En.Citatepedia^®.ro

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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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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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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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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The new day started wonderful

This morning it felt
as if I was going to ride
into the red ball of the sun
while the wind
knifed strong past me
and the blue Honda motorbike
quickly eated up Soutpansberg Avenue.

There’s something magical and enchanting
to a rising sun
that is just hanging halfway
above the black tar road
and the colour of that red ball
still stays with me.

I drove with power
up the hillock of Gordon Street
and the rays of the sun
was at my side
and the caboodle of cars
couldn’t bother me
and the new day
Started wonderful.

We do not always realise,
how much we have to be thankful.
We are just too much set
in the here and now,
while the greatness
of God’s love
are all around us.

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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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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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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This Morning The Rain is Sieving Down

This morning the rain is sieving down
while I drive my motorbike
to town to get a few things
in the shops
and I have to visit the Internet café.

The drops of rain is somewhat blinding
and my leather jacket is nice and hot
and the helmet guards my head,
but my jean is really soaked

and when I stop
it’s a great thunderstorm
with rain pouring down.

People walk with umbrellas
while some
with shopping bags above their heads
run to the nearest shelter
and here and there
a car is waiting for another to pull out
in the full parking aria
and I wish that the rain
will disappear for a while.

poem by Gert Strydom
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The highway man

The wind was howling
and shaking the big oak trees,
and the moon hanged like a sickle
gliding like a ship over the dark sky
and the motorbiker came riding
and the light of his motorbike cut
through the rain and kept him
locked to the stretch of road
that twisted up a hill.

He’d a round black helmet on his head,
a black leather jacket and black boots
and he rode through the weather
to where a light sparkled in the dark
and the girl of his heart was waiting.

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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Motorbike ride

This morning it was dripping when I got up
and I wanted to say goodbye,
but I thought that you are probably still lying
and that it’s cuddly and hot
and that I am going to pull you out of sleep,
then I withhold myself from it.

It’s another thing to play Russian roulette
with the rain.
I decided to take the chance
and the road to work with the motorbike.

At places the road was still wet
and there where sand flushed over the road,
but I won the rain this morning
and opened the throttle
and the cool wind
blew strong over my body
and before it fell I stopped at work.

This afternoon I will have to play again
die the game with the rain
and I pray that it will fall later if it has to fall,
or I will be wet and cold
and it will be a hell of a thing
to get home.

poem by Gert Strydom
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The Lucky Ones

stuck in the rain on the freeway, 6:15 p.m.,
these are the lucky ones, these are the
dutifully employed, most with their radios on as loud
as possible as they try not to think or remember.

this is our new civilization: as men
once lived in trees and caves now they live
in their automobiles and on freeways as

the local news is heard again and again while
we shift from first gear to second and back to first.

there's a poor fellow stalled in the fast lane ahead, hood
up, he's standing against the freeway fence
a newspaper over his head in the rain.

the other cars force their way around his car, pull out into
the next lane in front of cars determined to shut them off.

in the lane to my right a driver is being followed by a
police car with blinking red and blue lights - he surely
can't be speeding as

suddenly the rain comes down in a giant wash and all the
cars stop and

even with the windows up I can smell somebody's clutch
burning.

I just hope it's not mine as

the wall of water diminishes and we go back into first
gear; we are all still
a long way from home as I memorize
the silhouette of the car in front of me and the shape of the

driver's head or
what
I can see of it above the headrest while
his bumper sticker asks me
HAVE YOU HUGGED YOUR KID TODAY?

suddenly I have an urge to scream
as another wall of water comes down and the
man on the radio announces that there will be a 70 percent
chance of showers tomorrow night

poem by Charles Bukowski
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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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Cul de sac

At the parking
of the Ok-bazaar / Shoprite in Springs
a one-way street runs out
straight into a traffic light
that cuts a T
into two directions.

This morning the traffic light
is blocked
by a crowd of rioters
that comes from the right side,
from where I want to go.

The police block the road
to the left with a car
and some policemen walk along
with the uprising.

There’s a foreman, instigator
or head man
walking in front
and he hops up and down
and shouts something to me
and he comes straight in my direction
and it looks as if the devil is in him
with a crowd
of revolting barbarians following him.

Nobody is going to drill me
with bags of rubbish
and tree branches
or throw pieces of glass
in front of my tyres
and the light is red
and the rioters are half mad
and my motorbike has a lot of power
and its boss cannot wait.

The policeman says stop
but can hardly
look out for himself
and what about me?

I drive past
going straight for the leader
and give a lot of gas,
my motorbike
can cut fine corners,
although it’s past the back
of a police car.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Whippin'

Don't need a helmet got a hard hard head
Don't need a raincoat I'm already wet
Don't need a bandage there's too much...blood...
After a while seems to roll right off...hmm...
Whipping ah...they're whipping ah...
...they're whipping ah...they're whipping...
Don't need a hand there's always arms attached
Oh don't get behind I can't fall back
Why must we trust all these rusted rails?
They don't want no change, we already have
They're whipping, ah...they're whipping, ah...
...they're whipping, ah...they're whipping...
Don't mean to push, but I'm being shoved!
Ohh, I'm just like you, think we've had enough
I can't believe a thing they want us to...oh...
Oh, we all got scars, they should have 'em too...
Oh, they're whipping, ah...they're whipping, ah...
...they're whipping, ah...they're whipping...
They're whipping, ah...they're whipping, ah...
...they're whipping...yeah...they're whipping

song performed by by Pearl Jam
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Cars Are Cars

Words & music by paul simon 1983
Cars are cars all over the world
Cars are cars all over the world
Similarly made. similarly sold
In a motorcade. abandoned when theyre old
Cars are cars all over the world
Cars are cars all over the world
Cars are cars all over the world
Engine in the front. jack in the back
Wheels take the brunt. pinion and a rack
Cars are cars all over the world
Cars are cars all over the world
But people are strangers
They change with the curve
From time zone to time zone
As we can observe
They shut down their borders
And think theyre immune
They stand on their differences
And shoot at the moon
But cars are cars all over the world
Cars are cars all over the world
Drive em on the left. drive em on the right
Susceptible to theft in the middle of the night
Cars are cars all over the world
Cars are cars all over the world
I once had a car
That was more like a home
I lived in it, loved in it
Polished its chrome
If some of my homes
Had been more like my car
I probably wouldnt have
Travelled this far
Cars are cars all over the world
Cars are cars all over the world
Cars are cars all over the world
Cars are cars all over the world
Cars are cars all over the world

song performed by by Paul Simon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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That Rain

Thunder starts rolling in
As it fell from the skys
Rain
Oh how it knows me so
As I stand underneath it
While I welcomed it with wide open arms
With my head facing the lightning bolts up ahead
The rain drops upon my face
Like welcoming kisses
As the thunder roared louder than the mightiest lion
As the lightning bolts lit up the sky brighter than Vegas itself
I twirled in the rain
Not caring who saw
In that rain
That rain I welcomed ever so
That rain which had the softest touch I had ever felt

poem by Storm Pedersen
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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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The Flying Dutchman

The blue water stretches
as far as visibility allows to see
and there’s fog
rising white before the storm
out of the water.

The dusk becomes grey
and the sea from blue to dark black
while the night
darker than ink, as only companion
folds over the old ancient ship.

It’s Van der Decken standing as tiller man
behind the big wheel
and forever he steers the ship
on the journey that she goes.

Always cursing
his loud voice thunders
like lightning falling around him
for sailors to tend the sails right
and sails are hoisted crunching, groaning and trembling
with strong ropes
and the ship jumps
over the smashing waves.

Like a phantom
the Flying Dutchman appears
with white sails like a wraith
over the horizon
where it sails before a storm with speed.

The ship becomes lager
as the storm wind
brings her closer
and you hear her creak
against the power of the wind.

There’s thunder bolts blinding suddenly
and sea birds flies screeching
out in front of her,
while Van der Decken’s skeleton
drills his men powerless
to set the sails right
that is vibrating against the wind.

“How long still Lord, ”
echoes against the sea and sky,
without a answer
ever coming
and suddenly the ship is gone
as if it disappeared in the naught.

poem by Gert Strydom
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