Sometimes I imagine
Sometimes I imagine
that my D Jacobs painting
of a red brown earth road
that in winter
runs through the yellow green veldt
past a few oak and blue gum trees
to the purple blue mountains
in the distance
is a Pierneef,
but what draws it nearer to me,
is that I almost feel
the sand beneath me feet,
can smell the tussocks of grass,
try to catch the shades of the trees
one by one,
see a graveyard
in the distance next to
a few bushes,
look at the bright blue sky
and get emotionally involved
with this painting
as it brings my childhood days
back to me
and it jumps right
into my heart.
[Reference: Painting by D Jacobs that belongs to me.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Somewhere in the hillocks
Somewhere in the hillocks
there’s a place
where you go through a rocky gateway
where blunted brown rocks lie
in the red brown sand
and here and there are trees
sticking out like half bare fingers
against the sky
as if leaves are struggling to grow
and terrible winds
at times rip it off.
The grass of the veldt is yellow
as if it’s already winter,
but maybe not a lot of rain
falls here
and in the distance
I see clouds white and grey
hanging over the blue mountain top
while the sun at places
comes through it
and would have liked
to be with the painter Jacobs
at that place.
[Reference: Painting by D Jacobs that belongs to me.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Path into the bushes
There’s a road like out of a dream
or a fairy tale
that twists into the bushes,
but it’s white and pure
with innocence where it snakes
into the undergrowth
and the sky is open
and blue white to the horizon.
I walk pass a great white tree
with orange brown leaves
that rises above me
and a long dried out tree
of which the branches
reach like fingers into the air.
I follow the path
to the long blue gum trees
that are covered
with dark green leaves
and the odour of the trees
and the wood
hangs heavy in the air
and there’s something concrete
that’s stronger than a dream
[Reference: Wooded landscape by Mandi. Look at the painting on my web page: http: //www.mabooki.com/poems/display/1413_Path_into_th e_bushes.htm]
poem by Gert Strydom
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The joy of the road
It’s a big joy
to take the road
and drive past cornfields
and to get the sweet sour smell
that water leaves there
for the first time
in your nose.
It’s a big joy
to drive on a road
that allures black in front of you
and goes up and down through the landscape.
There’s something indescribable
if you become part
of the sun and the wind
and with a motorbike
to find your place
in the world around you.
There’s something magical
to hear the insects
in the bushes
outside of Pieter Maritzburg
and to smell the summer sun
on the plantation trees.
Still greater is
to catch the smell of the see
on the wind
to see the blue waters
lying in the distance,
while free like a bird
you drive nearer to it.
poem by Gert Strydom
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An Abstract painting
My eyes fall on an abstract painting
of which my girlfriend,
wants to paint a series
that may hang in board halls
and offices.
There’s something hot and alive
in the background
that changes from golden yellow,
to flame orange
and flows into black red
and a green line
runs from the foreground
into the horizon.
With strong straight lines wood,
and sink plate shacks appear
with horizontal and vertical lines
and it looks like a squatter camp,
or the houses of a headman
in the country.
To me it looks like drums and large tin cans
that lies around in the front
and a big old TV set
with sitting places round it
and at the back,
there are two wooden pens
to keep in sheep and goats.
Maybe there’s red sand
on the one side
and yellow and green grass
for grazing on the other side,
but honestly I do not want to stay
in such a place.
[Reference: Abstract painting by Mandi. Look at the painting on my mabooki webpage: http: //www.mabooki.com/poems/display/1416_An_Abstract_ painting.htm]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Late autumn
The yellow veldt, the skeleton chestnut trees
specs of orange-red aloes in the kopje
are near to the old white house
and in the late afternoon shades draw long lines
while I walk up to the house on the red-brown dirt road
and most of the flowers in the garden are stripped bare
but a few irises are flowering yellow,
purple and cream brown
and the sky is dull blue and the early evening cold
is already on the wind that is rustling everything
and after years I open the garden gate
are coming back to my childhood home
stripped from illusions,
and I am bare from the childhood innocence
but full of hope
and looking through a mature man’s eyes.
poem by Gert Strydom
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If I Were A Painting
If I were a painting
Captured on canvas
Alone in the portriat I would stand
And brush strokes bold
Yet soft as a whisper
The work of a feminine hand.
Caught in a still life
Surrounded by shadows
And lost in a background of blue
If I were a painting
My price would be pain
And the artist would have to be you.
I imagine the colors
Would all run together
If you ever allowed me to cry
So don't paint the tears
Just let me remember me
Without you in my eyes.
It's only the frame
That holds me together
Or else I would be falling apart
If I were a painting
I wouldn't feel
And you wouldnt be breaking my heart...
song performed by by Kenny Rogers
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mr. Blue
Our guardian star lost all its glow
The day that i lost you
It lost all its glitter the day you said no
And its grey skies turned to blue.
Like him i am doubtful
That your love is true
So if you decide to call on me
Ask for mr. blue.
I'm mr. blue
When you say you love me
The prove it by goin' out on the sly
Provin' your love is untrue
Call me mr. blue.
I sleep alone each night
Wait by the phone each night
But you don't call
And i won't hurt my pride
Call me mister,
I won't tell you
When you paint the town
A bright red to turn it upside down
I'm painting it too
But i'm painting it blue.
I sleep alone each night
Wait by the phone each night
But you don't call
And i won't hurt my pride
Call me mister.
I won't tell you
When you paint the town
A bright red to turn it upside down
I'm painting it too
But i'm painting it blue.
Call me mr. blue.
Call me mister.
song performed by by Garth Brooks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In the Highveld
(after Toon van den Heever)
I
In the Highveld with the sky cobalt blue and open
where rock rabbits, steenbok and baboons revel,
you see the wind skipping through the long grass
and you can still believe in God and His angels,
the rain gathers with thunder
where through the open spaces you can see far into the veldt,
you are astounded by the beauty of flowering proteas
and you still can realize your dependence
but when the city’s rumbling becomes too much,
the jacarandas start flowering in the streets,
buildings of steel and concrete start to curtail you,
you dream about wild flowers appearing everywhere
and it’s the places of a child that you miss,
in the Highveld where the veldt stretches out into the distance.
II
In the Highveld where the veldt stretches out into the distance
and the wind rollicks through the grass
the sky is pure blue and you can look for hours at it,
there you can find freedom from the city’s imprisonment.
When the wind rustles through the march you loose all sadness,
you see the African red-knobbed coot gathering her chickens,
you can hear the finches’ caper, branches full together,
you see every great small happening,
how wild flowers of every imaginable colour
grow as if planted in secret
(and I will go back if I only could)
where I can find some serenity, can have peace
where I will know about God’s heritage;
there the sun shines.
III
There the sun shines
where proteas and aloes flower wildly,
bright up to the horizon
coming out of the earth by themselves
with violets growing purple-blue right through the marsh,
with daisies stretching white over the veldt,
with long tailed widow birds flapping their wings
and the earth is covered with long green grass.
To this piece of ground I am trapped
even when my days are drawing to their end,
it goes even to my heart’s deepest yearning,
with every plant, bush and flower
as it’s bought with sweat and blood,
nobody can strip it from me.
IV
Nobody can strip it from me,
I have to go back to where the sun hangs golden
in the sapphire heaven, I have got to strip the city from me
(but if I only could)
the big desire stays and out of the town I must go
away from the ambulance and police sirens that cuts through everything,
trains whistling almost endlessly,
I have got to go to where only the frog choir and crickets sing.
Again I have got to get the smell of sugar bushes,
smell the rain, spring, summer and even autumn
I must get away from a world where tinned pleasure seduces,
where people use other people for their own pleasure.
I want to stand in the green fields of grass,
when the day dies.
V
When the day dies
letting its last rays fall,
with the birds flying to their nests
darkness comes to this part of the universe,
the doves at dusk still call to each other
as if their voices bind them in the darkness,
you can see the moon sailing golden-yellow through the sky,
you are sometimes blinded by the bright rays,
the city lights glitter far away
in all the colours of the rainbow,
here you want to bond your life to a loved one,
catching her moments long in your eye
when people come together here,
the madness of the human existence is exorcised.
VI
The madness of the human existence is exorcised
even in later years past your own youth,
when you are in the world that your heart desires,
you want to invite the new spring to stay with you
shaking out that which bothers and torments to the early summer wind,
feeling the effervescence of new life,
blinded by the sun you want to find healing
while the whole of spring washes through your life
with the light, air, the flowers, birds and sun splashing down
as if your autumn is only in your imagination,
you want to wash yourself clean from old age,
you are searching for exorcism from the darkness
there are still flowers sprouting out everywhere,
when the colours of autumn smoulder in the trees.
VII
When the colours of autumn smoulder in the trees
with branches being full of coloured leaves,
the sun is still heating as in summer
before the first biting winds begin to whine.
I see opened pod upon opened pod
that lays brown scorched without any signs of seeds,
the dull blue sky has clouds in milky white,
trees become a wild watermill
that is halfway skeleton, halfway still carrying leaves,
afternoons are still drawn out
and even when days earlier end in winter
it’s a time without equal,
as if the summer can last forever,
in the Highveld with the sky cobalt blue and open.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Gently The Sun Oozes
Gently the sun oozes through the big old tree
where we both linger for moments in the shade,
around us the garden is bright like a painting,
blades of grass are knee high in the veldt
across the road where plovers are calling each other
and glowing white the moon hangs in the blue sky;
it's as if I am dreaming as you do really love me
and unexpectedly you squeeze my hand and I get a kiss.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Night workers..
Night is frozen and full of dust,
Nocturnal creatures are out on lust,
Trainee painters colored the earth,
Using the shades of grey at the brush,
A few take the paint in the bucket,
Splatter the darker grey on the forest,
They think to color the rivers of blue,
Adding the grey to the blue, make it dark,
How hard they paint the civilization black,
The lights of men make it bright,
Bored of painting on the roads,
back alleys are pained with what they have,
Forgotten the painting of the sea,
They throw their balance paint and brush into it,
Before they finish the job and get paid,
The cleaner of the earth arrives from the Vacuum,
Sucked in all the dust from the horizon,
The perfectly visible earth emerges,
After the thawing of its all nightly desires.
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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The summer
The summer is busy
catching speed
and I see how the bright blue sky,
is changed by clouds
that suddenly hangs dark and breeding.
In the distance a thunder rolls
and there are big drops
that falls about me in the red dirt
and I can almost see the grass,
bushes and trees
jump centimetres
from the power
that the clear drops bring.
Small sprouts are bursting green
out of the red brown ground
in the vegetable garden
and the magic of new life
is everywhere to be seen.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Im Painting The Town Red
A smile on my face
A song on my lips
Pretending is all I do
Im painting the town red
To hide a heart thats blue
Im gay with the crowd
I play with the crowd
But oh, if they only knew
Im painting the town red
To hide a heart thats blue
Must I go on carrin on?
My merry song is just pretend
Loving you so, wanting you so
Where will it end, how will it end?
A smile on my face
A song on my lips
But never forgetting you
Im painting the town red
To hide a heart thats blue
song performed by by Billie Holiday
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Life I Live
It has been said that blue is the color of the sky although others may say
Blue is an emotion when someone is close to tears-
Sad, melancholy and disheartened-
I look upwards toward the sky on a sunny day when
I don’t feel sad and blue.
Green is the color of the leaves upon the trees, although
I have heard others say they are jealous- green or envious-
I enjoy the trees, especially in the summertime,
Blown about in a gentle and cooling breeze-
The same leaves turn yellow, gold and orange in the autumn and
Fire blazes a bright red in color-
It is the fire of my spirit that burns
When anger plagues my troubled mind-
Rain falls and puts out the fires but
The rage inside of me is a shade of red that will not be tamed.
I look upward towards the sky on a sunny day,
As the leaves upon the trees rustle in the wind-
I pray for the rain to fall to quench the fury that burns my soul-
I don’t feel melancholy blue or jealous-green-
I have days when I enjoy the colors of the autumn foliage-
But the color red of rage defines the life I live.
Today I glance upward toward the blue sky and the leaves upon the trees-
Today I feel sad and blue and close to tears because
Of the pain that the fire inside of me that is always burning-
If the sun and the trees could laugh and send me good vibrations perhaps
They would cheer me and I could capture the colors blue, green, orange and yellow-
And perhaps even red as being bold and beautiful-
And with these colors I could paint a rainbow upon my horizon and
There would be no reason for anger to smolder my heart again-
I could laugh with the sun at the splendor of the rainbow against the sky of cobalt blue- And glad to say that raging fire of resentment
Is behind me now and I never feel sad and blue because
I have repainted my world with colors of joy, happiness and eagerness
To live my new life beneath that rainbow of contentment.-
Claudia Krizay
poem by Claudia Krizay
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Aearial Painting
Aerial Painting
The painting in the hall of an old bi-plane flying
a across a blue sky, was different this morning,
it had landed by a waterfall and the pilots stood
leaning against the plane’s fuselage slowly
smoking a cigarette, eyes closed enjoying every
moment, every inhale of scented tobacco.
I looked at the painting again the sky was dark,
there was lightning in the air the pilot had flown to
the front and collided with a barrage balloon,
the plane was a broken as thrown to the ground by
a spoilt boy who had wanted a fire-engine for his
birthday, and know only the blue sky prevails.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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What Are We?
1) Two legs sat upon three legs,
With one leg in his lap;
In comes four legs
And runs away with one leg;
Up jumps two legs,
Catches up three legs,
Throws it after four legs,
And makes him dropp one leg.
What are we?
2) Old Mother Twitchett had but one eye,
And a long tail which she let fly;
And every time she went over a gap,
She left a bit of her tail in a trap.
3) Thirty white horses upon a red hill,
Now they tramp, now they champ, now they stand still.
What are we?
We have nothing to say today
We are being asked
What are we
And we think we are bullied
Because
Because we think we know what we are
Because we think we are the obvious
Plain like blue clouds, blue seas, blue kingfishers
Blue, blues, blue bruises, blue flag,
Blue crayon, blue surplus cars
Electric blue, shades of blue
We are black and blue
We feel blue
We think blue
We are blue.
And the obvious is like the biggest mountain ahead of us
And they ask: what is that?
And they see us
And ask us what are we?
Aren’t they all crazy?
We respect them and tell them nothing.
we have nothing to say forevermore.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Mystical reality
There are red flames
that’s curling in a bush
out of her head
and the fairy princess
are pure and innocent
with her violet
flower petal dress,
which shows her body
at places through the thin material.
She has green magically beautiful eyes
and pointed little ears
and slender arms and legs
and her fine transparent wings,
sweeps past and looks
as if it is made
from the thinnest silk.
About her there’s clusters
of golden flowers
and in the background,
a gigantic female angel
with ink blue thought struck eyes
that is near to protect her.
The strict face
of the blonde angel
looks like that of a mother,
that is watching over her child
and I see her blue white wings
that fold over each other
and her deep blue dress
with its golden collar
looks like that of a queen.
[Reference: Mystical reality. Painting by Mandi. Look at the painting on my website: http: //www.mabooki.com/poems/display/1415_Mystical_rea lity.htm]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Blue Wall / Green Wall
What comes to my mind when I see a green wall?
A green wall reminds me of the grass so green
And the emerald most rarely seen
A green wall reminds me of the leaves so green
And a forest where I have never been
A green wall reminds me of trees with a lot of shade
And the fresh vegetables kept for trade.
What comes to my mind when I see a blue wall?
It reminds me of the sea so blue
I feel like jumping in it too
A blue wall reminds me of the blue sky
You can’t touch it cause it’s very high
A blue wall reminds me of the deep blue bear
It is very dangerous so beware
A blue wall reminds me of a blue whale
To reach it from the shore you have to sail.
poem by Risha Ahmed
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I like blue
I like blue
and my motorbike is that colour
and some of the clothes that I wear.
If I am happy,
my eyes changes colour from grey
to bright blue.
The lavender bushes in our garden,
are rather blue
than purple to me.
When the sun sets behind the hillock
there’s a wonderful scent in the early evening air,
that comes from the blue bushes.
a Blue sky with a hot sun
can do miracles to me
and I cannot get enough of summer,
but Monday or any other day
must please stay away
from that colour.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Early one afternoon
Early one afternoon
I walked through the streets
of a small village
and it had to be in Italy
and was probably in Corona
or Tuscany.
a Baker with a white overcoat
and white hat on his head
rang on his bike’s bell for me
and pedalled pass,
with an old green bike
at the Pizza Palour.
There were long white breads
and green wine bottles,
in the baskets of his bicycle
and he had a big bush
of red blue lanvender flowers in one hand.
Across from me there were three small tables
with white table-covers,
at the Villa Toscana
and I could read some dishes
from the menu on the wall.
At the wall a young woman
with dark hair and an indigo dress
laughed sharp and bright,
while she waited
that a well built waitress
pour some more wine.
The image of the beautiful waitress
with black hair and deep dark eyes,
that bends forward
still stays with me.
In front of me at Le Art
there were a row of paintings,
depicting nudes to the finest detail
on painter’s easels.
I walked nearer
and I could see rows of violet lavender bushes
against the ridge in the distance
and Villa’s, that stand yellow gold
up on the hill
and looked impressive
against the deep blue sky.
When I got back to myself
I was at the fountain
in front of the mural
in our garden
and the golden Persian cat,
watched me from the top of the wall
with a woolly tail that curled down
and it looked with golden eyes at me.
[Reference: Tuscan mural by Mandi. See the painting at my webpage: http: //www.mabooki.com/poems/display/1417_Early_one_af ternoon.htm]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Everything is going to be wet
Every day rain falls down
from the overcast grey sky
and lightning bolts
flash blue white
like the fingers
of the gods
caressing the earth
while the leaves of autumn
cover every tree
in auburn, yellow and brown.
Green leaves on the stems
of big pink hollyhocks
here and there
dip up and down
when hit by drops of rain
as if suddenly coming alive
and it’s going to be
a wet winter
and probably
not all that chilly
with rain falling
out of season.
The grass is green
and everything but trees
are growing
as if it’s still spring.
and flowers bloom
on geraniums, roses, hollyhocks,
lilies, irises and petunias
in colours ranging
from white, orange, yellow,
violet to red and blue
and without covering
everything is going
to be wet.
poem by Gert Strydom
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