In a rural district God has created the most lovely rose
In a rural district God has created the loveliest rose
where the hillocks in the distance touches the sky,
she sprouts out in the veldt
and skip springbok agile as if no man can master her.
In her kitchen there are batches of rusks
and the outer door is locked
until the last baking pan comes out of the oven,
where visitors then rush to get some as booty
and when you visit her you have to be watch your wits
or she will twist you around her little finger
as she’s a vixen, who confuses every suitor
and her beauty leaves everyone dumbstruck
and her teasing overlooks nobody
as form far she has many visitors
bringing gifts and every kind of flower
that she takes at times or do not accept at all
and like a agile lizard
she’s prepared for any eventuality
and knows her hiding places
but to beauty she brings new meaning.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Related quotes
Rurally God Created The Loveliest Rose
Rurally God created the loveliest rose
that blooms by itself in the veldt
where the hillocks in the distance touches the horizon.
In her kitchen there are trays full of rusks
where she is working from before sunrise,
that the visitors later claim as booty
and she is busy with her work
until the last tray comes out of the oven.
Rurally God created the loveliest rose
where se sprouts out in the veldt
and when you visit her
where she is working from before sunrise
she almost possessively guards her rusks
and her farm is her own property
where the hillocks in the distance touches the horizon.
The farmstead lies like a rectangle,
she is prepared for almost anything
and when you visit her,
you note that in her Eva’s beauty has come to perfection,
that time and again she astonishes you with her loveliness.
Rurally God created the loveliest rose,
she gives new meaning to attractiveness,
with her teasing she spares no one,
she is prepared for almost anything,
but her mother is miserable like a fire-belching dragon
and you have to be at your wits or she will turn you around her finger
where the hillocks in the distance touches the horizon.
and she’s a vixen and leaves every suitor perplexed
when she sparkles womanly,
with her teasing she spares no one
and sometimes it seems as if she has too many suitors
but still she cannot disguise her feelings.
Rurally God created the loveliest rose
where the hillocks in the distance touches the horizon.
and that little darling has charmed me.
In her kitchen there are trays full of rusks
(when she sparkles womanly)
that the visitors later claim as booty.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Visitor Clever Theme Words
my visitors are voices clever words
my visitors arrive anywhere anytime
my visitors script film opera words
my visitors mirror parody depths mime
my visitors initiate connect life dots
my visitors represent patterns to define
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Aloes (Novelinee)
Suddenly summer was everywhere,
like blazing fire in the veldt and hillocks
there were patches of flame here and there
with aloes blooming between the rocks,
flaming right through the day till eventide
bringing to nature a patched kind of redness
naturally planted at places side by side
growing lovely in the utter harshness,
bringing great beauty to the wilderness.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Africa (in reply to William Shakespeare)
This huge content of living things
where everything roams free
without any real sceptered kings
dividing where realms should be
who do not bow to the gods of Mars
but is nature’s own paradise
not locked by hedges, fences or bars
where flowers and animals daily rise
and a throng of strong happy men do their duty
being true to the ancestral calling
working on plains, in the veldt at places of great beauty
in a land where the blue sky has rain falling
where the sun, moon and stars are like visitors
to peoples braver and fiercer than any conquistadors.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Pondering upon the Rose on a Sunday Morning......
The symbol of love
When giving in love a rose speaks for itself
The beauty is picturesque
The scent it gives lasting for ever
The rose never seen without her thorns
Still who can not feel happiness when a rose is seen or given?
Even for a brief minute, a second the rose brings a smile
Or perhaps a small sigh of delight
If one were to think upon a rose…
The thorns… the beauty…
The petals that carry the essence…
That lingers even after it is withered
If one were compare to our Lord…
He held thorns upon his precious head; the head of the rose is above the thorns
His love was known for its beauty and compassion, the rose noted for love
His words and Spirit lingers for eternity much like the scent of the rose
My Lord created the Rose
Perhaps he created it for remembrance of His son
Looking upon the rose I see it all so clearly
The meaning of love
The beauty
An essence that shall always be with me
poem by Patricia Gale
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beauty! what is BEAUTY? ? ?
beauty! what is beauty
beauty is just a cover
for something
really screwed up in side...
people say why your so beautiful
what more do you want
i want the real meaning of beauty
not just the looks
the looks are only good for an amount of time
then they get to meet the real inside of you
and the beauty disappears
so what is the point of the outer beauty if the inner beauty is dead
beauty what is BEAUTY
poem by Pilar Guethon
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Eve (original beauty)
She stood naked in the garden
With more beauty
Than the first full bloom rose,
The kind and depth of
Beauty
God in Heaven only knows.
The kind of
Beauty that is deep and wild,
The kind of
Beauty lost like the days of a child,
The kind of
Beauty mankind
Has been trying desperately
(without realization)
Forever to find.
The kind of
Beauty
God has put upon
Every souls mind.
The kind of
Beauty
That forever causes God
To call us:
'Mine! '
The kind of original beauty
God understands,
The kind of beauty awaiting
The return of each woman, and man.
poem by Smoky Hoss
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Vastly The Veldt, The Bush Stretches Out About Me (Idyll) (In Answer To Sir Philip Sidney)
I
Vastly the veldt, the bush stretches out about me
where nature is left to its own existence,
where all kinds of game roam free
and here is nothing to bother with an insistence
and the weary traveller on this earth
can find a new kind of longing, a new kind of hope,
like a kind of refreshing new birth
while thoughts go past the normal human scope
where a person wonders about the creator of things
while serenity is displayed where ever you look,
bees and birds continually sing about happy tidings
and nowhere one can get this experience in a book
that comes as some kind of divine blessing,
you have got to realise that there is more to life and living.
II
You have got to realise that there is more to life and living
that every word and deed leaves a mark, a own impact,
comes as benevolence or a kind of attack,
that there’s more to life that taking and giving
that nature’s innocence and violence draws and sting
and our actions on to it we can never take back,
even our wanderings on a natural track
leaves its mark on mere existing
that somehow nature needs to be left unspoilt
while we live in a kind of ruling arrogance,
this deadly paradise has its own kind of dazzling
while we effect change, like gods live rich and spoilt
while we hide beyond a cloak of ignorance,
seldom do we realise the beauty of the coming spring.
III
Seldom do we realise the beauty of the coming spring
and yet on a farm I have met a rural girl
who brings another feeling to existing, something touching,
while in the veldt sometimes dust clouds whirl
the strange solitariness feels as if it’s alive
and she has taken me to her hidden places,
the places dear to a sweetheart or wife
where violets grow wild, wildflowers have different faces
and the sun shines friendly in a blue hued sky,
where you can feel the great tranquillity,
see birds in their coloured swarms fly
and realise that here is some strange kind of unity
a kind of unspoilt idyllic life
that exists happily without any kind of strive.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Beauty – deeper than skin
From suppleness and comeliness,
Suppleness itself stands for beauty
From agility and beauty, the agility,
From poise and grace, the poise,
And from passion and glamour,
The passion, can stand for beauty.
I find you supple, agile, poised,
Passionate, and that is beauty.
08.08.99
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Mifael
Mount Kilimanjaro is 5900 metres high and,
You have to visit it to see the beauty that it shares;
But like an affable gentleman in the midst of ladies,
I have what it takes to love you.
Humble and respectful,
To a virtual standstill to receive visitors;
And my love for you is like Mount Kilimanjaro.
Mifael, explore my mind to reach out to my love;
For we are one-on-one on this sweet love.
A lot of memories of the school days,
Like the 'Impulse Night Club' next door;
But i will be very high above all standards to you like,
Mount Kilimanjaro among the lot.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Beauty, Beautious, Beautiful
Beauty is not a superficial form
Each has their own in essential nature
And in the actions they perform
Until the dissolution of their life
To leave beauty’s impressions in our hearts
Yesterdays beauty never leaves or departs.
Beauty is all around
Each and every place it may be found
As you look with open eyes
Upon the forms that nature makes
Then man seeks to imitate
Yearning to match that beauty all around.
Beauty if you cannot find
Beauty must be in mind
Beauty is in purity
Beauty of simplicity
Beauty runs right through and through
Beauty in me, and them, and you.
Beauty, beauteous, beautiful
Beauty in heaven
Beauty in fire
Beauty in earth
And finally beauty in a simple verse.
poem by David Taylor
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Flower and Butterfly
Bringing beauty to the earth
Teasing our senses
haiku by Dorothy Holmes (10 September 2007)
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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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My Cute Little Friend
I have a little friend cute and sweet
Aged roughly eighteen months
Fair and fleshy like a folktale Angel
Agile and active all through the day
On seeing a person known to her
Shoots out a smile worth many a millions
A set of eight teeth sparkling out
Adds beauty to the priceless smile
By raising her hands from far distance
Reaches her caller with uneven running
A hug is a reward for lifting her up
With showers of kisses as token of love
Her index finger directs the way
To take to the places of her choice
The little mouth that gave captive smile
Bites hard if her mood is foul
Riding on our back is her favorite game
Making us the horse of her own likes
The bits of words that come from her mouth
Makes the listeners burst with joy
Spending the times playing with her
Hours look minutes with no time left
Films and outings no more a choice
Only her presence a refreshing tonic
poem by Somanathan Iyer
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A Beautiful Flower
I have a flower, Yes I have picked a beautiful flower,
One with greatest strength like a tree with mightiness and power,
Power of faith beyond any measure,
Yet precious and few like a beautiful treasure.
How precious its love it shares,
How very precious sweet and rare.
Easily lost as colors are tossed on the tides,
For those who tend to set it aside.
Beauty beyond their eye’s is what I have gained as a prize,
And keeping it, is what makes my heart so wise.
It may seem like neglect on their part,
But neglect has not been the wish of their heart.
Why so often many are in a rush,
The beauty of this flower is often a hush.
I praise my flower for its humbleness,
Staying that way always brings forth its beautifulness.
Yes my flower that I have I would gladly share,
To those who appreciate my gift that is rare.
This flower is a gift and I will tell you why,
Because its known for its beauty that will never die.
For if my flower and me ever depart,
The beauty of it will always be found in my heart.
Yes I have a flower, a beautiful flower to name,
It would have to be beautiful,
it would have to meet its beauty inside and out the same.
For that isn’t hard to do, Why you don’t even need a clue,
For I could have never have picked a better you,
My Dear Friend (put name here)….. Its true.
A name, that’s beautiful as you.
poem by Esther Ayala
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I am alive—I guess
470
I am alive—I guess—
The Branches on my Hand
Are full of Morning Glory—
And at my finger's end—
The Carmine—tingles warm—
And if I hold a Glass
Across my Mouth—it blurs it—
Physician's—proof of Breath—
I am alive—because
I am not in a Room—
The Parlor—Commonly—it is—
So Visitors may come—
And lean—and view it sidewise—
And add "How cold—it grew"—
And "Was it conscious—when it stepped
In Immortality?"
I am alive—because
I do not own a House—
Entitled to myself—precise—
And fitting no one else—
And marked my Girlhood's name—
So Visitors may know
Which Door is mine—and not
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Rose For A Rose
A rose for a rose
That is all that I can say,
As I present, the flower to you.
You can look upon its beauty
As I have looked upon yours,
Now you know the turmoil I go through.
As the beauty of the rose,
I thought it second to none,
Until that day that we met.
Now to me the rose is just a flower,
And its aroma is but a scent,
And raindrops, are tears I have wept.
A rose for a rose,
A masterpiece for the painter,
That is what, I am giving you.
You may gaze upon this flower
You can close your eyes and wish
And now the rose is wishing upon you.
Your skin is that of silk
Your beauty is that of mine eyes,
And your soul is that of the free wind.
So now I present you the rose,
As a man presents GOD his soul,
And know you’ll know where I have been.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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To What Serves Mortal Beauty?
To what serves mortal beauty ' —dangerous; does set danc-
ing blood—the O-seal-that-so ' feature, flung prouder form
Than Purcell tune lets tread to? ' See: it does this: keeps warm
Men’s wits to the things that are; ' what good means—where a glance
Master more may than gaze, ' gaze out of countenance.
Those lovely lads once, wet-fresh ' windfalls of war’s storm,
How then should Gregory, a father, ' have gleanèd else from swarm-
ed Rome? But God to a nation ' dealt that day’s dear chance.
To man, that needs would worship ' block or barren stone,
Our law says: Love what are ' love’s worthiest, were all known;
World’s loveliest—men’s selves. Self ' flashes off frame and face.
What do then? how meet beauty? ' Merely meet it; own,
Home at heart, heaven’s sweet gift; ' then leave, let that alone.
Yea, wish that though, wish all, ' God’s better beauty, grace.
poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins
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Beauty: [Notes for an unfinished poem]
The beautiful, the fair, the elegant,
Is that which pleases us, says Kant,
Without a thought of interest or advantage.
I used to watch men when they spoke of beauty
And measure their enthusiasm. One
An old man, seeing a ( ) setting sun,
Praised it ( ) a certain sense of duty
To the calm evening and his time of life.
I know another man that never says a Beauty
But of a horse; ( )
Men seldom speak of beauty, beauty as such,
Not even lovers think about it much.
Women of course consider it for hours
In mirrors; ( )
A shrapnel ball -
Just where the wet skin glistened when he swam -
Like a fully-opened sea-anemone.
We both said 'What a beauty! What a beauty, lad'
I knew that in that flower he saw a hope
Of living on, and seeing again the roses of his home.
Beauty is that which pleases and delights,
Not bringing personal advantage - Kant.
But later on I heard
A canker worked into that crimson flower
And that he sank with it
And laid it with the anemones off Dover.
poem by Wilfred Owen
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Beauty
The beautiful, the fair, the elegant,
Is that which pleases us, says Kant,
Without a thought of interest or advantage.
I used to watch men when they spoke of beauty
And measure their enthusiasm. One
An old man, seeing a ( ) setting sun,
Praised it ( ) a certain sense of duty
To the calm evening and his time of life.
I know another man that never says a Beauty
But of a horse; ( )
Men seldom speak of beauty, beauty as such,
Not even lovers think about it much.
Women of course consider it for hours
In mirrors; ( )
A shrapnel ball -
Just where the wet skin glistened when he swam -
Like a fully-opened sea-anemone.
We both said 'What a beauty! What a beauty, lad'
I knew that in that flower he saw a hope
Of living on, and seeing again the roses of his home.
Beauty is that which pleases and delights,
Not bringing personal advantage - Kant.
But later on I heard
A canker worked into that crimson flower
And that he sank with it
And laid it with the anemones off Dover.
poem by Wilfred Owen
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