Now that time flies past
Now that time flies past
this will be seen
as Afrikaner history
and people will say
that it is past
but we know
he was jailed
like a criminal,
was later Prime Minister
and then President
(and it’s not Nelson Mandela
that I am talking about)
this man was a true Afrikaner
and seen by some
as a patriot
Maybe planted bombs
to blow up railway lines
and held a gun in his hand,
seen at a time
by white people
as a terrorist
and was jailed for it
but wasn’t a killer
like the terrorists of today
and later
he could take
the Big Black Book
in his hand
and on it make a solemn oath
before the Lord
and try to keep his promise,
until the big crocodile
snapped him in two
and walked into his shoes
and the total onslaught came
and eland armoured cars, later ratels,
artillery and rocket launching lorries
stood in Angola
to hit the communists
into pieces.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Related quotes
Painful thoughts
Like a lightning
striking from a azure blue sky
and hitting where nobody expects it,
is the pain
when a Afrikaner hand
hits another Afrikaner down.
The bullet that bursts through Jopie Fourie
nobody can stop
and still that shot rings out
and are deafening.
How is a great Commandant General honoured
who for a day was President
of the Orange Free State
and taught the British a thing or two
about warfare?
How many women had to suffer anguish
and chained themselves
to free Christiaan De Wet
out of a nation’s
own prison
and his people
that buys his freedom
will forever stay with me.
By himself Jan Smuts changed
from a Boer hero,
to somebody
that lifts his hand against his own
to get worldly fame
and for his own benefit.
Today I wonder
where you and I
stand in these things?
How easy it has become with affirmative action
and BEE
to destroy the careers
of innocent Afrikaner men
and to push their life’s
on the rubbish dump
and I wonder how many Afrikaner women,
sit in the front chairs
while Afrikaner men
are praying to find a job?
It cuts like an unknown pain through me
and I wonder when merit
will again find a place
as a measure of fairness
and I see that my people are torn apart
and own benefit
is leading before integrity
and I wonder what are my people becoming?
[Reference: Jopie by: Jan F.E. Celliers. BEE=> Black Economic Empowerment.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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A statesman: then and now
He stands on the podium
with his hat
in his hand
pressed against his chest
on the border with Angola
in his country
(as he still rules
over South West Africa)
and his bare head shines
under the bright Africa sun
where he himself was born
and Ratel armoured cars,
tanks, rocket launchers
and artillery drive past in convoys
back from Angola
to get a salute from him.
He stands like a giant
alone against dark Africa
will nuclear devices
waiting ready in bombs
and missiles
for ballistic purposes
are being manufactured.
Later lump after lump
of sand
falls down in his grave
while a lost journalist
runs for photos around it
and he doesn’t any more know
what is happening
in his own country
and about thunderbolts
that falls from everywhere
on his people
and rumble ominous
above his grave,
not even about water flowing
above him in a rain stream
and every sunrise
that without equal
unfolds above him
and worms gnawing
patiently on his body
since every thing
fades for him to nothing.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Many voices sing a song (in answer to HA Fagan)
Many voices sing a song
that asks the blessing of God
over the whole territory,
the continent of Africa
and there are millions standing there
everyone settled in one continent
Zulu, Xhosa and every Shangane
as if planted by Your own hand,
but where is the place of the Afrikaner,
where the Afrikaner can also flower?
Of the white woman and man
that comes from this earth?
We are down trodden, everyone expelled,
Boers, that You Yourself cause to sprout here.
[Reference: ‘Nkosi Sikelel’ i-Afrika by HA Fagan.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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A Symbol For Peace, Freedom And Justice
To want freedom and justice for his people was Mandela's only crime
And his freedom taken from him and in jail he spent his prime
But the first democratically elected President of South Africa not one to hold a grudge
His former oppressors he's forgiven he does not condemn or judge.
The now ex President of South Africa is a legend in his time
His potrait painted by famous artists and he's inspired the bards to rhyme
His fame has spread around the World far distant from his Country's shore
And the name of Nelson Mandela destined to live forever more.
He was wrongfully imprisoned yet a grudge he does not hold
And his life well documented and his story often told
In his old age quite a hero and so many he inspire
And a fellow like Mandela is so easy to admire
One of the few inspirational figures in the history of human
kind
And his equals are not many people like him hard to find
A symbol for peace, freedom and justice he is one who can forgive
And the name of Nelson Mandela forever is destined to live.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The fallen Cuban soldier
Your hand lies stretched out
and still holds on to your Ak
where you lie in Angola,
in the African bush in the last sleep
and in Luanda
and later in Havana
they know that you are missing
and are probably dead.
Nobody of your unit
will ever again,
drive tanks and armoured cars
and their general
does not wait on their return.
Somewhere in Cuba a woman mourns
and waits in vain,
to ever again
hear something from you.
You lifted your weapon
against boys from South Africa
and the bullets of an Afrikaner boy
pierced you.
Your camouflage uniform
is stained with blood
and you are placed in a hole
in the red-brown sand
and white powder,
is dropped on top of you
before you become a part
of the cold earth.
Later a Ovambo’s farm goats
will graze above you and eat
from the thorn bushes,
that grows over you
and you will be forgotten by everyone.
[Ak=Ak47 submachine gun.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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A woman unconscious
The enemy were almost at the door,
coming with tanks, armoured cars,
rocket launching trucks,
helicopter gunship, fighter jets,
with supporting Cuban troops
under Russian command
and day after day
I prayed for it to end,
for the killing of them, to stop,
where my Ratel armoured car
send tank after tank and many more armoured cars
with phosphorous shells
straight to hell
and by calamity the future changed,
turned into a different world,
changed from the one
scared of them, dropping the annihilating bomb
of millions of people being killed and dead
and at home, the welcoming did not come
at my return
and your were not there,
were killed in a car accident instead,
were for a time unconscious
in a white hospital bed
and the evidence of how cruel
the world can be
still walks with me,
while life goes on.
[Reference: A woman unconscious by Ted Hughes.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Freedom (in answer to A.G. Visser)
Lord, You have formed our nation,
out of various nations You have built the Afrikaner nation
and led them miraculously to here.
The command comes from You
to get a own freedom,
that urge resides in You
and then our people trekked north
with some up to the equator,
defying barbarian, beast and every other danger
and at the onslaught at Blood River You became involved,
even when the British tried to force us into a kingdom
we later got our freedom, but now:
we are trampled; some of our people are scattered worldwide
and the urge to be free comes out of Your hand, almighty Lord.
[Reference: Vry! (Free!) by A.G. Visser.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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20 Years Imprisonment
Jailed for 20 years!
The Pastor was jailed for 20 years imprisonment for,
Defiling a 15-year-old girl;
And, he was convicted on his own plea.
The complainant,
Presenting,
Accompanied,
To the hilly site;
And he forcibly entered her!
But today, he is jailed for 20 years.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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An elegy for South Africa
Weep South Africa
as you are no longer my country
and I live here
as if I am
from another planet
as part of a small minority
in a country where dark Africa
declares murderers as heroes
and act like barbarians
and dance and scream.
At a time the orange, white and blue
streamed proud over you
and people at work,
school to parliament
bended their knees to God
who was their supreme leader
right through hordes
at blood river,
the onslaught of the British Empire
and with God on our side
we would quarter
for nobody and nothing.
Our own culture flowered,
children went through schools
right through university
to distinguish themselves
and you could even leave the doors unlocked,
could make a living somewhere,
the police were a servant and a friend
and we under our own rule.
How many times our ancestors
tried to teach other people of God,
distributed medicine and food
and we even faced
the communists and Cubans in Angola,
till on a day a man
for the wide world a hero,
out of our own ranks betrayed his brothers
and he laid the whole country lame
and didn’t sell it out,
but rather gave it away.
Today incompetents are everywhere in control
of state departments
right through into the parliament,
money is squandered,
a whole generation
through their own choosing
did not receive any school education,
whites are affirmed and impoverished by the law
and criminals and foreigners stream in
from all over Africa
to start a new life here.
Today another Afrikaner son is slaughtered
(one of more than three thousand) ,
what happens tomorrow and the next day?
[Reference: Murder on Eugene Terreblance. General condition in the country.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Dad, you were a true Afrikaner in your heart
Dad, you were a true Afrikaner in your heart
and when your church trampled on the Afrikaner
you would probably have walked out
with those that they were sending to hell
not because you did not care for God
as before everything you served God,
but you knew that not only religion
or a church
takes a person to heaven,
but the relationship
that you cultivate,
that a person has with God
is the actual thing
that really matters.
poem by Gert Strydom
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In the early morning
When a god in the early morning
descended from the east
he wanted to find
a farm girl
and to get a Afrikaner girl
as a mate,
but no Afrikaner farm girl
liked him.
He got really angry
and went to the old Orange Free State
and there he scorched the earth open
with lightning bolts
and blasted every thing flat
to be able to see miles far
when an Afrikaner farm girl passes.
He farmed as well as he could
and fetched his sheep
from the fields
and one day
when he was standing in the field
between the blue bushes,
he saw an Afrikaner farm girl going past
and on his horse
he rode as fast as the wind
with dust hanging
twisting behind him
to get his girl.
l’Envoi
With time a nation
emerged like giants
out of that dry earth
and they work
before the sun rises
farming in that arid region
and here and there
a boy
watches a girl...
[Reference: The Orange Free State is province in South Africa, which is very arid with a flat landscape.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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An Elegy to Eugene Terreblance
You are gone without a farewell
and like a great De Wet
or De La Rey
you stood single
for your people
to also have
a place in the sun.
When your men went into Bophuthatswana
there was fear in me
that they wouldn’t be able to bring peace there
and would get death for their trouble.
Time after time I have listened
to your electronic Afrikaans poems
about the field, nature
and God to whom
you bended your knee
and the beauty of it
and your humanity
came to lie in my heart.
I was at Church Square
when you on the day of the covenant
read a piece out of the Bible
and prayed for your country, your people
and that God reach out His hand
against the dark might
that takes their humanity away,
but in your sleep
you were hacked to pieces
with a Panga-blade
and a martyr was made of you.
Let dark Africa rejoice
and declare killers as heroes
and reveal themselves to journalists
and the wide world.
Let people interpret you wrongly
as a bellicose person
that wanted to bring conflict.
l’Envoi
I see a honourable man
who wanted to serve his Lord,
who set his people first
and your death plucks through me
and cuts where it hurts most,
as in a way
every Afrikaner is portrayed in you.
poem by Gert Strydom
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These Bombs
German soldiers at my backyard,
Russian soldiers at my backyard,
American soldiers at my backyard,
The world's soldiers at my backyard,
And like cultures at different places;
But, history is all about life.
What is your name? !
'My name is St. Louis';
What is your mission?
'My mission is to see to the peace in this world';
What is your vision?
'My vision is to conquer the world with love'!
'One head, two eyes, two ears';
'One nose, two legs, two hands';
'And, to tell the people what the future will be like'.
Soon a bomb will blast omewhere! !
Soom many people will be killed;
And like the cultures of these people around me,
For, they are always after destruction than peace.
To others, sex is like a chewing gum to them;
To others, wars are like a laughter to them;
And now, this world is preparing for war and we are running out of time!
But tell me, which of you have no past in this world?
However, some of you are still working hand-in-hand with Satan the Devil.
These bombs are falling on us today,
These bombs are killing us today,
And hatred is leading mankind to destruction!
Because, some people are really working hand-in-hand with Satan the Devil.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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After Election Thoughts
history was made today-in every sense of the way.
they say he did not have the experience of his republican incumbent.
but! to the people a message he had sent.
that it was time for us to take a stand
and that he needs a helping hand.
so as americans we must all roll up our sleeves.
forget the discrimination-and forget the monetary greed.
if our country is to be all that it can-it does need a helping hand.
so let us give the support that president obama needs
for he has planted a seed.
this seed will continue to grow and for the world it will show.
all the possibilities-that it created for you and me.
whether we are white, yellow, -or black-we cannot give up the slack
so let us move forward with pride and determination
that we may save this great nation.
poem by Louis Rams
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Jakobus Le Grange Marais (a reply to Christopher Hope)
One early evening while waiting for a train
I walked into an old station bar,
to buy a cold cider to kill a thirst
in the sweltering
thirty degree Celsius summer heat
and saw a very old cripple man
who nursed a glass of white wine
and he was talking to himself
and sometimes stuttered over his words.
When he looked up at me
there was fire in his eyes
and it was almost as if
he recognized me, from a dream
or a prophecy of something
and suddenly his face was calm
while he called me over for a chat
and I ordered a bottle of brandy for him
and another Hunters Gold for me.
He complained that the times were cruel
with one hand motioning to his missing legs
that he had lost in a train crash
and complained about Afrikaners
ignoring each other
and only living for themselves
while the nation is being led astray
and then suddenly said but my boy,
you know this,
have experienced it yourself
as a learned man without a job
but let me tell you something
about days long gone
even before the Boer war
(where the British killed
women and children in concentration camps) ,
many Afrikaner farmers
were executed at Slagtersnek
and it had been a terrible, terrible time
and then that holy Englishman John Phillip
meddled in our affairs
and now he haunts us again
peering in at the window panes
and I shook my head, did not understanding
exactly what the old man said
and heard something about
English people being in cahoots
with the current government
and ladies ruling as bosses
while educated Afrikaner men are jobless
and he swayed on his stool
and I rose to steady him
when he said to pour more brandy with ice
and complained that now nobody
is keeping the impis at bay
and pointed a finger at me
and I thought that he said
but you will do, or maybe
you haven’t got a clue
and leaning forward
strangely his breath was clear
and I heard him stuttering something
sounding like even uncle Paul
in church square knows
that soon all Afrikaner men
will be poor
and I said to him:
“My man we already are
with the new black regime,
but most Afrikaners
just do not realise it yet.”
He smiled at me then
and steadily held his glass, in a final salute
brought it to his lips
and faded into the naught
de-materializing in front of me.
[Reference: Kobus Le Grange Marais by Christopher Hope.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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History Is Made Today
Kunta Kinte's Gambia,
Kwame Nkrumah's Ghana,
Nelson Mandela's South Africa,
Kofi Annan's U.N.,
And Barack Obama's U.S.A.;
All the records are there for a purpose,
For today history is made in the U.S.A.!
Check the history of these great men and what they are made of?
For the Slave Trade started in the year 1530;
And in 2008, a Blackman is elected as the 44th U.S.President.
1530 to the Slave Trade,
And after 478 years today history is made;
4th November's U.S. Election made a history!
Of slaves from Nigeria,
Of slaves from Ghana,
Of slaves from Senegal,
Of slaves from Gambia,
Of slaves from Angola,
And all the other places of the African Continent;
What was due to us has been done.
'I have a dream'! Martin Luther King (1963):
And today (2008) the dream is fulfilled (Barack Hussein Obama) .
Even babies could pronouce the name 'Obama'! ! !
For the American dream is for a better America.
Of the slaves gone by and the tears of the people today,
Out of Africa to America;
Inot the plantations of a hard work to fulfil this dream today,
So i really understood the tears of many after the results.
'Yes we can'! After 478 years in history;
The American Independence came but many were still not liberated,
Not until the 4th November's 2008 U.S. Election.
I say the tears of many,
And this history of the First Black Family to sit in the White House;
But to al things, let us give glory to the Creator Almighty.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Give The People What They Want
Hey, hey, hey...
Give the people what they want
Well, its been said before, the world is a stage
A different performance with every age.
Open the history book to any old page
Bring on the lions and open the cage.
Give the people what they want
You gotta give the people what they want
The more they get, the more they need
And every time they get harder and harder to please
The roman promoters really did things right.
They needed a show that would clearly excite.
The attendance was sparse so they put on a fight
Threw the christians to the lions, sold out every night
Give the people what they want
You gotta give the people what they want
The more they get, the more they need
And every time they get harder and harder to please
Give em lots of sex, perversion and rape
Give em lots of violence, and plenty to hate
Give the people what they want
Give the people what they want
When olswald shot kennedy, he was insane
But still we watch the re-runs again and again
We all sit glued while the killer takes aim
Hey mom, there goes a piece of the presidents brain!
Give the people what they want
You gotta give the people what they want
Blow out your brains, and do it right
Make sure its prime time and on a saturday night.
You gotta give the people what they want
You gotta give the people what they want
Give the people what they want
Give the people what they want
Give the people what they want
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A letter arrives by registered mail
A letter arrives by registered mail
and the getting of it costs nothing,
but the contents
leaves the mark of Cain.
From sixteen all boys are computerized
and when you leave school you are not spared
and get a call up instruction by telegram
and your way is marked off, determined and ready.
Like handcuffs locking for a time
the government has already decided for you
to get training and go to war
and from it no one escapes.
You are indoctrinated
and even chaplains tries to convert you to war
and tell you that you are the rod of God
rather than teaching you about the Lord.
The country is threatened by a total onslaught
with destruction from waiting communists
and you are taught to shoot and kill
and are chased around day and night.
Till you stand at the moment of truth
and enemies are people just like you
at the edge of death
and their lives are forever past
and everybody dies
and are ripped to pieces
young and old and people of another colour
and nobody escapes the destruction
and blood stays red and wet
en splashed into your soul
and the mark of Cain never comes off
and nothing can remove it.
poem by Gert Strydom
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One evening I see a thing
One evening
I see a thing
that let’s my blood boil,
while I watch the news
on the television set.
I know a bold man
without hair
that stands before a big crowd,
his country, the world
and the God of gods
and lays his hand
on the holy black book
and lies a promise down and gives a solemn oath
to be true to his country and fellow man.
His government drove me to Angola
and back again
and all of the oppressed
really did have to get freedom,
but where did he stay
his brother’s keeper?
Now it seems
that he really doesn’t have a clue
about how a white man
with a degree and lots of experience
has difficulty
to find a permanent job at forty five
and to put food on the table
and all of government
falls apart
through people that have no clue
how to do their work.
Thousands of rands of tax
are subtracted from my contract work
and tax pays
his fat pension.
I want to blister
like a hot potato,
because he has the impudence
to say something about affirmative action
and I pray for him
and ask God to change him
and for him to be blessed,
as it is the way
that my mother taught me
to do to my enemies.
My contract is finished
and I have to find another job
and from that,
he stands totally free.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Rocket To Heaven
I'm catching a rocket to heaven
It's a long way there
But I'll fly 24/7
Which way it takes, I don't care
As long as it takes me to heaven
It flies past the bright stars
And the big yellow moon
There are no cars
For we'll be there soon
And as every-one knows, there's no cars in heaven
For people come
And never go
So there's no traffic flow
I'm catching a rocket to heaven
And leaving this place
It is now day seven
The rocket takes me into outa space
Where I can see the moon's dreamy face
I'm on the rocket to heaven
There'll be no more troubles
No more deven
No more bubbles
Or will there? !
In heaven I'll stay
So take me away
(Inspired by my little brother)
poem by Amy Parkinson
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