En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Grey land traveller

One day in summer
when the freeway is open,
I will take the Honda
and turn the accelerator open
until the revolution counter
touches the red.

One day I will see
what my motorbike is able to do
when I drive from here to Cape Town
with all the power that it has
and see how the speed needle
goes past the last mark.

One day I will feel
it roaring under me
and cut lightning fast
past cars, pickups and lorries
and speed will make
that it seems
as if I am coming out of the road itself
and I will be like a spectre.

One day I will really know
how much power my motorbike has
and will be part of the wind,
the sun and freedom
and the road will belong to me
and I to the road.

One day time will stop for me
and I might never reach the Cape
and will drive into the grey land
and maybe you
will read about me in the newspapers
and a motorbike
that lies in pieces for a distance of kilometres.

poem by Gert Strydom
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The trip back

The sky is grey
with ominous clouds
that whirls and churns
and there’s thick fog
hanging like a cloak
low over the earth.

The visor of my helmet
is immediately covered
by the impact
of fine drops of rain
and I open it
to be able to see
where I am travelling.

At places I have to leave the road
to clean the lenses
of my glasses
and then the motorbike
again roars with power under me,

but I have only gone a small distance
when the cars come to a halt
and I have to twist through them.

Twenty kilometres further
I come upon the accident
that is blocking the freeway
just where I have to turn off
to Benoni
and blue and red lights
flash through
the fumes of mist.

I turn the throttle open
but at places
the fog banks still hangs low
and mini buss taxis, busses and cars
appear like ghosts in front of me.

At a place a stream flows
strong like a river over the road
and although I lift my feet
and open the throttle more
to give power to the motorbike

a four by four
passes over the middle line
and throws a wall of water
right over me
and if I can get hold of that lunatic
he will surely know it.

The helmet, black leather jacket
and backpack
stops the water,
but my jean
and shoes are soaking wet
and the motorbike eats the road
and somewhat frozen
I drive to get to home,
as if Springs
is just behind the next hillock

poem by Gert Strydom
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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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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
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The joy of the road

It’s a big joy
to take the road
and drive past cornfields
and to get the sweet sour smell
that water leaves there
for the first time
in your nose.

It’s a big joy
to drive on a road
that allures black in front of you
and goes up and down through the landscape.

There’s something indescribable
if you become part
of the sun and the wind
and with a motorbike
to find your place
in the world around you.

There’s something magical
to hear the insects
in the bushes
outside of Pieter Maritzburg
and to smell the summer sun
on the plantation trees.

Still greater is
to catch the smell of the see
on the wind
to see the blue waters
lying in the distance,
while free like a bird
you drive nearer to it.

poem by Gert Strydom
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There is something special about the sun

At six o’clock the sun blinded me
in Soutpansberg avenue
and I opened the helmet’s visor
to find a way to see.

Still it’s great to ride
in the early morning with the motorbike
and to see something of the greatness
of God’s creation.

There’s something special about the sun
in a blue sky,
if it hangs like a red ball,
or even if it blinding catches your eyes.

The fresh wind that cut past
and at times pulls
as if it wants to touch you
and the cars and busses
that still has their lights on,
brings another atmosphere
to a morning ride.

The motorbike that feels
as if it’s alive under you
and shake and trembles
with bumps in the road
and the raw power,
that lies in your hand in a throttle
brings a sensation
of the wonder of existing
and to life on this planet.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Cul de sac

At the parking
of the Ok-bazaar / Shoprite in Springs
a one-way street runs out
straight into a traffic light
that cuts a T
into two directions.

This morning the traffic light
is blocked
by a crowd of rioters
that comes from the right side,
from where I want to go.

The police block the road
to the left with a car
and some policemen walk along
with the uprising.

There’s a foreman, instigator
or head man
walking in front
and he hops up and down
and shouts something to me
and he comes straight in my direction
and it looks as if the devil is in him
with a crowd
of revolting barbarians following him.

Nobody is going to drill me
with bags of rubbish
and tree branches
or throw pieces of glass
in front of my tyres
and the light is red
and the rioters are half mad
and my motorbike has a lot of power
and its boss cannot wait.

The policeman says stop
but can hardly
look out for himself
and what about me?

I drive past
going straight for the leader
and give a lot of gas,
my motorbike
can cut fine corners,
although it’s past the back
of a police car.

poem by Gert Strydom
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To have your own wheels

When I was a young man
I drove a blue Suzuki motorbike
and went down Marrion hill
at 180 over a speed trap
and I still remember to this day
how the speed cops cold only show signs at me
while I disappeared away from them.

Its years later and a 900 Honda
roars under me
and it’s wonderful
to feel the power of the iron horse
under me
and the sun and the wind cherishes me,
but to have my own wheels
is the best of all.

poem by Gert Strydom
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That goodbye

You dropped the two dogs
and cats,
had some tea with us
and I took the motorbike
to show you the way
back to your highway

and we had a burger
and some French fries
at the Wimpy
and you cried
while we said some last words
face to face,

we embraced and kissed
and you got in your car
and I led the way
at places waiting on you
to catch up
and that goodbye
crushed me inside
and I felt something die
and I could cry,

but when I went back
I watched the needle
on the rev counter
dipping up and down
while I changed gears
and the speedometer
swung up to the far right

and still the sun was bright,
the wind greeted me
like a long lost friend
and speed and I were one
like a flash on that road
and sometimes
I still drive on.

poem by Gert Strydom
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The new day started wonderful

This morning it felt
as if I was going to ride
into the red ball of the sun
while the wind
knifed strong past me
and the blue Honda motorbike
quickly eated up Soutpansberg Avenue.

There’s something magical and enchanting
to a rising sun
that is just hanging halfway
above the black tar road
and the colour of that red ball
still stays with me.

I drove with power
up the hillock of Gordon Street
and the rays of the sun
was at my side
and the caboodle of cars
couldn’t bother me
and the new day
Started wonderful.

We do not always realise,
how much we have to be thankful.
We are just too much set
in the here and now,
while the greatness
of God’s love
are all around us.

poem by Gert Strydom
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On the highway

I who have traded
open spaces, fields
and the azure sky
for crowded pavements
and neon lights
find my place
to meet the Lord
on the dangerous road.

I have found the sapphire sky,
the breath of wind,
the white-hot sun
on lanes packed with cars,
busses and trucks
of every shape and size.

Every thing flashes by
as my motorbike catches speed
and accelerates
and men in cars sit irritated
stuck in rows of traffic
and I bob and weave by
while life throbs everywhere
and death grasp at my heels,

l’Envoi
I feel raw power
throbbing below me
and experience the majesty
of wind, sun, sky
and the countryside
that rush by
and life is great
and in silence
I pray to the Creator
and when it rains
it humbles me
and I slow down
and am cold and wet
and know that I am
just mere man.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Biker with the big heart

His heart is big,
so big as if
he can fit the whole world into it,
but there’s only place for two
on his motorbike
and while the refs
of the years climb
his life slides past
with a speed leading to a end

and the loneliness grips him
as his mate has been gone for a long time,
missed life
and wasn’t on time
for their last motorcycle ride
and now it’s only him
who are alone
in the saddle of life

and at times he still wants to open the throttle,
feel the wind flow though his hair
washing like a river in flood,
experience the heat of the sun
and feel the adrenaline
flowing like something living through him,
but the road is far too long
and the end stays distant
as he doesn’t reach the intersection
of life and death
and his love and melancholy remains
and the biker always drives on
searching for answers
that doesn’t exist.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Going Home

When I was a student
I came through the rain,
with storms whipping the Cape
right through the Karoo
into Gauteng
flooding rivers
and blocking mountain passes
with land slides.

Avoiding fallen rocks and creeping
at sixty kilometres an hour
on the N1 till Worchester
on a road
that had only one lane open,
I passed the police
who were closing the freeway.

For fifteen hundred kilometres
the road was soaking wet
and my BMW’s four headlights glared
at any other vehicle that I met

and the ABS-brakes,
the six-cylinder engine
and power steering
did their fare share
to keep me on the road.

Every now and then
I had to stop to get fuel,
checked the oil,
checked the air pressure,
visited the washing room
and Coca Cola kept me awake
right through a soaking night
while I was on my way home
to sunny Pretoria.

I came to the house
in a early dawn,
was greeted by the dog
crying from joy
and wagging its tail,

got a huge plate
of sausage, putu porridge
with tomato gravy
and fried eggs
and coffee from my mother,
went to bed
and slept as if I were dead
right into the next day.

poem by Gert Strydom
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In this winter

In this winter
it is as if it’s spring
when I get on my motorbike
and in a flash
drive down the road to Pretoria

and even if the cold folds around me
there is a sun
coming out of your arms
and your perfume
has a noble fragrance
like a garden
full of jasmine.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Last Open Road

How fast can I run?
How far can I go?
These are the questions,
The young want to know
I met her in Brooklyn,
She was coming from a place
I said "where are you going to"?
She said "where have you been"?
'Cos I'm trapped in here,
Set me free
I know your world let me see
Take me down that last open road
Take me down that last open road
Take me down that last open road
I know there is so much past
this place
I see it smile on your jagged,
ragged face
Something tells me,
something strong
There's a world I've heard of,
So before it's gone
Take me down that last open road
Take me down that last open road

song performed by by Chris Rea
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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On the square

My motorbike is at a garage for a service
and when I return from work
I cross the square
to catch a buss
in Paul Kruger street.

There are hawkers selling sweets,
fruit, newspapers
and food
and people
walking to and fro.

This afternoon he is
on holy ground
with a shouting bugle
that yells to people
not to give money
but their hearts to Jesus Christ.

I wonder what uncle Paul
would think
about the neat black preacher
who is standing right against him
and the group
that listens soberly

and see grey-blue doves
picking up crumbs of bread
and I am glad
to drive my motorbike tomorrow again.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Helldriver (live)

When you take your steering wheel
When you speed up your engine
Your rage makes up your counter
Hell spins and burns your tires
Hit and run again, I eat when I can
I have no limits, my life is a risk
Let's speed the road hog
His sheet - iron is hot
The helldriver and his damnation
Speed up in hell to run so fast
When the sound of metal raises
When the smoking valves make a din
Fuel and oil are my blood
The law is over I'm out
If you want to stop the speed freak
Prepare a good plan to do it
Cos he's always in the red zone
And he's a runner
of the hell road

song performed by by Voivod
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Goodbye to purple covered Jacaranda trees

Goodbye to purple covered Jacaranda trees
which line the streets
and the great laagered fort on the hill
telling stories of times past,

the university on the knoll
next to which I once lived
waving with buildings and towers
sending its greetings into the sky

while I drive away fast
and the motorbike’s wheels sings whispering
do not look back

and its engine howls its cry against the wind
weeping instead of me
while I drive away from the city
that I love and where I cannot stay.

The bike flashes on in a blur
passing trucks and cars
racing on the highway
as if searching for the sun

and my heart is lost
and pain rips through me
with the parting from you
while I drive away
and I cannot understand
the seasons of the heart

and it is goodbye
to you too.

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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In spite of what life brings to me

God, in spite of what life brings to me,
in spite of how much money I earn, of what work I do,
in which residential aria I live, what car I drive
and if I have to walk or drive by motorbike
on the road that I travel, it is still at Your door
that I stand each day.
In spite of the words that I do write,
how bad or great they may be,
it makes me nothing else
than the human being that gets all things from you
and still I am bounded to You
for my light in this life's darkness.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Motorbike riding

When you drive a motorbike,
feel the wind cutting through your hair
there is a kind of pleasure that you experience.

poem by Gert Strydom
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