En.Citatepedia^®.ro

On the highway

I who have traded
open spaces, fields
and the azure sky
for crowded pavements
and neon lights
find my place
to meet the Lord
on the dangerous road.

I have found the sapphire sky,
the breath of wind,
the white-hot sun
on lanes packed with cars,
busses and trucks
of every shape and size.

Every thing flashes by
as my motorbike catches speed
and accelerates
and men in cars sit irritated
stuck in rows of traffic
and I bob and weave by
while life throbs everywhere
and death grasp at my heels,

l’Envoi
I feel raw power
throbbing below me
and experience the majesty
of wind, sun, sky
and the countryside
that rush by
and life is great
and in silence
I pray to the Creator
and when it rains
it humbles me
and I slow down
and am cold and wet
and know that I am
just mere man.

poem by Gert Strydom
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There are few things in life

I

There are few things in life
that will equate,
the freedom
that you get on a motorbike.

II

Speed and power is something
that can easily grab you
and maybe you can fetch the same
adrenalin rush
if you parachute
or go down with a bungi rope,
but it’s maybe better to be part
of a iron horse
and alone with your self
and with the wind and the sun
see the road flashing by.

III

Let cars stand in rows
and busses full of unknown people
stop at many places,
while my blue motorbike
passes them
and drive to my destination.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Rain drive

I see a big storm
hanging dark against the sky
and lightning bolts,
that hit smashing to the ground.

There are big drops
that hit whipping down
and the black road
wet and somewhat slippery.

There’s no way
to ride away from the storm
and the traffic
stand still in front of me,
but with a motorbike
you can cut past cars.

It’s as if clouds of steam
rise out of the hot tar road,
but the screen
of the helmet
is covered by the rain
that I have difficulty seeing
to were to go
and which cars are moving or standing.

With Soutpansberg avenue that lies open before me
I open the throttle
and there’s wind, rain
and thunders that fall flashing blue
around me
and resound somewhere behind the motorbike
and the rain on my hands
hits like hail.
.
The leather jacket keeps the top of my body dry and warm,
but the bottom
is soaked and wet
and I feel the coldness
rising from below.

There’s busses coming from the front
that throws water whipping
as far as they go
and somewhere in the left lane,
there’s cars stopping for a pothole
and my motorbike catches speed
past in the right lane.

poem by Gert Strydom
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There is something special about the sun

At six o’clock the sun blinded me
in Soutpansberg avenue
and I opened the helmet’s visor
to find a way to see.

Still it’s great to ride
in the early morning with the motorbike
and to see something of the greatness
of God’s creation.

There’s something special about the sun
in a blue sky,
if it hangs like a red ball,
or even if it blinding catches your eyes.

The fresh wind that cut past
and at times pulls
as if it wants to touch you
and the cars and busses
that still has their lights on,
brings another atmosphere
to a morning ride.

The motorbike that feels
as if it’s alive under you
and shake and trembles
with bumps in the road
and the raw power,
that lies in your hand in a throttle
brings a sensation
of the wonder of existing
and to life on this planet.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Grey land traveller

One day in summer
when the freeway is open,
I will take the Honda
and turn the accelerator open
until the revolution counter
touches the red.

One day I will see
what my motorbike is able to do
when I drive from here to Cape Town
with all the power that it has
and see how the speed needle
goes past the last mark.

One day I will feel
it roaring under me
and cut lightning fast
past cars, pickups and lorries
and speed will make
that it seems
as if I am coming out of the road itself
and I will be like a spectre.

One day I will really know
how much power my motorbike has
and will be part of the wind,
the sun and freedom
and the road will belong to me
and I to the road.

One day time will stop for me
and I might never reach the Cape
and will drive into the grey land
and maybe you
will read about me in the newspapers
and a motorbike
that lies in pieces for a distance of kilometres.

poem by Gert Strydom
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My blue bike thunders below me

My blue bike thunders
below me
and cars and trucks
flashes by.

It’s a hot day with an open blue sky
and nowhere there’s a cloud
to be seen
and the warm wind brushes my hair.

The smell of the grass, petrol,
exhaust fumes and tar
rises around me,
but I am free
and the bike catches some speed
and the road stretches out
in front of me.

poem by Gert Strydom
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The Road Back Home

Controlling a motorcycle on the road
is a lethal skill at which
you have to be a master
in order to survive on the road.

Dodging lorries, cars and luxury busses,
overtaking some very slow vehicles
on route twenty-one
in order to turnoff at the Benoni off ramp
I was in the left hand lane
when a old lady almost scattered me
on the rushing tarmac
by changing lanes while
I was right next to her.

The narrow piece of road
on the other side of the yellow line
came to my rescue
but anger ripped through me
and enraged dragons
wanted to throw flaming words at her

and the guy behind me
with the black pee pot on his head
driving a Hardly Davidson
almost ran right into her
and said the words instead
sounding like “you unreal foolish woman”
but realistic it was something much worse
while a car carrying truck
changed lanes cutting us off

and I still smell the rubber
from my motorbike’s braking wheels
and both of our motorcycles
narrowly avoided hitting that truck

but fortunately rows of cars parted
to let us through and the freezing wind,
some heavy fog and light drizzle
was with me the rest of the way home.

poem by Gert Strydom
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The trip back

The sky is grey
with ominous clouds
that whirls and churns
and there’s thick fog
hanging like a cloak
low over the earth.

The visor of my helmet
is immediately covered
by the impact
of fine drops of rain
and I open it
to be able to see
where I am travelling.

At places I have to leave the road
to clean the lenses
of my glasses
and then the motorbike
again roars with power under me,

but I have only gone a small distance
when the cars come to a halt
and I have to twist through them.

Twenty kilometres further
I come upon the accident
that is blocking the freeway
just where I have to turn off
to Benoni
and blue and red lights
flash through
the fumes of mist.

I turn the throttle open
but at places
the fog banks still hangs low
and mini buss taxis, busses and cars
appear like ghosts in front of me.

At a place a stream flows
strong like a river over the road
and although I lift my feet
and open the throttle more
to give power to the motorbike

a four by four
passes over the middle line
and throws a wall of water
right over me
and if I can get hold of that lunatic
he will surely know it.

The helmet, black leather jacket
and backpack
stops the water,
but my jean
and shoes are soaking wet
and the motorbike eats the road
and somewhat frozen
I drive to get to home,
as if Springs
is just behind the next hillock

poem by Gert Strydom
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Days Go By

I'm changing lanes
I'm talking on the phone
I'm drivin' way to fast
And the interstate's jammed with
Gunners like me afraid of coming in last
But somewhere in the race we run
We're coming undone
Days go by
I can feel 'em flying
Like a hand out the window in the wind as the cars go by
It's all we've been given
So you better start livin' right now
'Cause days go by
Out on the roof just the other night
I watched the world flash by
Headlights, taillights running through a river of neon signs
But somewhere in the rush I felt
We're losing ourselves
Days go by
I can feel 'em flying
Like a hand out the window in the wind as the cars go by
It's all we've been given
So you better start livin' right now
'Cause days go by
We think about tomorrow then it slips away
We talk about forever but we've only got today
And the days go by
I can feel 'em flying
Like a hand out the window
As the cars go by
It's all we've been given
So you better start livin'
You better start livin'
Better start livin' right now
Cause days go by
I can feel like 'em flying
Like a hand out the window in the wind as the cars go by
It's all we've been given
So you better start livin' right now
Cause days go by
These days go by
So take 'em by the hand
They're yours and mine
Take 'em by the hand
And live your life
Take 'em by the hand
Don't let 'em all fly by
Come on, Come on now
Don't you know the days go by

song performed by by Keith Urban
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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This morning I lock the cold wind out

This morning I lock the cold wind out
with a nice hot leather jacket
that I zip close up to my chin

and on the motorbike
my hands are almost frozen,
but my thoughts are with you.

While I pass a string of cars
I wonder if you are stuck in traffic
or already at work?

It’s as if your eyes are burning into my soul
and constantly you accompany me
in my thoughts
to all the places that I go.

As if I will somewhere leave the road
and you will also get off the bike
and in a coffee shop
will take my hands in yours.

poem by Gert Strydom
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The Shape of the Wind...

The arctic blasts turn men into plaster casts,
They take the shape of the wind.
The ragged sails lashed by the gales,
Are full of the the shape of the wind.

The shrewd and wise, with half closed eyes,
Can guess the way of the wind.
They bend and bow, and go with the flow,
They take the shape of the wind.

The evening fires make crooked spires,
As they give way to the shape of the wind.
My ice cold breath meets it’s sudden death,
As it takes the shape of the wind.

And all our life, with all it’s strife,
Is nought but the shape of the wind.
So no longer resist, just desist,
And accept the shape of the wind.

poem by John Coldwell
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I have a friend that rides a Vespa

I have a friend that rides a Vespa
and at traffic lights
he quickly flashes past several cars.

Under the saddle of his motorbike
his gun is loaded
and on the back
there’s a notice
greeting people in Aramaic.

Just where he comes
he first unsaddles
drawing out his gun.

One day he was standing
with his weapon
in his hand

and I heard a traffic cop say
to his mate:
“ stop swearing
a messenger of God is near.”

poem by Gert Strydom
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Lights in the night

The sun fades in its red glare
over the mountain top
and traffic lights, street lights
and electrical signs
get an own life
that appears
like flowers folding open to the night.

The city lies dotted out
with thousands of lights
like a big jewel,
that a master artist
unfolds against the dark night.

Cars, busses and motorbikes
draw white and red stripes
like they drive past
crossing and going straight
while the evening
is getting life.

The evening air is beautifully open
and away from the inner city
there are big stars
that hangs sparkling against the heaven
and the Seven Sisters, Orion
and the Southern Cross
are the first to catch my eye
and I wonder how transom
our tinned stars
look out of the universe
and how trivial our lives are
when we look at the great works
of an Almighty God.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Tombstones!

rows and rows of tombstones,
glaring white in the morning sun...
with open graves before them,

and the smell of fresh turned earth.
cars speed by going nowhere;
people walking, as if lost....

the phone rings, no one answers,
the book, unread, stares from the shelf.
trees almost bare softly whisper,

dollar bills blown by the wind...
the old man sits by the station,
counting by number,

and not by name....
rows and rows of tombstones,
waiting for gifts unwrapped

by time!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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Biker with the big heart

His heart is big,
so big as if
he can fit the whole world into it,
but there’s only place for two
on his motorbike
and while the refs
of the years climb
his life slides past
with a speed leading to a end

and the loneliness grips him
as his mate has been gone for a long time,
missed life
and wasn’t on time
for their last motorcycle ride
and now it’s only him
who are alone
in the saddle of life

and at times he still wants to open the throttle,
feel the wind flow though his hair
washing like a river in flood,
experience the heat of the sun
and feel the adrenaline
flowing like something living through him,
but the road is far too long
and the end stays distant
as he doesn’t reach the intersection
of life and death
and his love and melancholy remains
and the biker always drives on
searching for answers
that doesn’t exist.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Afternoon rain

Every day this summer
in the late afternoon
the rain just keep pouring down
as if the milling clouds
and the storm has its clock set.

Thunder flashes here and there
white-blue electric bolts
from a sudden grey sky
and big and small drops fall
rushing down to the earth.

Heat rises in steaming white patches
on the hot black tar road
while the first drops make it wet
and water suddenly streams everywhere
in miniature rivers.

People run to reach their cars
and are stuck in huge traffic jams
where cars crawl meters at a time,
while others go to bars
and enjoy a drink or two
and smoke their cigars.

Two teenage girls
that are soaking wet
with T-shirts clinging translucent
dance on the sidewalk
in the falling rain
and their giggles
catches my ear
and suddenly it’s fun to live.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Absence

My shadow --
I woke to a wind swirling the curtains light and dark
and the birds twittering on the roofs, I lay cold
in the early light in my room high over London.
What fear was it that made the wind sound like a fire
so that I got up and looked out half-asleep
at the calm rows of street-lights fading far below?
Without fire
Only the wind blew.
But in the dream I woke from, you
came running through the traffic, tugging me, clinging
to my elbow, your eyes spoke
what I could not grasp --
Nothing, if you were here!

The wind of the early quiet
merges slowly now with a thousand rolling wheels.
The lights are out, the air is loud.
It is an ordinary January day.
My shadow, do you hear the streets?
Are you at my heels? Are you here?
And I throw back the sheets.

Anonymous Submission

poem by Edwin Morgan
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Asymmetry

Nothing torments
like a traffic jam on a freeway
with all lanes coming jam-packed
to a sudden halt,
big trucks grinding down gears
with swaying wagons as they brake,
the idiot on crack cocaine
that tries to overtake being trapped
by oncoming traffic
and then tries to swerve in
where there is no space
and out of the blue
very important persons arrive
and are being escorted in a convoy
which manages to past
with flashing police lights
while you are stuck.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Night was coming

Night was coming
with a piercing huge orange sun
breaking through
white and black clouds
in the west.

It found a gap
and the sun was hanging
like a orange ball
above the street
and it was blinding.

Cars passed barely visible
above the orange glare
and some had already
turned their lights on.

The sun dipped down
below some trees
and for a time
it glowed behind them
and soon it would be dark
and the first stars
were already appearing
and a full yellow moon
was rising,

but below bright lights
was already burning
right across the city
in colours of amber
streetlights
green, yellow and red
traffic lights,
blue lights flashing
on police cars
and almost every bright colour
caught on neon signs
while people came and went
to different destinations

some smiling and relaxed,
others in a hurry
and some others
locked in a world of their own.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Starry Skies

Winter nights are cold,
And you're feeling old,
Stuck under the overpass,
You just can't get past,
Life wastes away,
As you go grey,
Future looking bleak,
As you try to stay meek,
What is the point of all this,
You should try to find your bliss!

You're stuck in your cars,
While I'm looking at the stars,
You're in a traffic jam,
While I'm being a man,
Too alive to contrive,
The lie that you're alive,
Wake up and breathe,
It's almost time to leave,

What should you seek?
Is there time for us to meet?
What could I say to you?
If only my heart knew!
Sitting in a distant land,
Trying to look grand,
Feeling real sad,
Sometimes I make you mad!

Stuck in your cars,  I'm looking at the stars,
In a traffic jam while I'm being a man,
Too alive to contrive, the lie that you're alive,
Wake up and breathe, it's time to leave,

Taillights blink and you turn to drink,
Future is escaping as quick as a wink,
Living to fight another day,
I don't like to see you this way,
Don't want to leave things like this,
It is you that I will always miss,
Time to be alive and love each other,
Wish we could be friends again, brother,
So it is peace that I wish for you that struggle,
Trying so hard to keep it together,
Maybe we are meant to find our own path,
What will we find in the aftermath?
On your chest they will leave a scar,
Then I'll see you on a distant star!

05 June 2012

poem by David Andre' Klopper
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Church Street, Pretoria

Right down the street the traffic lights are green
and a couple of homeless men stand around a fire
in a half drum and ambulances and police cars scream
while they past rows and rows of flats for hire
and a couple of kids stand smoking at the stream
and this is reality, the heart of the city.

On the sidewalk pedestrians walk in crowds of men,
women and some children, some booted up to the knee
others with mini skirts short enough to condemn them
and my city stays lovely to me.

People queue for fried chicken, fish
and chips at shops and cafés and the smells fill my nose
and tomatoes and onions, lamb and steak are fried with a hiss
and in the traffic an angry speed-cop tries to retain his pose
when a minibus taxi almost runs him over, gives him a fright
at a flickering traffic light
and cars stream by into the coming night.

poem by Gert Strydom
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