Maybe I Was Rehearsing (Decuain)
Maybe I was rehearsing to be me
when we trained very hard in the camp,
when we tracked the deadly enemy
through the hot sun, the strong wind and the damp,
or maybe I had been a kind of scamp
as the war went very well on each day
but when writing here at the bedside lamp
I wanted to run, to run far away,
not in great fright to run away, or to flee,
but to find a place of great tranquillity.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Related quotes
I am doing my best to glorify the scamp or vagabond. I hope I shall succeed. For things are not so simple as they sometimes seem. In this present age of threats to democracy and individual liberty, probably only the scamp and the spirit of the scamp alone will save us from being lost in serially numbered units in the masses of disciplined, obedient, regimented and uniformed coolies. The scamp will be the last and most formidable enemy of dictatorships. He will be the champion of human dignity and individual freedom, and will be the last to be conquered. All modern civilization depends entirely upon him.
quote by Lin Yutang
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Scamp
AIN'T it nice to have a mammy
W'en you kin' o' tiahed out
Wid a-playin' in de meddah,
An' a-runnin' roun' about
Till hit's made you mighty hongry,
An' yo' nose hit gits to know
What de smell means dat's a-comin'
F'om de open cabin do'?
She wash yo' face,
An' mek yo' place,
You's hongry as a tramp;
Den hit's eat you suppah right away,
You sta'vin' little scamp.
W'en you's full o' braid an' bacon,
An' dey ain't no mo' to eat,
An' de lasses dat's a-stickin'
On yo' face ta'se kin' o' sweet,
Don' you t'ink hit's kin' o' pleasin'
Fu' to have som'body neah
Dat'll wipe yo' han's an' kiss you
Fo' dey lif' you f'ore yo cheah?
To smile so sweet,
An' wash yo' feet,
An' leave 'em co'l an' damp;
Den hit's come let me undress you, now
You lazy little scamp.
Don' yo' eyes git awful heavy,
An' yo' lip git awful slack,
Ain't dey som'p'n' kin' o' weaknin'
In de backbone of yo' back?
Don' yo' knees feel kin' o' trimbly,
An' yo' head go bobbin' roun',
W'en you says yo' 'Now I lay me,'
An' is sno'in' on de 'down '?
She kiss yo' nose,
She kiss yo' toes,
An' den tu'n out de lamp,
Den hit's creep into yo' trunnel baid,
You sleepy little scamp.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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A brave Field Cornet
From a hillock
two Boer commandoes
ride into an English camp
and a few of the British are shot,
a lot are caught
and most flee away.
In the direction of the Tuli river
the enemy are followed in haste
where they join comrades
driving a ox wagon
and the Boers are marksmen
and the English flee again
to find shelter in a farmhouse.
The house is shot to pieces
and for the third time on one day
the British flee again
and the next day,
the Boer commando captures nine wagons
with food and ammunition.
The day following Boer scouts
find an abandoned enemy camp
with burned out fires,
tents, horses and mules
and see a big cloud of dust
coming along in their direction.
There’s a Field Cornet
that does not ride away,
while two Boer commandos
escapes to safety.
At dusk Jacobus Potgieter
finds more men with a canon
set on a hillock
and with just more than twenty men,
he prepares
to give resistance to a huge enemy force.
The darker the night gets,
the nearer the cloud of dust comes
and Jacobus Potgieter and his men
are ready to shoot killing shots
and to let no Englishmen past them
and there’s a rambling sound,
but no enemy appear
and they are invaded
by a swarm of locusts.
[Reference: The “JJ Potgieter manuscript.” Second Anglo-Boer war. Boer commando= A group of Boer farmers in a citizen force militia under a Commandant (Lieutenant-Colonel) .]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Elizabeth Speaks
(Aetat Six)
Now every night we light the grate
And I sit up till _really_ late;
My Father sits upon the right,
My Mother on the left, and I
Between them on an ancient chair,
That once belonged to my Great-Gran,
Before my Father was a man.
We sit without another light;
I really, truly never tire
Watching that space, as black as night,
That hangs behind the fire;
For there sometimes, you know,
The dearest, queerest little sparks,
Without a sound creep to and fro;
Sometimes they form in rings
Or lines that look like many things,
Like skipping ropes, or hoops, or swings:
Before you know what you're about,
They all go out!
My Father says that they are gnomes,
Beyond the grate they have their homes,
In a tall, black, and windy town,
Behind a door we cannot see.
Often when it's time for bed
The children run away instead,
Out through the door to see our fire,
Then their angry parents come
With every candle in the town,
The beadle with his lantern too,
And search and rummage up and down,
To catch the children as they play,
Between the rows of new-mown hay,
And bring them home;
(They must be, O, so very small,
How do they capture them at all?
But then they must be very _dear_);
When they can find no more
They blow a horn we cannot hear,
And march with the beadle at their head,
Right through the little open door,
Then close it tight and go to bed.
My Mother says that may be so;
(They both agree they're _gnomes_, you know).
She says, she thinks that every night,
The gnomes have had a fearful fight;
Their valiant General has been slain,
And all the soldiers leave the camp
To dig his grave upon the plain;
They drag the General on a gun;
Every bandsman has a lamp
And there's a torch for every one,
They dig his grave with bayonets
And wrap him grandly in his flag,
Then they gather in a ring,
The band plays very soft and low,
And all the soldiers sing.
(Of course we cannot hear, you know,)
Then some one calls 'The enemy comes!'
They muffle up their pipes and drums;
Every soldier in a fright
Puts out his light.
Then hand in hand, and very still,
They clamber up the dark, dark hill
And hold their breath tight--tight.
(I'd like to know which tale is right.)
O! there is something I forgot!
Sometimes one little spark burns on
Long after the rest have gone.
My Father says that lamp is left
By a little crooked, crotchety man,
Who cannot find his wayward son;
When the horn begins to blow,
He has to drop his light and run.
Of course he limps so slow
He squeezes through the very last,
When he is gone the naughty scamp
Jumps up and puff! out goes the lamp.
My Mother says that is the light,
Borne by the very bravest knight;
He is so very, very brave,
He would not leave his General's grave,
And when the Enemy General tries
To make him tell where his General lies,
He answers boldly, 'I--will--not!'
Then they shoot him on the spot,
And give a horrid, dreadful shout,
And then of course his light goes out.
I sit and think when they are through,
Which tale I like best of the two.
Sometimes I like the _Father_ one;
It is such fun!
But then I love the _Mother_ one,
That dear brave soldier and the rest:--
_Now which one do you like the best?_
poem by Duncan Campbell Scott
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Don't Forget who is your Father
God is Great
He created you and me so ladies and gentleman
he is the only person to praise and pray
Cause some of us we pray Alan people you pray him
who is him God is the one who created us
so guys help me to Thank him every time i'm sick i call him cause
he is the hiller the killer of diseases in the world
Help me to sing.
How great is our God sing with me how great is our God
all we sing is how great is our God age to age praise his
Great great great great great
great great great great great great great
great great great great great great great
great great great great great great great great great great great
GOD GOD GOD GOD GOD GOD GOD GOD..
Thank you Help me pliz.
poem by Ruvimbo Daisy Matsika
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A love poem to a poem
for there’s what you planned to write about,
and what you find yourself
writing about; perhaps
find yourself, while writing about..
and there’s the poem itself; did you
consult it about what
its plans were? and when
it’s got itself written,
gone where it wanted to,
said what it wanted to say,
become what it wanted to become,
do you really know
what it’s finally and really about?
is it telling you more about
you than you knew yourself?
is the poem writing you?
did we, as with the unicorn,
feel the unspoken need for it,
and it became?
in some other world,
did two grains of dust change places?
did a new sort of light
shine on a new sort of place
in some new sort of time?
poems are like cats:
we think we own them;
they allow us certain rights,
but they own us.
this is a love poem
to a poem
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Whip
Great Great Great Great
is thy work
The fortune hunter
your uninterrupted lamp
has
torch light out the
parasite in their closet
like an erosion that called
the black pot of sacrifice of the perpetrator
Great Great Great Great
is thy work
The fervent farmer
your crude instrument
has
uprooted the unwanted ornament
in the vineyard
like locus waiting the planter
Great Great Great Great
is thy work
The lean steward
you never sleep nor slumber
in the quest of monitoring the
offender in the field like Nigeria
EFCC punching out the beautiful criminals
Great Great Great Great
is thy work
The no nonsense headmaster
with this
masquerade Cain whipping
the deaf prefect in the school of moral
The whip that caution the senior wife
is at the top of the roof for
YOU
poem by Samuel Abimbola Aladetan
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We wanted to be in great shape, we wanted to be able to cope with zero gravity, we wanted to be able to cope with accelerations and decelerations and so on. So all of us trained so that we were probably in the best physical condition we had ever been in up until that point.
quote by Alan Shepard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Many of our soldiers are stationed at Camp Coyote just south of the Iraqi border. This is how you know we have a strong army, when you can actually tell your enemy exactly where your camp is and what its name is.
quote by Jon Stewart
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sea Deep In Darkness
I've been trained to kill!
Of course.
That's the idea...
When one joins the military.
To conform to protect and maim,
Total strangers.
We weren't trained to have mindsets,
To bake sweets to eat.
Or stand at attention...
To drip with sweat,
In soaring heat.
Not complain about crumpets!
Or who with lunch to meet and greet..
Young,
I set out to stop the enemy.
Young and programmed,
I did not accept defeat.
I wanted to stop the enemy from ruining my nest.
I wanted to let the enemy know I was a patriot!
An American at my best.
But it seems so many are sea deep in darkness.
Wanting gifts and trinkets...
Treasured as they disrespect.
And those who sought to keep them safe,
Are shown a rusting of neglect.
A need fulfilled has been digested.
A loss descends from light!
And that has been...
On the surface,
Reflected.
Where life is found now seems infested.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Wind Horse
Da naho… It is said,
Wind Horse, gentle Wind horse, you were the last of your kind.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you were running wild and free.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, with this freedom you did nothing but give;
When one called for help you carried them to safety,
No enemy did you have.
Da naho… It is said,
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you gave your life one day
To a boy with no leg.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you gave him your endless love.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you now run in the Great Hunting Grounds;
Giving joy to those there, as you did here.
Da naho… It is said,
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, your life was not the last gift
You gave the People.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you prayed for us, you wished a wish for us.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, we remember you through your brother Horse.
Wi: yo: h … It is good.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, we see you still.
poem by Tolly Rebeka Christian BlackWolf Hawk
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life!
Life (2nd attempt in writing a song)
What is life?
Life is sometimes great
Sometimes nothing
Most of the time it moves in circle
Though many a time it goes straight
Life is very easy
When you relinquish your dreams
It is very hard
When you want a thing to achieve
What is life?
Life is sometimes great
Sometimes it is nothing
Name fame in life is a game
of pray and hard work
Some one may get some thing
By virtue of a good luck
But things will never come again and again
As life is never a fluke
If you want to achieve some thing concrete
You have to rub your butt against a thorn or prick.
What is life?
Life is very deadly joyful
When you succeeds in love
Life is a lake of tasteless tears
When you have a success in failures.
poem by Abdul Wahab
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Great Pioneer
Graham Russell)
It happened long ago
When I felt the need
For a life of my own
I dreamt of summer love
And moving high up north
But no one would go
So I walked up the hill and lay there
Imagining the day was near
I know I want to stay there
And be a great pioneer
I made a promise then
That I'd find a place
Where my world won't end
Give me a piece of land
That will be my life
That I will defend
If I work really hard
I will surely survive
I know my virtue is strong
No one could oppose a spirt
So raw to be a part of the state
To be known as a great pioneer
I keep the fires burning
To let you know I'm free
My heart will always be yearning
CHORUS
To be a part of the state
To be a part of the state
To be known as a great pioneer
And if it all should end
ANd I hear the call
From the great unknown
I'll need to go my way
Let me have my day
Let me be alone
I was dreaming here and lay there
Knowing that my time is here
I know I wanna stay there
And be a part of the state
And be a part of the state
And be known as a great pioneer
song performed by by Air Supply
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Lake of the Dismal Swamp
'THEY made her a grave too cold and damp
For a soul so warm and true;
And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp,
Where all night long, by a firefly lamp,
She paddles her white canoe.
And her firefly lamp I soon shall see,
And her paddle I soon shall hear;
Long and moving our life shall be
And I'll hide the maid in a cypress tree,
When the footstep of death is near.'
Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds, -
His path was rugged and sore,
Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds,
Through many a fen where the serpent feeds,
And man never trod before.
And when on the earth he sank to sleep,
If slumber his eyelids knew,
He lay where the deadly vine doth weep
Its venemous tear, and nightly steep
The flesh with blistering dew!
And near him the she-wolf stirr'd the brake,
And the copper-snake breathed in his ear,
Till he starting cried, from his dream awake,
'Oh when shall I see the dusky Lake,
And the white canoe of my dear?'
He saw the Lake, and a meteor bright
Quick over its surface play'd, -
'Welcome,' he said, 'my dear one's light!'
And the dim shore echo'd for many a night
The name of the death-cold maid.
Till he hollow'd a boat of the birchen bark,
Which carried him off from the shore;
Far, far he follow'd the meteor spark,
The wind was high and the clouds were dark,
And the boat return'd no more.
But oft, from the Indian hunter's camp,
This lover and maid so true
Are seen at the hour of midnight damp
To cross the Lake by a firefly lamp,
And paddle their white canoe!
poem by Thomas Moore
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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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Flying To The Success
To fly to the success
How many wings should we have?
The wind, a great fortune.
No...
The wind, trying hard.
Not yet...
The wind, being wise.
Not right...
The wind, the desire that is strong.
Totally wrong...
So we need all of these.
Not complete...
--***---***----
The only wind we need is
Being ready for every case.
Hence, my message is that
Getting ready for everything is
Flying to the real success.
poem by Aung Si Myanmar
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At Cape Point
As I drive past Cape Point
and the winter rain sieves down,
I see the track going up the hill
and see walking up the slope
my girlfriend and I
on a long gone summer’s day.
Her smile was like the sun
and the tranquillity
as we walked up the hill
is with me still and what we said
does not matter at all
and at the top we looked
at the great rollers of the sea
where two oceans
and two strong currents meet
and saw huge waves crashing below
and through the telescope
we watched a liner sailing bye
and the wind ruffled her hair
and only the two of us were there
my girlfriend and I
and as feelings go
never have I felt a thing like that
and was the great world
as lovely as just then
and now I would give almost anything
to be back there
while my solitude
is giving way to loneliness.
[Reference: Cape point: A place where the Atlantic and Indian oceans meet and the hot Agulhas (Mozambique) and cold Benguela currents.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Helderberg Hill (Sestina)
You are the high hill with numerous peaks,
that in summer looks magnificent and cheery,
where I have climbed up to waterfalls, to heights,
where I got a view of sun, beach and sea,
felt as if in presence of God, with tranquillity
with your moods you remind me of a lady.
Once I wandered with a young lady
on a twisting trail among your high peaks
to find some inner peace, some tranquillity
and she was quite happy and rather cheery
gazing up at the blue sky, down at the sea
from both of those dazing heights.
Climbing up to the sheer heights
was like exploring the body of a lady
as if finding a secret kind of sea
with beautiful rising pointed peaks
and the experience was quite cheery,
suddenly leaving an own tranquillity.
My privacy is invaded by her tranquillity
as from far I still do watch her heights
and although feeling rather cheery
there is danger in this lovely lady
that beacons me with her high peaks
to look upon an endless open sea.
I long to gaze out upon the sea,
to be with her in tranquillity,
to wander among her peaks,
to again explore her heights
as if to visit a dear kind old lady
but I wonder if I will find her cheery?
But I must now continually stay cheery,
keep far away from the troubled sea,
avoid all of the dangerous heights
of live to be able to find tranquillity
but still the beautiful ageless lady
is luring me continually with her peaks.
How glimmering and cheery with ice her peaks
high above the sea, do glow from their heights,
she is without tranquillity, a chilly frozen lady.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Time To Fight Back
The humans were encroaching on their hunting ground.
They'd have to send a dire message, which would be found.
They didn't want to fight or start a deadly war.
They were only three Shewolves, but were used to gore.
The humans always came in groups of two or more.
To kill just one human would be a grueling chore.
They tracked and they stalked for the perfect time to strike.
The humans all looked, moved, conversed and smelled alike.
They stunk, built fires, and trashed the ancient hunting ground.
Some stayed riverside, precious gold was to be found.
That was the venue to attack the greedy crews.
They didn't need more reasons to light their short fuse.
At night was the best time for a killing attack.
They needed to be cunning and not leave a track.
They didn't fear these beings, to fail was to die.
They had to fight for what was theirs, or at least try.
They waited for a waning moon for this great feat.
Strike with cruel force and like lightning, Death they must cheat.
They crept with stealth; soon the two miners were in sight.
They slept sound, without the smallest tremor of fright.
The trio struck quickly, and took one by the throat.
They drug him to the river and knew he would float.
It was a soundless kill, and the other slept on.
He awoke in the dawn with a stretch and a yawn.
He called for his partner and longtime hunting mate.
He wasn't worried yet, in his slow sleepy state.
While cooking breakfast he began to worry some.
He looked around now, and spotted a severed thumb.
There was no other sign of a struggle in camp.
Now the sweat started to bead, and his hands grew damp.
He grabbed his loaded rifle and a bunch of shells.
He wouldn't give up without many shouts and yells.
Weeks would be gone, before the lone miner was through.
He packed their belongings, and loaded their canoe.
He took the single thumb, now long turned grey and hard.
He would keep this memento, his mind always scarred.
Their home was filled with the smell of flesh quite rotten.
The miners were gone now, but never forgotten.
Hunting and stalking and killing were their real knack.
Now was the place, and now was the Time to Fight Back.
poem by J.B. LeBuert
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A Strange Cocktail
In their National flag they do take such great pride
And they feel superior with god on their side
And their leader he tells them of us against they
But when they fight his war from them he's far away.
And not different to their leader is the leader of they
And they too believe everything that he does say
About those they've never met or they never will know
We make our own enemy and we choose our own foe.
A terrorist is someone that society create
And racism and insults only give rise to hate
And terrorism as such is hard to define
Between all out war and suicide bombing where can one draw
the line.
Nationalism, Patriotism and Religion when these three you combine
They make for a strange cocktail like vodka, whiskey and wine,
They stir up strong feelings and hatred takes to flame
And resentment it leads them to great acts of shame.
On the flagpost in their front yard their National flag is waving in the wind
In the heart of the war-like the extreme patriot you'll find
And their dishonourable and cowardly leader who in war does not fight
The hatred for those different in them does ignite.
poem by Francis Duggan
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