Lion at the zoo
Golden eyes full of death
stares back at me
and I can almost smell,
the scent of meat
on it’s breath.
One of its paws strikes threatening
while the yellow-brown tail swishes to and thro
and I see a row of deadly nails spiked in it.
It’s ivory white teeth
glitters in the sunlight,
when it opens its jaws.
a Thundering roar close to me
let the hairs on my arms rise
and I see the pink inside of its mouth.
.
It paces up and down
and keeps on watching me and there’s symmetry
in every step that it takes.
When it walks away
I see a black spot at the end of its tail
and it disappears into the long grass.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
The thunder cat
In the bush I see a strange thing,
a secret cat
that like a phantom
follow our tracts, shadowing behind
leaving no tracts of its own.
Red eyes glow at night
with the intensity of a fire burning
but every time that I really look
it’s out of reach.
Around the orange-yellow fire
where we are barbequing the meat
from the day’s hunting
I can almost smell the monster
where it sneaks out of sight
around us.
I wonder what has awaken
in the wild veldt, the jungle
and what hell of a thing
we now have drawn
from its sleep?
My.308 rifle and hunting knife
both lie near to my side,
but something let me comprehend
that no usual weapons
will stand against this monster
but at that time I am still convinced
that it’s only imagination
and the tiredness, the party
at the fire
and my thoughts are playing with me.
Totally unconcerned we go to sleep
and with time the flames
burn lower and lower
and there are only glowing coals left.
When I wake up with a start
a bright moon is in the sky
and something strange
stand over me
and it looks part transparent
but still with a fixed
dark form.
I can smell death
on the breath of it
and see its teeth glittering
and it’s as if thunder
flames from its jaws
when it bites at me
and an urge for survival
let me jump from the ground
to the other side
of the glowing coals
and its teeth clash on each other.
Next to me lies a shovel
and some of the coals
still have small flames
and I see that the coals
make it hesitate for a moment.
Desperately I grab the shovel,
scoop if full of coals
and when the monster
opens its jaws again
to take another bite at me
and I get the rotten smell
of its foul breath
I throw the whole shovel
down its throat.
For a moment it roars thundering,
is filled with bright white thunderbolts
and stand ablaze
and looks like a thunder cat
before it disappears into the darkness
and becomes nothing
as if suddenly it’s in another dimension
and everybody stares at me
with eyes huge as saucers
and from the sand
I pick up two teeth
that shines strangely, like diamonds,
but with an unknown blue-white fire
glowing from the inside.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Tinkerbell is back
Slowly a small white dog
steals up on our yard in the street
with big black outstanding eyes
and she watches scared,
at every thing that she sees
as far as she walks.
There’s something familiar to her
and the small pink tongue
that hangs out of her mouth
where she stands dehydrated
against the green palisades,
the emaciated small body
on which the spinal cord
and ribs protrude
and the small tail
that wraps into the stomach
tells their own tale
of neglection
and lovelessness
and of people
that has lost all humanity.
My heart rejoices because Tinkie is back
and Tinkerbell has escaped from somewhere
and I know that there’s a Lord
that answers prayers,
but if I get hold
of the people
that had stolen her
I will loose more than just my head
and it feels as if I can kill them
with my bare hands.
Somewhere nearby
there’s a lady that sells cosmetics
and my neighbour says
that her child wanted Tinkie
and ten devils,
turn inside my heart
and the Lord
just has to keep me in check.
The front teeth are missing from kicks
and to see the tongue hanging out grudges me
and the vet is wonderful like always
and says that she will be all right with time
and treats her for everything and more
and after more than eight months,
Tinkie is disarranged
and the other dogs
wants to smell her
and my darling and I are happy
because one of our children
is back and there’s again
light and life in her eyes.
poem by Gert Strydom
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At the zoo
There are street hawkers
selling their wares
next to a wall build
of rocks and stone
on all sides of the entrance.
Carved wooden walking sticks
african faces in black wood,
grass brooms, pottery,
hats and t-shirts
and African drums
and paintings line the sidewalk.
Light pink flamingos
parade next to their dark brown pool
and walk among long palm trees
while they call to each other.
Some white swans
drift on a lake in the park
and catch something to eat
with dipping heads
from the dark water.
a Couple of elephant throw
red-brown sand
over themselves
and their pleated skin
looks like rough sandpaper
and at the back
there’s an old white farmstead
with a green roof
and some hay
for them to eat.
Some spotted Hyenas
swim in a stream
and their dark brown
dots stand out
against their light coats.
There’s some long walkways
going through gardens
that stretch into the distance..
Just the head and back
of a lonely Hippopotamus
rises from a dark brown pool
and it drifts with its nose
under the water
in the direction
of some other Hippopotamuses.
Some bridges run
over the small stream
of the Apies river
which splash over rocks.
a Blue crane
combs its blue-grey coat
next to a striped Kudu cow
that grazes on the green grass
with the Kudu bull watching
the visitors.
a Big brown bear
walks up a rock slope
and splashes in cold pool.
Some Impalas are gathering
on a rocky slope
and a narrow path
stretches up the wooded hill.
A Tiger lies sleeping
under a tree
and two black-backed jackals
stand grinning next to each other.
There are yellow-gold lions
that hides in the long green grass
and a slim female
with two cubs
steps out and watches
and the big male
comes out with a twisting tail
and roars menacing at the crowd
while one of the keepers
are giving them meat.
There’s a great view of the buildings
of Pretoria from the top
of the hill
and some high rises
and towers jump up
into the sky.
I take a cable car
for the long way down
and see the Union buildings
far in the distance
and miniature animals
flash by on the bottom.
A Leopard growls
when I leave the cable car
and I hear the calls
of some black Chacma Baboons.
Some African Buffalo
stand grazing like cattle
and a Rhino
lies stretched out
on the grass.
Some of the gamekeepers
are feeding a giraffe
and it stretches its neck
over a high wall
and time catches me
and something of the animals
stays with me
when I walk back to the car.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Daybreak in Alabama
When I get to be a composer
I'm gonna write me some music about
Daybreak in Alabama
And I'm gonna put the purtiest songs in it
Rising out of the ground like a swamp mist
And falling out of heaven like soft dew.
I'm gonna put some tall tall trees in it
And the scent of pine needles
And the smell of red clay after rain
And long red necks
And poppy colored faces
And big brown arms
And the field daisy eyes
Of black and white black white black people
And I'm gonna put white hands
And black hands and brown and yellow hands
And red clay earth hands in it
Touching everybody with kind fingers
And touching each other natural as dew
In that dawn of music when I
Get to be a composer
And write about daybreak
In Alabama.
poem by Langston Hughes
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Gentling a Wildcat
The yellowish-red of the caracal
blended like natural camouflage
into the yellow-brown winter grass
and when it moved its head,
the pointed ears with tufts
of black hair caught my eye.
Eighteen kilograms of hate
and pent up rage
hissed and growled at me
and white teeth
was biting death
out of the air.
Far too weak to move from
a hunter’s shot
and caked
with blood oozing
from its lungs
a paw clawed the air.
No birds and small mammals
or any lesser antelope
were to fall
to its claws and teeth again
and as life faded away
with the setting sun,
I saw hate glaring
out of yellow eyes.
Some faculty of mine
let me stretch out my hand
to stroke the soft head
between the pointed ears
and something changed
inside that deadly cat
and for the last moment,
it was at peace
and to this day
I can swear
it sounded
like a kitten being stroked
as life ebbed away.
[Reference: “Gentling a Wildcat” by Douglas Livingstone.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Jungle Sneaks in the Yard
The jungle sneaks in the yard
and changes from cat to tiger
in a moment
taking less than a second.
Something rustles in the grass
and he crawls on his stomach
with golden eyes drawn wide
he jumps through the air in a bow.
Claws hit in and teeth bite
and with his prey in its mouth
he comes to me,
jumps in through the room’s window
and there’s a black brown snake
hissing out of his mouth
l’Envoi
and cat’s eyes leer murderously cruel
as if has forgotten about being a cat
and eat snakes for snacks
and with one leap
he takes his prey to the outside.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Solitary Reaper
I behold him single,
walking on the street
and his face is covered
by the long black cloak
that the evening wind
bristles against.
From a distance he looks
like a ancient priest,
or somebody trying to
get the better
of the foggy raining weather.
Something sinister is in his step
and I have seen him before
and the knowledge of it,
brings the hair on my arms to life.
I greet him like a old friend
and he smiles at me
like regular passers on the street do
and his voice is part of the wind:
“I am not coming for you, yet.”
The moonlight glitters yellow
in a crescent shape in the sky
and falls on the sickle in his hand
and death walks by,
to take away the very pulse of life
somewhere nearby
and he’s in a hurry to be in time
before destiny’s clockwork reach its mark.
Down the street
I hear a young man sobbing
in a old white house
where all the lights
are burning a soft yellow
and just for a moment,
the solitary reaper hesitates
before unnoticed
he walks through the door.
poem by Gert Strydom
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On Some White Corpuscles
your teeth are yellow and you say these are healthy teeth
you must envy
these yellow teeth
your eyes are happy, they are smiling till the last day,
and you are proud saying
look, these are happy eyes why not take a picture
of them and copy them
to be your eyes,
your skins are tight and you are too very proud of them
these skins hold my bones and there are no rattlings
in the house of your body
then i ask what is your problem then, why you too
take the walks in the morning?
you said your hemoglobin count is low and you sometimes
faint and your lover is worried always taking you limp
in his arms when you kiss in the dark,
i see, this kind of thing to a man of your lifetstyle,
i need not ask if you have been taking large doses
from his white corpuscles,
from the cartilage between his legs,
something too personal you say
there is no envy somehow
you close your mouth hiding your yellow teeth
with some sauce still
about to dry on the gums,
last night, you say, was the best night you ever had,
something new
fresh and you are frank enought to admit
something that you always eat
and swallow
will not last you a life time
love to you, is always, a temporary, fleeting thing,
a fact too tight like your skin
holding all your dangling bones
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Feri's Dream
I Had a little dog, and my dog was very small;
He licked me in the face, and he answered to my call;
Of all the treasures that were mine, I loved him most of all.
His nose was fresh as morning dew and blacker than the night;
I thought that it could even snuff the shadows and the light;
And his tail he held bravely, like a banner in a fight.
His body covered thick with hair was very good to smell ;
His little stomach underneath was pink as any shell;
And I loved him and honoured him, more than words can tell.
We ran out in the morning, both of us, to play,
Up and down across the fields for all the sunny day ;
But he ran so swiftly--he ran right away.
I looked for him, I called for him, entreatingly. Alas,
The dandelions could not speak, though they had seen him pass,
And nowhere was his waving tail among the waving grass.
The sun sank low. I ran; I prayed: ' If God has not the power
To find him, let me die. I cannot bear another hour.'
When suddenly I came upon a great yellow flower.
And all among its petals, such was Heaven's grace,
In that golden hour, in that golden place,
All among its petals, was his hairy face.
poem by Frances Darwin Cornford
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Le Panneau
Under the rose-tree's dancing shade
There stands a little ivory girl,
Pulling the leaves of pink and pearl
With pale green nails of polished jade.
The red leaves fall upon the mould,
The white leaves flutter, one by one,
Down to a blue bowl where the sun,
Like a great dragon, writhes in gold.
The white leaves float upon the air,
The red leaves flutter idly down,
Some fall upon her yellow gown,
And some upon her raven hair.
She takes an amber lute and sings,
And as she sings a silver crane
Begins his scarlet neck to strain,
And flap his burnished metal wings.
She takes a lute of amber bright,
And from the thicket where he lies
Her lover, with his almond eyes,
Watches her movements in delight.
And now she gives a cry of fear,
And tiny tears begin to start:
A thorn has wounded with its dart
The pink-veined sea-shell of her ear.
And now she laughs a merry note:
There has fallen a petal of the rose
Just where the yellow satin shows
The blue-veined flower of her throat.
With pale green nails of polished jade,
Pulling the leaves of pink and pearl,
There stands a little ivory girl
Under the rose-tree's dancing shade.
poem by Oscar Wilde
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Fallen Chocobo
In the wind of the grassland,
where green grass grows tall
above your head
Sighing waves of flashing green
comfort one another
across the sun strewn lawn
Gritty details, dust and blood
carry as a scent on the wind
the cry, we'ih-ooh.
Oh the Chocobo has fallen,
the pink and the yellow
or the wily black male
A wolf of red hair and fiery tail
growls over the corpse
and eats around feathers
poem by Poet Dragon
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If Roses Can Be
If roses can be
yellow
pink
red
white
And still be roses
If hair can be
red
blonde
brunette
black
And still be hair
If eyes can be
green
blue
brown
hazel
And still be eyes
Then why can't humans be
black
white
hispanic
asian
And still be accepted?
Why can't people be
special
different
unique
original
And still be people?
If roses can be
yellow
pink
red
white
And still be roses.....
poem by Jennifer Hall
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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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Jaundiced Eyes
let your jaundiced eyes
for the last time of your breath
see the redness of
a rose
the greenness of grass
the blueness of the sea
the drifting white colors
of the clouds
for once
be not bound by your sickness
that shall take
you to death
or close your eyes
to see
what black really is
this world is not all yellow
as you always insist
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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South Africa, my country
Could I play like you, like a lion cub,
spending my days inviolate with the world,
when you were innocent, intact
had tried to touch butterflies with deadly paws,
you would have stayed forever in my heart
and I would have found acquiescence in you constantly.
Still your paws had become big, deadly
your jaws had become snapping, had mightily showered blood
when your growth went to maturity,
you did even amaze the biggest, most deadly cats
and from your compulsory service I wasn’t free,
fought for survival in your hunt
but now you are wounded far too badly, too serious,
I cannot stop the destruction anymore,
where you now want to kill your own cubs
and my brothers flee far away from you
while you do not want to know them anymore,
are infatuated by bloodlust, are infatuated to win the fight.
Still I love you far too much
to now want to see your nemesis,
I still try to heal your most serious wounds,
I still try to share my mangled life with you
and I can now smell your breath deadly,
while you use my life selfishly.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Life of a Flower
As the snow melts with upmost intensity
Out of the white field under the blues sky a green spot rises
The rise of a legacy of a summer, a legacy of blooms
The sun rises and white is no more
White once now is green, green signs of life
Life that will live for a summer time, summer that never ends
From green to yellow, yellow that perfects the view
View out of sight, so far away you can see the Earth curves
From yellow that blinds the eyes to cloudy skies
Now is time again, say good bye till summer comes back
From brown, the name of a legacy that lasted a life time
Brown surrenders to white, so smooth takes it by force
And Earth sleeps again under the white blanket
Forever and ever life lives and dies
Perfection is all.
Gwine to Run All Night, or De Camptown Races
1 De Camptown ladies sing dis song -- [Chorus] Doo-dah! doo-dah!
2 [Solo] De Camp-town race-track five miles long -- [Chorus] Oh! doo-dah day!
3 [Solo] I come down dah wid my hat caved in -- Doo-dah! doo-dah!
4 I go back home wid a pocket full of tin -- [Chorus] Oh! doo-dah day!
5 Gwine to run all night!
6 Gwine to run all day!
7 I'll bet my money on de bob-tail nag --
8 Somebody bet on de bay.
9 [Solo] De long tail filly and de big black hoss -- [Chorus] Doo-dah! doo-dah!
10 [Solo] Dey fly de track and dey both cut across -- [Chorus] Oh! doo-dah-day!
11 [Solo] De blind hoss sticken in a big mud hole -- [Chorus] Doo-dah! doo-dah!
12 [Solo] Can't touch bottom wid a ten foot pole -- [Chorus] Oh! doo-dah-day!
13 Gwine to run all night!
14 Gwine to run all day!
15 I'll bet my money on de bob-tail nag --
16 Somebody bet on de bay.
17 [Solo] Old muley cow come on to de track -- [Chorus] Doo-dah! doo-dah!
18 [Solo] De bob-tail fling her ober his back -- [Chorus] Oh! doo-dah-day!
19 [Solo] Den fly along like a rail-road car -- [Chorus] Doo-dah! doo-dah!
20 [Solo] Runnin' a race wid a shootin' star -- [Chorus] Oh! doo-dah-day!
21 Gwine to run all night!
22 Gwine to run all day!
23 I'll bet my money on de bob-tail nag --
24 Somebody bet on de bay.
25 See dem flyin' on a ten mile heat -- [Chorus] Doo-dah doo-dah!
26 Round de race track, den repeat -- [Chorus] Oh! doo-dah-day!
27 I win my money on de bob-tail nag -- [Chorus] Doo-dah! doo-dah!
28 I keep my money in an old tow-bag -- [Chorus] Oh! doo-dah-day!
29 Gwine to run all night!
30 Gwine to run all day!
31 I'll bet my money on de bob-tail nag --
32 Somebody bet on de bay.
poem by Stephen C. Foster
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Camptown Races
De Camptown ladies sing dis song -- Doo-dah! doo-dah!
De Camptown racetrack five miles long -- Oh! doo-dah day!
I come down dah wid my hat caved in -- Doo-dah! doo-dah!
I go back home wid a pocket full of tin -- Oh! doo-dah day!
Chorus
Gwine to run all night! Gwine to run all day!
I'll bet my money on de bob-tail nag -- Somebody bet on de bay!
De long tail filly and de big black hoss -- Doo-dah! doo-dah!
Dey fly de track and dey both cut across -- Oh! doo-dah day!
De blind hoss sticken in a big mud hole -- Doo-dah! doo-dah!
Can't touch bottom wid a ten foot pole -- Oh! doo-dah day!
Chorus
Old muley cow come on to de track -- Doo-dah! doo-dah!
De bob-tail fling her ober his back -- Oh! doo-dah day!
Den fly along like a rail-road car -- Doo-dah! doo-dah!
Runnin' a race with a shootin' star -- Oh! doo-dah day!
Chorus
Seen dem flyin' on a ten mile heat -- Doo-dah! doo-dah!
Round de race track, den repeat -- Oh! doo-dah day!
I win my money on de bob-tail nag -- Doo-dah! doo-dah!
I keep my money in an old tow-bag -- Oh! doo-dah day!
Chorus
poem by Stephen C. Foster
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Watching Me Watching You
I sit by the cutting on the beaconsfield line.
Hes watching me watching the trains go by.
And they move so fast --- boy, they really fly.
Hes still watching me watching you watching the
Trains go by.
And the way he stares --- feel like locking my door
And pulling my phone from the wall.
His eyes, like lights from a laser, burn
Making my hair stand --- making the goose-bumps crawl.
Hes watching me watching you watching him
Watching me
Im watching you watching him watching me
Watching stares.
At the cocktail party with a bucks fizz in my hand
I feel him watching me watching the girls go by.
And they move so smooth without even trying.
Hes still watching me watching you watching the
Trains go by.
And the crowd thins and he moves up close but he doesnt speak.
I have to look the other way.
But curiosity gets the better part of me and I peek:
Got two drinks in his hand --- see his lips move ---
What the hells he trying to say.
Hes watching me watching you watching him
Watching me.
Im watching you watching him watching me
Watching stares.
Hes watching me watching you watching him
Watching me.
Hes watching me watching you watching
The trains go by.
Hes watching me watching you watching him
Watching me.
Hes watching me watching you watching him watching me.
Hes watching me watching you watching him watching me watching him watching.
song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Second Part: Misleading An Idea Like A Blind Man
my left hand touches the right side of my neck
rubbing it and then slides its fingers to my ear
i open my mouth to signify that i long for sleep
i put my hands on top of my unwashed hair
the day's schedule is hectic like the way a juggler pleases our eyes
i open my mouth letting the wall see my egg white
teeth and then i close my mouth again
sipping air inside my lungs
my eyes are like heavy clouds low to the ground
becoming fog to the grass
i am sleepy
but i do not want to sleep
i am teasing time since it has no
underwear
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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