En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Indian minors

Deadly like ravens, are the ever pecking
Indian minors on the lawn
with yellow beaks, legs and feet,
camouflaged brown with sharp black eyes
ever inspecting, single-minded killing
all insects that they find,
walking around like soldiers
that landed from the air,
looking for the enemy
as if it can be anywhere.

poem by Gert Strydom
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The Indian minor

It landed on the wall
that divided the front yard
from the back
where my yellow BMW
was sheltered under a roof

It was dark brown with a yellow bill
and sharp small black intelligent eyes
watching everything
much like a crow or raven.

Every now and then
it darted down
to land next to the bowl
with the dog’s pellets
pecking them up
as another bird would seed.

The dog would eat every now and then
and sometimes guard its bowl
lying there defying that bird,
but when ever it would go
that bird would
have its feast,

till one day
that I took that bowl away
into the dogs pen
and then that bird
sat screaming on that wall
as if I had stolen
his dearest possessions
from him
as if there was nothing else to steal.

poem by Gert Strydom
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The hoopoe

Every time that I mow the lawn
he waits in a tree
on me to finish
and there are times
that he gets impatient
and his hoopoe resounds.

Just when I walk away
he flies fluttering down
and pecks everywhere
to get worms
and insects

and I see his orange brown quiff
standing up
and it’s as if his body
glows shimmering orange

and there are black and white stripes
going to the points
of his wings
while like a woodpecker
he hits his bill
here and there into the ground

and like a chicken
pecking up seed
picks up insects from the ground.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Rinkhals thoughts

I sail to wherever I want to be,
sometimes lie stretched out
in the hot African sun

always inspecting the air
with my forked tongue
sensing with my black shiny eyes

if there’s movement anywhere,
something to spray with my deadly spit
a enemy to strike out at

before it can squash me
and forever I am free
to hit at the heel

to find my own way
through the undergrowth,
to prey whenever I want

with a deadly flash,
to end life, I am created for it
and nothing but death stops me

and sometimes you will find
where I have been
by the marks on the sand,

the remains of my skin
or victims that I have left
or turned right over

poising as if dead,
waiting on the right moment
to come to life, to hit with great speed.

[Reference: Rinkhals: Ring necked African spitting cobra.]

poem by Gert Strydom
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I Begged God for My Life

I cursed the birds
Their droppings soiled my clothes
I cursed the animals
Their droppings soiled my feet
While walking on the beach
I cursed the insects
For eating flowers in my garden
I took a gun
Killed the birds and the animals
Sprayed deadly poison
On the the insects
I was feeling happy
As if I had conquered the world
I heard god’s voice
What should I do with you my son?
You soiled my world
By killing my
Birds, insects and animals
For your greed and lust
I begged god for my life
Promised him to
Treat man, animals alike
Preserve his world
With all my might

poem by Nirantar Dr.Rajendra Tela
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Portobello Road

Getting hung up all day on smiles
Walking down portobello road for miles
Greeting strangers in indian boots,
Yellow ties and old brown suits
Growing old is my only danger
Cuckoo clocks, and plastic socks
Lampshades of old antique leather
Nothing looks weird, not even a beard
Or the boots made out of feathers
Ill keep walking miles til I feel
A broom beneath my feet
Or the hawking eyes of an old stuffed bull across the street
Nothings the same if you see it again
Itll be broken down to litter
Oh, and the clothes
Everyone know that that dress will never fit her
Getting hung up all day on smiles
Walking down portobello road for miles
Greeting strangers in indian boots,
Yellow ties and old brown suits
Growing old is my only danger
Cuckoo clocks, and plastic socks
Lampshades of old antique leather
Nothing looks weird, not even a beard
Or the boots made out of feathers
Ill keep walking miles til I feel
A broom beneath my feet
Or the hawking eyes of an old stuffed bull across the street
Nothings the same if you see it again
Itll be broken down to litter
Oh, and the clothes
Everyone know that that dress will never fit her
Getting hung up all day on smiles
Walking down portobello road for miles
Greeting strangers in indian boots,
Yellow ties and old brown suits
Growing old is my only danger

song performed by by Cat Stevens
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Wings are waiting

Not life, death dragged him on
The desert sun scorched his eyes
The heat seared his skin
His mind evaporated to nothingness
The fluttering wings circled in wait
For the lunge, sure of his fate!

The man never minded the arduous trek
Never stopped, never ever took a break
The road ahead drove him on
Losing all on the way, he was alone
Pouring sweats licked his eyes
No sound ever came of his cries
Without a luminescent dream
In life death shadowed him!

When the deadly sun turned brown
The hungry beaks swooped down
Ended the journey long yet mean
Devoured he lay, his bones picked clean!

poem by Pradip Chattopadhyay
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Soldier (not really a poem)

the american revolution was fought witha new breed of soldier.
this country was founded on that soldier.
that soldier is the one that those on the front lines calls the coward
that soldier is the one that those on the front lines call when they need help
because these soldiers dont miss.
these soldiers are trained harder than the most elite frontline man
these soldiers are tought to kill their enemy before there enemy sees them.
these soldiers are the ghosts in the night,
these soldiers are the wind in the day
these soldiers are everywhere.
these soldiers are the bush next to u.
these soldiers are the the tree across the field.
these soldiers are the lump of snow in the flat plain.
these soldiers are snipers.
snipers are the reason we are free.
snipers stop the enemy before the enemy gets close to u,

poem by Joshua Decker
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P.O.W. (Prisoners Of War)

Locked up in a cell
The prisoners of war light the fuse to the dynamite
The door is blasted off the hinges
The prisoners of war escape through the opening where the door was

Enemy soldiers, one by one, are notified
And one by one
They try to take down the prisoners of war

War isn't pretty
War is hell

The enemy soldiers break out the guns and knives
Ready to take the prisoners of war down
But the prisoners of war do a wonderful job of fighting and staying alive
More enemy soldiers are dispatched
Some climb down or dropp off ladders
Some flip and somersault
Some continue walking and running on the ground

After dispatching the enemy soldiers
The prisoners of war climb the ladder
To where they can plan their escape
To where they can make their escape
To where they can escape in a helicopter
Leaving the life of war far behind

poem by Justin Gildow
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A Brown Rock-Pigeon, Flutters Just Past The Porch

A brown rock-pigeon, flutters just past the porch
picks up some small insects from the mown lawn
from where it continually calls its mate,
at a distance sparrows splash in water.

An auburn colour flames in the sun
stretching right over some gleaming feathers
while he keeps on catching tiny insects,
before his cooing attracts some more doves.

Yellow weavers chatter in the branches,
they fly whistling from one branch to another,
they are charming pied coloured females
that are basking under the hot bright sun,

the sun stretches shadows all over me,
in the distance there’s thunder roaring.

poem by Gert Strydom
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The veldt is all around me

The veldt is all around me
and I am beyond enemy lines
camouflaged, clothed in
military uniform, wearing tracking boots,
with the soles almost like
running shoes,
with a weapon in my hands

viewing, taking reconnaissance
of enemy soldiers, driving by
on pickups, in cars without roofs
in trucks waving guns
in the air and sometimes
firing as they pass by

and suddenly a young boy
is beside me
clothed in a blue short sleeved shirt
and grey short pants
looking like school uniform
but being too young for school
and walking barefoot
right next to me.

Wherever I run from bush to bush,
catwalk, leopard crawl
and hide behind bushes
getting nearer to enemy positions
he stays at my side like a shadow
running, walking and standing openly

and it annoys me
and that he keeps talking to me
as he can draw attention to us
and I say:

“Gerrie, come and lie down.
Hide behind this bushes. Stop talking.
You will draw the enemy to us.”

Unconcerned like walking in the veldt
in my young days, and being ignored
by the natives passing by
the boy looks at me
shaking his head and asks:

“Why are the enemy shooting in the air
while they drive past?
Why do they sometimes
rob their own people? ”

Realizing that it’s my own thoughts
and I look at the child again
and see my younger self
with childish innocence
accompanying me.

poem by Gert Strydom
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A Single Black Rose

A single Black Rose to turn the tide
A single Black Rose to make one die
A single Black Rose to ensnare the soul
A single Black Rose to widen that hole

A single Black Rose to melt the heart
A single Black Rose to force a start
A single Black Rose to entwine the bodies
A single Black Rose to dictate the deaths of these

A single Black Rose to lie upon her breast
A single Black Rose to stop the tears from soaking his vest
A single Black Rose to mourn this memory
A single Black Rose to become a plot in this cemetery

A single Black Rose to take a life
A single Black Rose to end his strife.

(8/21/2007)

poem by Michael Koelliker
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Insects Of The World

Under your feet they scurry
Nine hundred thousand or more
With head, thorax and abdomen
And legs of six or more
Some furry, some of hard shell
Some looking like demons from hell
Some innocent of their structure
Others deadly and beware
Four hundred million years of life on this land
Long before the thoughts of man
They crawl and they fly
Some are small and some are sly
Some have names exotic and beautiful
Silverfish, Walking stick and Humpbacked bristletail
Some from cocoons unfold
Beautiful, colourful, strange and enchanting
These are insects of the world

26 June 1978

poem by David Harris
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A Black Single Rose.

A single black rose.
A single black rose to carry the load,
A single black rose to turn the road,
A single black rose to touch the soul,
A single black rose to widen your hole,
A single black rose to melt your heart,
A single black rose to force a start,
A single black rose to make you cry,
A single black rose to make you dry,
A single black rose to help you climb,
A single black rose to make you lie,
A single black rose to take a life,
A single black rose to take away strife.

poem by Natasha Ligons
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Max

Who is that big black dog I see?
Who is that big black dog indeed.
With a deep black shiny coat and sharp teeth that could bite to a gore
Who is that big black dog?
Come big black dog
Come to me
Those brown eyes that see
They see things at night that would frighten me.
But, oh, my big black dog
How I thank GOD that you have nails and a ferocious look to protect me
Come and walk with me for you see things I cannot see
I will never be afraid with you near me.
So, please, never go away my big black dog…
Just you and me, my MAX and me.

poem by Bonnie Lisa Sanchez
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A Summer Red Bird Sings on an Elm Branch

The general colour above is light brownish-green, the sides of the head and the under parts generally brownish-yellow; larger wing-coverts dusky, edged with yellow; quills deep brown, externally margined with yellowish-red; tall-feathers of the same colour. The bill, eyes and legs are of the same tints as in the male.

I lost my way
And sorry extremely
For trespassing!
It's hard night flying
And I just landed
Papa's orchard
Are you still awake?
Promise to depart
Early in the morning
And if you prefer a love song
I don't mind to stay longer?

(To the Syrian nightingale Suzie Suhair Gharib.)

poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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The soldiers fought

The soldiers fought a fight, and went for us,

They went not thinking of themselves, and no fuss;

Some were injured. Yet in such agony they fought,

And some carried back to safety, while the enemy was sought.

Those soldiers were so very brave, fighting in our place,

Marching altogether, In order and without grace;

They never knew if they'd get back home at all,

All they did was fighting to win, the problem wasn't small.

And a lot of those brave soldiers, lost arms and legs, it's so,

But some very brave soldiers, where they died we don't know;

And this is why the legacy, we remember them, at set of sun,

And thank all these brave soldiers, for the good that was done.

poem by Margaret Haig
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On a spoor

We were hot on a fresh spoor
and the bushman tracker said
that the enemy were not far ahead

when we crossed through some dense bush
under some trees
and looking up I saw something on a branch

camouflaged, dappled into the shade
and yellow eyes peered down at me
filled with rage, with energy

and astounded more than anything
I brought the gun to bear,
but the pent up energy,

melted with languid grace
right into the tree
as if it wasn’t aware of me, aware of us

and we walked on past a clearing
into the open veldt where hip high grass
was interrupted by some green thorn bushes.

A huge male lion came bursting
out of one of the bushes
with swishing tale running at full speed

and we all froze in our strides with weapons ready
and it was almost
as if the light machinegun’s trigger was tempting me
to shoot the raging storming animal down

and at that moment I was relieved
that it was not the leopard that would jump,
from one of us after another at sheer speed

and at quick succession try to kill us all
being a expert at baboon hunting
and thus at killing primates

but the tracker had signalled for all of us
to wait when he saw it
and that party of special force soldiers

was ready to kill when that lion
came to a halt with swishing tail right in front of me
and I can still smell its foul breath

when it roared with wide-open jaws
and terror hit my stomach like a mighty fist
and I could have cut it down

blasting it right from the ground
but the ferocity, the beauty of that beast
halted me as if I was watching it in a dream

and I watched its yellow fangs and pink tongue
totally motionless trying to stare it down
and suddenly it turned around

walking back into the veldt
timid and kitten-eyed
disappearing into the grass, melting into it

poem by Gert Strydom
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Beauty Is...

I followed a single snowflake
On its free-fall journey to earth.
Obscured by its frozen, cloned kind
Landed silently camouflaged
Like a virgin parachutist
Whose achromatic flake added
To the cumulative beauty
Of a wintery afternoon.
At that moment I realized
Beauty was not a single truth
But a delightful harmony
Of invisible qualities
Comprising the form of beauty
Most often sadly overlooked.

poem by Albert Ahearn
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Meet Me In The Indian Summer

(Van Morrison)
Well don't you know
How much I love you
Don't you know
How much I care
It's beyond my comprehension
'Cos I love you on the square
It's not bound by any definition
It isn't written in the stars
It's not limited like Saturn
Isn't ruled by Mercury or Mars
Oh won't you meet me
In the Indian summer
Where we'll go walking
Down by the weeping willow tree
Won't you meet me
In the Indian summer
We'll go walking to eternity
It's not modelled by convention
It isn't worshipped like the sun
It's not likened unto any other
And it will never come undone
Well don't you know
That my world is so lonely
Just like a freight train in the dawn
That's why I need to
Have and hold you
Just to keep me from going wrong
Oh won't you meet me
In the Indian summer
We'll go walking
By the weeping willow tree
Won't you meet me Lord
In the Indian summer
We'll go walking to eternity
Won't you meet me
In the Indian summer
Well before
Those chilly winds do blow
Won't you meet me
In the Indian summer
Take me way back
To what I know
Oh won't you meet me
In the Indian summer
We'll go walking
By the weeping willow tree
Oh won't you meet me
In the Indian summer
We'll go walking to eternity

song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Somewhere Near The Lomba River

The guns of enemy tanks are flashing
like bolts of thunder while I am glancing,
the night air is full of the smell of cordite
and luckily those shots are passing

while the armoured car draws to a sudden halt
for its gun to take aim and on my lips I taste salt
before the armour piercing shell is fired
and at a direct hit around me the crew exalt

before at speed we move on
and some more enemy Cuban soldiers are gone,
are burnt in the fiery hell
while my heart, my brain feels like stone.

An enemy shell strikes another armoured car
like a exploding flaming star
and I can smell torched human flesh,
while I wish to be away very far,

to be away from killing
and this chilling
kind of machination of machines and men
who at each other are firing

but to survive we battle on right through the night,
are still trying to find some more enemies in the broad daylight,
find two abounded stationary pristine enemy battle tanks
from which the enemy had run in fright.

poem by Gert Strydom
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