En.Citatepedia^®.ro

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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In the garden irises are flowering (Novelinee)

In the garden irises are flowering
in colours of yellow, purple and blue
as if something to them are happening
some are mixed in yellow and purple too
and some are mauve, or some are somewhat brown,
I wonder if other flowers I will see
where magnificent they grow on their own,
while the weavers are singing constantly
in a kind of solemn serenity.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Seasons

I

As if summer will never end
irises are everywhere in the garden
with opening flower after flower
in light yellow, deep purple and rust-brown.

The bright hot sun hangs day after day
in a cobalt blue sky and even carnations, geraniums
and flame lilies are showing their beauty,
are still holding onto summer.

Doves are still cooing in the oak tree,
their are finches and sparrows cavorting up and down
and it’s as if nature is thwarting autumn
while dew is still shining on the leaves in the mornings

until later the sky becomes dull blue
while the sun is getting much more faint.

II

Slowly the leaves are falling
descending in different colours,
in one’s and two’s and later in a bigger number
tree-trunks become dark brown, red and some pallid

until every tree but for those that are evergreen stand skeleton,
the birds that remain sit next to each other shivering,
wishing for the winter to past
having difficulty to find seeds and other food

and the cold winter wind blows through everything,
filling the air with whirling dust clouds
with stripped branches flinging up and down
and everywhere leaves and branches lie in a jumble

until the wind dies down and the morning fog hangs like vapour,
at times only at noon is dispersed by the sun.

III

Days are cold and grey while the sun hides,
with a owl hunting during the day
searching for hungry mice sneaking around in the yellow grass
and all other signs of animal life is missing

but for doves sitting here and there
on telephone wires,
in disconsolation staring into the distance
and early mornings the grass is covered with white ripe

and it is as if every flower succumbs,
is shrinking crumpled and are folding close
until the first spring rain comes suddenly,
with sprouts and buds appearing and new flowers folding open

when fruit trees are covered with white, pink and yellow blossoms
and the sudden beauty takes your breath away.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Sometimes I imagine

Sometimes I imagine
that my D Jacobs painting
of a red brown earth road
that in winter
runs through the yellow green veldt
past a few oak and blue gum trees
to the purple blue mountains
in the distance
is a Pierneef,

but what draws it nearer to me,
is that I almost feel
the sand beneath me feet,
can smell the tussocks of grass,
try to catch the shades of the trees
one by one,
see a graveyard
in the distance next to
a few bushes,
look at the bright blue sky
and get emotionally involved
with this painting
as it brings my childhood days
back to me
and it jumps right
into my heart.

[Reference: Painting by D Jacobs that belongs to me.]

poem by Gert Strydom
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My Childhood Garden

my childhood garden

my childhood garden
lush and green
it was so happy it made me scream
my joy and hopes
and all my mopes
my childhood garden

my childhood garden
with the ups and downs
when i jumped i could not touch the ground
with my purle ponys
it made it homey
my childhood garden

my childhood garden
flying high
with the little lies
the grass fine
up in the sky my kite
my childhood garden

my childhood garden
now in the past
i now know that it can never last
now as i get taller
it was differnt when i was smaller
my childhood garden

poem by Danielle Eager
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A spring evening

Outside the irises flower yellow and purple
and I haven’t seen a red one yet
and there are some pink and white blossoms
on the fruit trees
and the streetlights burn continually
glowing orange-yellow
all day and all night
as if the municipality
does not know how to do things right
and in the fading evening light
the moon is full and white
and the evening star is already shining bright
and a hot breeze sweeps in
through the open windows
and I wonder when the first spring rain
is going to fall
and in the distance I see thunder
crashing down
in blue-white flashes, but the storm
is blown away and again the sky is clear
and the black speckled by stars.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Now is The Winter With Trees Stripped Naked

Now is the winter with trees naked
when there is cold and sifting rain,
stripped bare without leaves

and then you first come past and then to me
like a sun rising over the horizon
with a yellow raincoat, your pants splashed wet, laughing and glad

and your company is full of fun
in bands of gathering fog.
Now is the winter with trees naked

cutting off every ray and light
and I know our time is only borrowed,
like a sun rising over the horizon

but stopping the rays in this winter,
in a cold world without hope or pity,
stripped bare without leaves

where you shake out your hair like a dog does with rain,
whereupon I take the clips from your hair
and I know our time is only borrowed

but your are glorious like a poster
and for long moments time is missing.
Now is the winter with trees naked

with bliss descending between us
and you are only mine, with soft lips and big eyes
whereupon I take the clips from your hair

and I see your beauty
our passion goes to practical reality,
stripped bare without leaves

we shine like the world outside in vulnerability like rainbows,
where passion sweeps us away from uncovering
and you are only mine, with soft lips and big eyes

pretty, pure and untouched
in moments of ecstasy without fatigue.
Now is the winter with trees naked
stripped bare without leaves

and I am totally lost in you.
and then you first come past and then to me,
where passion sweeps us away from uncovering
with a yellow raincoat, your pants splashed wet, laughing and glad.

poem by Gert Strydom
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How to make your wishes come true

She liked white and had not said a word yet

On her tenth birthday
she stood on the red steps
of the red opera house
-the red opera house on the north side of Sydney Harbour
almost opposite the white opera house

She scattered orange petals, yellow petals, green leaves and spoke
in a light blue voice
A bird of navy blue pink and gold feathers stood by her. Was this the grateful bird? Purple gold and white danced
She said
white stillness, pure gold, purple wonder, gold strength, pink joy, pink infinity, navy blue now, strong indigo blue, light blue fountain, the green first reason, compassionate orange, endless yellow,
royal red, single red, free orange, free yellow, green depth as clear as crystal, all attractive light blue, strong indigo blue, strong navy blue, pink wishes, gold compassion, compassionate purple,
gold of golds, of creativity, white of whites, gold truth, purple mentor, funny gold, pink friend of children, navy blue of nature,
indigo blue knowledge, light blue song of nature, green creation, yellow in senses, orange guide, red way, red inspirer, orange giver, yellow help, dazzling green, light blue of the delicate, with indigo blue eyes, navy blue good, with pink kind eyes, golden hair, golden complexion, purple complexion, gold warmth, of white space, white and gold love, of all purple knowledge, gold presence, pink in thunder and storms, navy blue pleasure, indigo blue beauty,
light blue lines, all attractive green, of yellow stirring music, of orange, red refuge, clear red, orange orange, yellow yellow, with green giving hands, of green, light blue truth, indigo blue essence, navy blue sparkle, pink with gold, purple guide, gold here, here white, white is the sun with penetrating vision, purple and golden constant winner, gold reach, of all pink, infinite navy blue, indigo blue knowledge, light blue care, deep green in greens, orange truth, dedicated to yellow, red peace, red glory, orange beauty, yellow, of green and light blue evenings, handsome indigo blue, intelligent navy blue, pink of pinks, of gold golds, purple purple, gold friend,
openness, formless white and gold, prevailing purple, efficient purple, purple origin, purple form, gold and permanent pink, navy blue belief, indigo blue blue, dense green, orange, yellow, red friend, red
and fell silent

Are the colours telling us that reciting the girl's words could make all our wishes come true? What else do red orange yellow green light blue indigo blue navy blue pink gold purple gold white know?
Today is a Monday

poem by Bhupen Thakker
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Wild garden

I saw rows of white,
yellow and red lilies bloom,
next to the railway tracts.

Loaded trains rattled past
and that garden,
sprang up by itself between the weeds.

With the early summer rain
rows of blue, white and pink wild flowers
bloomed next to the road that passed nearby.

Some finches nested in the trees
and red, yellow and green birds
flew past the vast garden
of earth that came alive
as far as the eye could see.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Everything is going to be wet

Every day rain falls down
from the overcast grey sky
and lightning bolts
flash blue white
like the fingers
of the gods
caressing the earth
while the leaves of autumn
cover every tree
in auburn, yellow and brown.

Green leaves on the stems
of big pink hollyhocks
here and there
dip up and down
when hit by drops of rain
as if suddenly coming alive

and it’s going to be
a wet winter
and probably
not all that chilly
with rain falling
out of season.

The grass is green
and everything but trees
are growing
as if it’s still spring.

and flowers bloom
on geraniums, roses, hollyhocks,
lilies, irises and petunias
in colours ranging
from white, orange, yellow,
violet to red and blue
and without covering
everything is going
to be wet.

poem by Gert Strydom
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In The Winter Garden

Winter has visited our garden my love
Trees have been stripped bare and flowers wilt
A frost has been laid upon the ground
Even the birds have taken to flight, away
Amid the silence of the morning I walk
Through our garden which we nurtured
How solemn it now looks without colour
The summer seems but a distant memory
How beautiful it looked back then
How beautiful it will look once more
But now in the mornings drab light
With barren trees and wilted flowers
I walk upon the hardened earth
Which feels like stone beneath my feet
We talked of planting a fruit tree
For flavour and shade in years to come
Now that is an idea in waiting
Till winter has passed, and spring returns
Winter is here in our garden my love
As I watch the vapour of my breath rise
I say your name, a love for all time

poem by Matthew Holloway
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Shattered windows, Colors of white

Across the street is a new house with a room painted red, with no holes of white.
Next to me, a house purple, with its color pealing off, with holes of black and white
At the end of the street, an old house once yellow, what now remains white.
The sound of a hammer building a house, entering a place with a color unknown.

On the street,
Windows covered with ice
Some shine with light.
Some broken
Some fixed
Some lost, out of sight.

A house, two blocks from here.
Shines with lights of yellow, red, and green everywhere.
A wall keeping the wind from blowing anywhere.
The house next door, at the dawn of the day.
Paints its room black, and peals the color away.

The wall crumbles.
The wind blows across the colors of yellow, red and green
Breaks all the windows.
Turns the yellow to blue, red to black, and green to white.

The house two blocks away.
Adds a line of yellow red and green everyday.
To allow the house of blue, black and white to shine for us some day.

poem by Linda ErikssonBique
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I dreamt of walking in a lovely garden

(after Percy Bysshe Shelley)

I dreamt of walking in a lovely garden
and it was in the time of spring
where sprouts appeared where the ground did harden
and everywhere I could hear birds sing.

Around me there were flowers everywhere,
irises in colours of yellow, purple and blue,
scented roses in white, orange and red that made me stare
at their particular lovely hue.

Everything was fresh and new after the rain showers
and in that garden I was somewhat cosy,
I wanted to pick a bunch of flowers,
tie them into a scented posy

and I wondered for who,
as no one to me was true.

[Reference: “The Question” by Percy Bysshe Shelley.]

poem by Gert Strydom
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The Color of Life (a written picture)

Blue spruce
- in a green garden
Black bird
- above a yellow field
Brown hawk
- against a red canyon
White cloud
- within a blue sky
Purple silouette
- leaning upon an orange dusk

All the colors
of the earth
And all the colors
of those that live therein
Are all the colors
of all of Life.

poem by Smoky Hoss
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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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In the Highveld

(after Toon van den Heever)

I

In the Highveld with the sky cobalt blue and open
where rock rabbits, steenbok and baboons revel,
you see the wind skipping through the long grass
and you can still believe in God and His angels,

the rain gathers with thunder
where through the open spaces you can see far into the veldt,
you are astounded by the beauty of flowering proteas
and you still can realize your dependence

but when the city’s rumbling becomes too much,
the jacarandas start flowering in the streets,
buildings of steel and concrete start to curtail you,
you dream about wild flowers appearing everywhere

and it’s the places of a child that you miss,
in the Highveld where the veldt stretches out into the distance.

II

In the Highveld where the veldt stretches out into the distance
and the wind rollicks through the grass
the sky is pure blue and you can look for hours at it,
there you can find freedom from the city’s imprisonment.

When the wind rustles through the march you loose all sadness,
you see the African red-knobbed coot gathering her chickens,
you can hear the finches’ caper, branches full together,
you see every great small happening,

how wild flowers of every imaginable colour
grow as if planted in secret
(and I will go back if I only could)
where I can find some serenity, can have peace
where I will know about God’s heritage;
there the sun shines.

III

There the sun shines
where proteas and aloes flower wildly,
bright up to the horizon
coming out of the earth by themselves

with violets growing purple-blue right through the marsh,
with daisies stretching white over the veldt,
with long tailed widow birds flapping their wings
and the earth is covered with long green grass.

To this piece of ground I am trapped
even when my days are drawing to their end,
it goes even to my heart’s deepest yearning,
with every plant, bush and flower

as it’s bought with sweat and blood,
nobody can strip it from me.

IV

Nobody can strip it from me,
I have to go back to where the sun hangs golden
in the sapphire heaven, I have got to strip the city from me
(but if I only could)

the big desire stays and out of the town I must go
away from the ambulance and police sirens that cuts through everything,
trains whistling almost endlessly,
I have got to go to where only the frog choir and crickets sing.

Again I have got to get the smell of sugar bushes,
smell the rain, spring, summer and even autumn
I must get away from a world where tinned pleasure seduces,
where people use other people for their own pleasure.

I want to stand in the green fields of grass,
when the day dies.

V

When the day dies
letting its last rays fall,
with the birds flying to their nests
darkness comes to this part of the universe,

the doves at dusk still call to each other
as if their voices bind them in the darkness,
you can see the moon sailing golden-yellow through the sky,
you are sometimes blinded by the bright rays,

the city lights glitter far away
in all the colours of the rainbow,
here you want to bond your life to a loved one,
catching her moments long in your eye

when people come together here,
the madness of the human existence is exorcised.

VI

The madness of the human existence is exorcised
even in later years past your own youth,
when you are in the world that your heart desires,
you want to invite the new spring to stay with you

shaking out that which bothers and torments to the early summer wind,
feeling the effervescence of new life,
blinded by the sun you want to find healing
while the whole of spring washes through your life

with the light, air, the flowers, birds and sun splashing down
as if your autumn is only in your imagination,
you want to wash yourself clean from old age,
you are searching for exorcism from the darkness

there are still flowers sprouting out everywhere,
when the colours of autumn smoulder in the trees.

VII

When the colours of autumn smoulder in the trees
with branches being full of coloured leaves,
the sun is still heating as in summer
before the first biting winds begin to whine.

I see opened pod upon opened pod
that lays brown scorched without any signs of seeds,
the dull blue sky has clouds in milky white,
trees become a wild watermill

that is halfway skeleton, halfway still carrying leaves,
afternoons are still drawn out
and even when days earlier end in winter
it’s a time without equal,
as if the summer can last forever,
in the Highveld with the sky cobalt blue and open.

poem by Gert Strydom
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There Were Late Afternoons

There were late afternoons when as a child
I would see the tall popular trees
making the pale blue sky seem much higher
where they grew next to the old farm dam

with there branches whispering
in the early night breeze,
with doves and finches calling
from their nests in the shelter of these trees,

when an early moon would appear
and the evening star would suddenly start twinkling
blue-white in its sheer brightness against a darker blue sky,
like a mother goose leading all of the other stars.

There were early evenings when the sun
died with its deep red glow touching
the hillocks that were covered in sugar bushes,
and red flowering aloes,

when the scent of protea flowers was sweet on the air,
when blue changed to darker black,
when darkness came suddenly
and a myriad of stars sparkled all over the sky

while in the distance fires came to life
at the rural mud huts, while jackals
and dogs started to howl at the bright yellow moon,
while I knew that mother would be home soon.

poem by Gert Strydom
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There Were Late Afternoons As A Child

There were late afternoons when as a child
I would see the tall popular trees
making the pale blue sky seem much higher
where they grew next to the old farm dam

with there branches whispering
in the early night breeze,
with doves and finches calling
from their nests in the shelter of these trees,

when an early moon would appear
and the evening star would suddenly start twinkling
blue-white in its sheer brightness against a darker blue sky,
like a mother goose leading all of the other stars.

There were early evenings when the sun
died with its deep red glow touching
the hillocks that were covered in sugar bushes,
and red flowering aloes,

when the scent of protea flowers was sweet on the air,
when blue changed to darker black,
when darkness came suddenly
and a myriad of stars sparkled all over the sky

while in the distance fires came to life
at the rural mud huts, while jackals
and dogs started to howl at the bright yellow moon,
while I knew that mother would be home soon.

poem by Gert Strydom
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A late walk

i walk through the lane again
now all tarred, laterite
the gravel all gone
pieces of my life
all the days of the years
the stones too
they hit the soft spots
under the feet
aching the heart
the lengthy lane
now so short for the legs
once so short
childhood friends, neighbours
they flew back, stared, walked
laughed from all angles
back and fore of my eyes
the heart leapt to yesteryears

inspired by

A Late Walk
When I go up through the mowing field,
The headless aftermath,
Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew,
Half closes the garden path.
And when I come to the garden ground,
The whir of sober birds
Up from the tangle of withered weeds
Is sadder than any words
A tree beside the wall stands bare,
But a leaf that lingered brown,
Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought,
Comes softly rattling down.
I end not far from my going forth
By picking the faded blue
Of the last remaining aster flower
To carry again to you.

poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Heralds of spring

A warm evening
Traffic buzzes over
An endless highway

The bare kesu tree sighs happily
As white storks alight
Folding noiseless wings

Orange flowers bedeck
Winter-stripped branches
Storks rest, nodding at the hardy tree

As birds return to colder lands
This humble tree, flowers early
To herald the onset of spring

Note: The humble and hardy Kesu tree [Coral/ Butea Monosperma] is commonly found on roadsides in India. Kesu flowers are bright orange or purple, with long and thick petals - look like semi-spiralled daisies!

poem by Anita Atina
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We Walk In The Moonlight

We walk in the moonlight
to buy cake meal and cinnamon
past rows and rows of houses of which the lights wink
with the veldt stripped open into the distance

and you tell my about your childhood days,
about a house on a farm now demolished,
about an inheritance that was not yours
and the old yard may be up for sale.

Stars shine like torches against the sky,
your eyes gleam secretively
with the beauty of a innocent child,
our feelings are suddenly intense and intimate.

poem by Gert Strydom
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