En.Citatepedia^®.ro

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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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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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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Seasons

I

As if summer will never end
irises are everywhere in the garden
with opening flower after flower
in light yellow, deep purple and rust-brown.

The bright hot sun hangs day after day
in a cobalt blue sky and even carnations, geraniums
and flame lilies are showing their beauty,
are still holding onto summer.

Doves are still cooing in the oak tree,
their are finches and sparrows cavorting up and down
and it’s as if nature is thwarting autumn
while dew is still shining on the leaves in the mornings

until later the sky becomes dull blue
while the sun is getting much more faint.

II

Slowly the leaves are falling
descending in different colours,
in one’s and two’s and later in a bigger number
tree-trunks become dark brown, red and some pallid

until every tree but for those that are evergreen stand skeleton,
the birds that remain sit next to each other shivering,
wishing for the winter to past
having difficulty to find seeds and other food

and the cold winter wind blows through everything,
filling the air with whirling dust clouds
with stripped branches flinging up and down
and everywhere leaves and branches lie in a jumble

until the wind dies down and the morning fog hangs like vapour,
at times only at noon is dispersed by the sun.

III

Days are cold and grey while the sun hides,
with a owl hunting during the day
searching for hungry mice sneaking around in the yellow grass
and all other signs of animal life is missing

but for doves sitting here and there
on telephone wires,
in disconsolation staring into the distance
and early mornings the grass is covered with white ripe

and it is as if every flower succumbs,
is shrinking crumpled and are folding close
until the first spring rain comes suddenly,
with sprouts and buds appearing and new flowers folding open

when fruit trees are covered with white, pink and yellow blossoms
and the sudden beauty takes your breath away.

poem by Gert Strydom
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No winter can chill

Grey clouds gather in the sky
with the promise
of some more rain,
but my sunshine is gone
and your smile
falls somewhere else.

How I wish to share
this early winter with you,
to gather your auburn hair
in my hands,

to shelter against the cold
and hold you close
and get a tender kiss,

but the falling red-brown leaves
has an own reality
of the distance between you and me

and still no winter
can chill what lies
between us.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Keys to your heart

There’s a painting of a beautiful shy girl
with a bunch of rust brown keys,
that she holds
and I know that her painter
can always unlock my hart.

When I walk into our bedroom
she watches me
with her dark eyes
and at times I wonder
if her cheeks are naturally red
and if she is blushing,
because I am looking at the pink brown hard nipple
of her perfect breast.

Her beauty stays with me
and at times I look at the fine detail
of the two violet roses,
that is fresh in her auburn hair.

No person can ever
get her away from me
as she belongs to me
and I hope and pray,
that it stays like that
with her painter and me.

[Reference: Keys to your heart. Partly nude by Mandi. Look at the picture on my web page: http: //www.mabooki.com/poems/display/1414_Keys_to_your _heart.htm]

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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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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Winds bend the brown green grass of fall

Winds bend the brown green grass of fall
Whether in current age or decades past
Landscape gazers catch creatures storing seeds
Scattering yellow and white capped weeds
Preparing for winter their pattern unhindered

Winds bend the brown green grass of fall
Constant marker as mankind races
Ploughs terrain staking claim
Highways vanquish sod and plain
Yet tuffs of the brown green grass remain

Winds bend the brown green grass of fall
Off roadways geese settle and call
Despite cluttered asphalt the landscape recalls
Natures evolving, preparing and readying
For ice glistening cold when life sleeps through all

poem by Stephanie Eve Kane Arado
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My autumn [2]

Around me trees are stripped
rigid, bare and totally naked
and heaps of leaves lie fallen
already colouring
from yellow to red and into brown.

Everything is lifeless,
like my life in pieces
and still there are thunderstorms
that repeatedly falls in this winter
out of season

and I am almost blinded by the thunder
as if it wants to devour everything about me
and still there’s new life
that this rain brings
and it’s clear
that my autumn is coming too early
and although my body still feels young
the greyness are creeping in

and you write words
of keeping yourself in vain,
of a child
that never will be born

and about everything becoming rotten
like a compos heap
and that love has also receded
as if everything this autumn
has elapsed for once and all.

Yet the grass is still green,
some trees are covered with leaves
and I wonder where you and I stand
when this season disappears
and the coming winter ends?

Still you are in my heart,
as if you are part of me
and I know that life without you
is totally meaningless.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Drought

Right through the veldt the grass are dried out yellow,
almost everything under the eye,
the sun burns trees and bushes,
whirlwinds blow red dust clouds high into the air

and it looks as if every bush and tree is stripped of leaves,
the sky is blue and open with all clouds missing
on farms cattle, bucks and sheep are bellowing and bleating
and farmers come to a confession

that all things comes from the hand of God, gather in towns
where they admit the dependence of man
where everything comes to a halt
and they pray to God for rain.

Even the most prominent people pray
while atheists sit in the bars
drinking tot after tot while moaning about the heat
and on the horizon lightning slams down white

while it’s pressing hot clouds gather
before a enormous rainstorm erupts,
a thunderbolt falls on the porch of a bar
rain rattles on the zinc roof

the thirsty red dust flies into the air with big drops falling,
are filled overnight with knee high green grass
and the animals that are feeding in the fields
go plumb to the markets.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Thinking Of What Lies Ahead

Clouds of grey
Lie strewn against bright blue
Dimming the already dim moonlight
The smell of rain permeates the air
The moisture almost tangible
Autumn winds blow red and brown leaves
Around on the floor

Staring at the celing
Glowing stars peep through the curtains
A half-bitten moon resides high in the sky
She waits for sleep to over come her
But her mind turns and works
Thinking about the future
Of what lies ahead

poem by Autumn Winds
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Bad Milo

Patrick Warburton, Gillian Jacobs, Ken Marino, Peter Stormare, Stephen Root, Jonathan Daniel Brown, Mary Kay Place, Toby Huss

from Bad Milo (2013)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Urge For Going

I woke up today and found snow perched on the ground
It hovered in a frozen sky and gobbled summer down
So when the leaves were trembling
Frozen trees were standing in a lonely row
I get the urge for going but I never seem to go
And I get the urge for going when the meadow grass is turning brown
And summertime is falling down and winter's moving in
I had a love in summertime with summer-colored skin
And not another one in town my darling's heart could win
But when the sky turned traitor cold
And bully winds did rub their noses in the snow
She got the urge for going and I had to let her go
And she got the urge for going when the meadow grass was turning brown
Summertime was falling down and winter's moving in
The warriors of winter gave a cold triumphant shout
Now all that dies is staying and all that lives is getting out
See the geese in chevron flight
Flurrying and flapping through the naked sky
They got the urge for going
They've got the wings to fly
They get the urge for going when the meadow grass is turning brown
And summertime is falling down and winter's moving in
I'll ply the fire with kindling and pull the blankets to my chin
I'll lock the vagrant winter out and bolt my wandering in
I'd like to call back summertime
And ask her just to stay another month or so
But she got the urge for going
I guess she'll have to go
And she got the urge for going when the meadow grass was turning brown
Summertime is falling down and winter's moving in
And she got the urge for going when the meadow grass was turning brown
All my empires are fallen down and winter's moving in

song performed by by Travis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Winter rain

She comes as an uninvited guest
when she’s expected less
and in times of the year’s
cold misery
she falls like icicles
out of a grey winter sky.

Her coming when the faded earth
is at its bare rest
with stripped trees
and yellowed grass
and bare patches
where flowers should be;

vexes me, as nothing rise when she falls
and just more chill follows her drops.

poem by Gert Strydom
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A Wonderful Painting

A Wonderful Painting
by Alex Lewis

I remember before my mother's art
When I was but an egg.
The painting took color in every part.
One shade is but a leg.

The lavish blues spread across the page like a waving, smiling sea.
The canvas was plain and bare, except the blues, happily set free.
With the blue, I went to play as childish as I may.
The one clam and I sat with ourselves on the whaling bay.

This is me, like a leaf, on my first day at green.
So, all the others spoke; I found that none were mean.
There were dark greens, light ones, and one stuck in the middle.
After math, my friend and I learnt to play the fiddle.

My friend and I continued to play our little tune.
We soon fell in pink to which neither one was immune.
Our pink grew and grew as each day had passed.
Green had ended blue; only pink would last.

We took our pink and ran right through to angry, waiting brown.
Brown was angry for making him wait with a black-white frown.
We explained that blue made us wait for an azure set of eighteen.
He forgave us. My friend, brown, pink, and I live for only one team.

We decided to get the canvas and add a dash of white.
Pink was overwhelmed as white carried on through the love-filled night.
We can add white to family before blue decides to return again.
Red will also join the painting party-Another eighteen before men!

It took a lot of work to make my dear reds come.
I enjoyed the work, but my reds were way more fun.
One red stayed with us, but the other ran away rather young.
Maybe brown kidnapped him early, but strange words travel by tongue.

We turned grey as brown dimmed down, but we swear we've never seen pink more bright!
Brown had completely gone, like both of our reds, but pink still made things light.
I then feared and cried as my pink's grey burned out like a setting sun.
My grey began to fade too, but I was ready. My life was done.

My mother handed me the canvas and the frame,
But I had to add all the colors (none I showed for shame) .
Blue, green, pink, brown, red, grey-my portrait is made of those colors,
But I am just one piece in a gallery, and all of you are the others.

poem by Alex Lewis
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On The Fourth Day Of March

The pleasant aroma of the peppercorn trees
That come wafting to me in the evening breeze
And on the nearby pond the shy moorhen call
On the fourth day of March and the southern Fall.

A white backed magpie pipes on a nearby gum tree
A bird one so often does hear and does see
And though early Autumn the deciduous trees in the park of the town
Their leaves still quite green and not showing any brown.

The weather quite cool compared to yesterday
But the temperatures perfect for me anyway
Today a cool high of twenty two degrees
From the recent warm weather we do need some ease.

The brown and bare paddocks could do with some rain
And the farmers are feeling the financial strain
Of months of dry weather they feel burdened by care
And their financial cross for them heavy to bear.

There is not one rain cloud in the clear blue sky
And the thistledown flying in the breeze through the sky
And the dark moorhen call in the brown pond nearby
And the paddocks are looking so bare, brown and dry.

poem by Francis Duggan
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The Winter's Come

Sweet chestnuts brown like soling leather turn;
The larch trees, like the colour of the Sun;
That paled sky in the Autumn seemed to burn,
What a strange scene before us now does run--
Red, brown, and yellow, russet, black, and dun;
White thorn, wild cherry, and the poplar bare;
The sycamore all withered in the sun.
No leaves are now upon the birch tree there:
All now is stript to the cold wintry air.

See, not one tree but what has lost its leaves--
And yet the landscape wears a pleasing hue.
The winter chill on his cold bed receives
Foliage which once hung oer the waters blue.
Naked and bare the leafless trees repose.
Blue-headed titmouse now seeks maggots rare,
Sluggish and dull the leaf-strewn river flows;
That is not green, which was so through the year
Dark chill November draweth to a close.

Tis Winter, and I love to read indoors,
When the Moon hangs her crescent up on high;
While on the window shutters the wind roars,
And storms like furies pass remorseless by.
How pleasant on a feather bed to lie,
Or, sitting by the fire, in fancy soar
With Dante or with Milton to regions high,
Or read fresh volumes we've not seen before,
Or oer old Burton's Melancholy pore.

poem by John Clare
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Autumn Falls

Autumn falls,
Before Indian Summer begins.
And in New England...
Temperatures cool,
To warm again.

Autumn falls!
And so do Chestnuts and Pine cones,
As well as leaves blown swiftly...
From an assortment of Oak and Maple trees.
And those that remain to cling...
Bring astonishing colors,
Of Orange, Red and mixtures of hues...
Yellow and Brown to them bring.

Autumn falls...
Dramatically!
To leave barren the trees,
Except for the Pine...
Mysteriously,
Just before the first snow of Winter...
Covers with a bright white majesticness.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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At the zoo

There are street hawkers
selling their wares
next to a wall build
of rocks and stone
on all sides of the entrance.

Carved wooden walking sticks
african faces in black wood,
grass brooms, pottery,
hats and t-shirts
and African drums
and paintings line the sidewalk.

Light pink flamingos
parade next to their dark brown pool
and walk among long palm trees
while they call to each other.

Some white swans
drift on a lake in the park
and catch something to eat
with dipping heads
from the dark water.

a Couple of elephant throw
red-brown sand
over themselves
and their pleated skin
looks like rough sandpaper
and at the back
there’s an old white farmstead
with a green roof
and some hay
for them to eat.

Some spotted Hyenas
swim in a stream
and their dark brown
dots stand out
against their light coats.

There’s some long walkways
going through gardens
that stretch into the distance..

Just the head and back
of a lonely Hippopotamus
rises from a dark brown pool
and it drifts with its nose
under the water
in the direction
of some other Hippopotamuses.

Some bridges run
over the small stream
of the Apies river
which splash over rocks.

a Blue crane
combs its blue-grey coat
next to a striped Kudu cow
that grazes on the green grass
with the Kudu bull watching
the visitors.

a Big brown bear
walks up a rock slope
and splashes in cold pool.

Some Impalas are gathering
on a rocky slope
and a narrow path
stretches up the wooded hill.

A Tiger lies sleeping
under a tree
and two black-backed jackals
stand grinning next to each other.

There are yellow-gold lions
that hides in the long green grass
and a slim female
with two cubs
steps out and watches
and the big male
comes out with a twisting tail
and roars menacing at the crowd
while one of the keepers
are giving them meat.

There’s a great view of the buildings
of Pretoria from the top
of the hill
and some high rises
and towers jump up
into the sky.

I take a cable car
for the long way down
and see the Union buildings
far in the distance
and miniature animals
flash by on the bottom.

A Leopard growls
when I leave the cable car
and I hear the calls
of some black Chacma Baboons.

Some African Buffalo
stand grazing like cattle
and a Rhino
lies stretched out
on the grass.

Some of the gamekeepers
are feeding a giraffe
and it stretches its neck
over a high wall
and time catches me
and something of the animals
stays with me
when I walk back to the car.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Urge For Going

Urge For Going
I awoke today and found the frost perched on the town
It hovered in a frozen sky, then it gobbled summer down
When the sun turns traitor cold
and shivering trees are standing in a naked row
I get the urge for going but I never seem to go
I get the urge for going
When the meadow grass is turning brown
Summertime is falling down and winter is closing in
I had me a man in summertime
He had summer-colored skin
And not another girl in town
My darling's heart could win
But when the leaves fell trembling down
Bully winds did rub their faces in the snow
He got the urge for going And I had to let him go
He got the urge for going
When the meadow grass was turning brown
Summertime was falling down and winter was closing in
The warriors of winter they gave a cold triumphant shout
And all that stays is dying and all that lives is getting out
See the geese in chevron flight flapping and racing on before the snow
They've got the urge for going, they've got the wings to go
They get the urge for going
When the meadow grass is turning brown
Summertime is falling down and winter is closing in
I'll ply the fire with kindling and pull the blankets to my chin
and I'll the vagrant winter out and bolt my wandering in
I'd like to call back summertime and have her stay jut another month or so
She's got the urge for going and I guess she'll have to go
And she get the urge for going when meadow grass is turning brown
All her empires are falling down
winter's closing in

song performed by by Joni Mitchell
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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