of all evils I thought could be
the root of happiness of all kind instead.
“How could this easy way out be overlooked? ”
Thinking furthermore I thought.
We need mints and we need paper and ink.
We need banks and a lot of ATMs.
People will get money and go for shopping
So we need ample shops. In shops we need products.
We need make shops and we need make products.
but we also need people to run them.
So some people will make paper and some ink.
Some other will work in mints and banks.
Some will work in shops and making products.
Rest all the people will only happily buy things.
Thinking up to here my thought jumbled.
People needed money so they worked.
If money was available for doing no work
Then why should there be anyone to work?
If no one works then where from comes paper and ink?
Where from comes money, banksand ATMs?
Where from then comes products?
Without products how could then we live and enjoy?
So we need products and for products we need to work,
to get people into the works we need money.
So it was that money could not be made free.
I thought 'People have already thought it before me.'
poem by Palas kumar Ray
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The flags at the Pretoria news hangs limp
The flags at the Pretoria news hangs limp
hangs limp
while I walk to the bus stop
and a man with a straw hat
with a badge on it
carries a backpack
and is armoured with a leather jacket.
His white smoke clouds
curls into the morning air
and a schoolgirl,
gets a cigarette from him
and a small group
smokes with him.
a Air force officer
with a blue penguin cap
on his head
walks past like on every work day
and I wonder why he
has to be so early on his post.
I buy sweets from a street vendor
who also sells newspapers and cigarettes
and I see his fingers
counting sixteen in the cold,
before he replaces his hand
into the pockets of his coat.
The people are already
forming a hell of a long queue,
to catch a bus to Hatfield
and the air is this morning
rather grey than blue
and I wonder why
a young lady
keeps looking at me.
a Bus that looks like the right one,
stops a away at a short distance
where the driver
changes the sign
and it parks at the right place.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Grand British Brew
I declare unto you there's a brew that is true,
Golden brown until we make it white;
It's drunk in the morning, it's drunk after noon,
In the evening, and also at night.
The procedure to make this infusion
Is quite ceremonial in China;
But this king of all drinks well deserves it,
To be honest there's just nothing finer.
Some take it with milk, some take it without,
Then the question is: 'One lump or two? '
But whatever the colour or sweetness of taste,
You can't beat The Grand British Brew.
If your preference is for the Darjeeling,
Earl grey or 'P.G.' or 'Typhoo, '
It makes not a farthing of difference,
You're choosing The Grand British Brew.
Now the yankees would drown us in coffee,
The fed's, in their wisdom, would too;
But that bean is a poor substitution
For the leaf in The Grand British Brew.
I've tried every other refreshment
That the world has to offer to me,
But I find myself always returning
To the brew that is true: to my tea.
Written Oct 1994
poem by John Carter Brown
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London
Smoke
Lingers 'round your fingers
Train
Heave on - to Euston
Do you think you've made
The right decision this time ?
Oh ...
You left
Your tired family grieving
And you think they're sad because you're leaving
But did you see Jealousy in the eyes
Of the ones who had to stay behind ?
And do you think you've made
The right decision this time ?
You left
Your girlfriend on the platform
With this really ragged notion that you'll return
But she knows
That when he goes
He really goes
And do you think you've made
The right decision this time
song performed by by Morrissey
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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London
Smoke
Lingers 'round your fingers
Train
Heave on - to euston
Do you think you've made
The right decision this time ?
Oh ...
You left
Your tired family grieving
And you think they're sad because you're leaving
But did you see the jealousy in the eyes
Of the ones who had to stay behind ?
And do you think you've made
The right decision this time ?
You left
Your girlfriend on the platform
With this really ragged notion that you'll return
But she knows
That when he goes
He really goes
And do you think you've made
The right decision this time ?
Thankyou
Oh ...
song performed by by Smiths
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Never Given A Chance To Happen
It would have made a difference,
If those experienced and willing...
To volunteer their time,
To secure the cementing of foundations...
Were regarded as friends.
And not threats to suspect of wanting,
To flaunt special attention given.
It would have made a difference,
If those who had nothing...
Accepted someone with something to give,
As a benefit to the environment.
With an advantage for all.
Instead of someone to ignore...
Defaming with a smearing campaign,
In a hope to see them fall.
It would have made a difference,
To the ones who now...
Have surrounded themselves,
In surmounting conflicts...
Creating their mental and physical ailments.
It would have made a difference,
If mindsets were connected...
To a discipline respected.
It would have made a difference,
But that difference...
Was never given a chance to happen.
It would have made a difference,
If opportunities presented...
Were recognized.
It would have made the difference!
But it didn't!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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