En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The car of Johnny staying at home

The car of Johnny staying at home
takes the garden route
and the old green wheelbarrow creaks
while I fill it up
with weeds.

I pull a lever
and like magic sprinklers appear
in the garden
and the two cats
run moaning out of the water,
before the dogs
rollick barking in it.

I am angry with the Indian Miners, rats,
insects and snails
that eats holes out of my ripe tomatoes
and even wreck the spinach
before they are even ripe

and I wonder if I am farming
for myself and my darling
or the wild animals
and who really are going to eat the fruit?

There are sparrows and doves
in the branches of the pepper tree
that are peering and waiting
for me to throw out some seed

and it’s getting white hot
while the sun
rises higher in the sky
and I enjoy
dark red roses, purple irises
and orange, white and pink
geraniums that are all flowering.

poem by Gert Strydom
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My plants

My plants
are eaten
by all kinds of vermin.

There are golden beetles
that reaps
the leaves of the beans,
brown buzzing beetles turning in the air
around the tomatoes,

snails that can’t wait
and demolish the leaves
of beans, spinach
and tomatoes.

Indian miners
that feast in their beaks
as if every thing belongs to them.

Even poison that I spread out
doesn’t help a bit
and plants from Mrs. Roberts
that should keep such things in check
grows rampant

and after rains
there are weeds
everywhere,
as if my garden
was prepared only for them.

Even one of the taps breaks
causing water to spray without end
and I have trouble
to bind it down
and have to go to Builders
to get a new one

and this garden man gets fed up
and wants to pull
all of the vegetables out
one by one
and put something else
like flowers into that ground,

until my darling says:
“thank you for the beans,
spinach, carrots and tomatoes
that you placed in the bowls,
can I get a bit of parsley
to put in the salad? ”

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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You are sitting on the veranda

You are sitting on the veranda
enjoying the breakfast
of eggs fried with tomato with toast
and huge cups of very special tea
that I had made for you.

Sweet innocence radiates from you
while you watch the blooming
purple irises, some white lilies, pink,
orange and ruby red geraniums
and birds fly down
from the pepper tree
to peck up the seed
that I had put out for them.

There’s a melody in your voice
while you give some toast with Marmite
to the dogs that gather
with twisting tails
to get their treat
and the morning is sweet
and our house is a moated fort,
a treasured place
where only we are locked in.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Home Grown Tomatoes

There aint nothin in the world that I like better than bacon n lettuce n
Home grown tomatoes up in the mornin, out in the garden
Get you a ripe one, dont pick a hard un plant em in the spring, eat em in
The summer all winter without em is a culinary bummer I forget all about the
Sweatinand the digginevery time I go out and pick me a big un home grown
Tomatoes, home grown tomatoes what would life be like without home grown
Tomatoes only two things that money cant buy
Thats true love and home grown tomatoes you can go out to eat an thats for
Sure but theres nothina home grown tomatoe wont cure put em in a salad, put
em in a stew
You can make your own tomatoe juice
You can eat em with eggs, eat em with gravy you can eat em with beans, pinto
Or navy put em on the side, put em in the middle home grown tomatoes on a hot
Cake griddle home grown tomatoes, home grown tomatoes what would life be like
Without home grown tomatoes only two things that money cant buy
Thats true love and home grown tomatoes if is to change this life I lead
You could call me johnny tomatoe seed
cause I know what this country needs
Home grown tomatoes in every yard you see when I die dont bury me
In a box in a cold dark cemetery
Out in the garden would be much better
cause I could be pushin up a home grown tomatoe home grown tomatoes, home
Grown tomatoes what would life be like without home grown tomatoes only two
Things that money cant buy
Thats true love and home grown tomatoes
Words and music by guy clark

song performed by by John Denver
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Carnations in the garden

There are carnations in the garden
in colours of ruby red,
pure white and blossom pink
and some pink with deep purple inside
and others purple-blue.

I smell the sweet fresh flowers
and look at colours
hue as if by magic
into each other.

Some grow in flowering pots,
some are planted in flowerbeds,
others even in the rock garden

and the flowers at places are mixed
to catch the eye
and everywhere there’s care
and a lot of love
that went into the tending of it.

poem by Gert Strydom
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The greatest thing

I put the seed
into ground that I
mingled with dark black compost.

Rows of beans,
some carrots, some pumpkins
and spinach
I sowed into the orange brown earth.

Some small tomato plants,
I planted in blocks
and pressed small
frames of reeds
on top
for them to crawl over.

Every day I sprayed water
and tended the weeds
and in time
little green plants
sprang out of the ground
and the tomatoes crept
and crawled all over
their reeds.

It was great to be part
of spring and see
living things sprout
from the ground,
but a dog dug
some carrots out
and a flock of mice
came to eat
tomatoes from the plants.

Yet in time
some great vegetables
came to my table
and spring was awesome
and so was summer
and to tend my own garden
is the greatest thing.

poem by Gert Strydom
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My Drug Dealer

Today-
I asked myself.

Why are the oak tree’s purple?
And the grass blue?

Why is the sky green?
And the leaves hot pink?

Why is that gravel red?
And the rocks of that garden yellow?

Then I thought
and thought over again
a million times

and realized...

I’m high.

I’m up higher than the orange clouds in the green sky
My heart is as bright as the rocks of that garden

My thoughts are as eccentric as the hot pink color of the leaves
that fell from the purple tree

My eyelashes flutter flirtatiously like the way the wind
blows the blue blades of grass around.

Love is a drug,
and I’m high-

You happen to be my dealer.

poem by Breanna Schwartz
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The garden in the hillocks (Tartoum)

Against the rocky slope lies the old white house,
there are roses, lilies and irises that are flowering
between blocks of rock stacked together.

There are roses, lilies and irises that are flowering,
succulents, aloes, torch lilies grow
like tongues of flaming exuberance.

Succulents, aloes, torch lilies grows
as red dots against the rocks that are flaming
as if nature is singing about God’s creation.

As red dots against the rocks that are flaming,
as God’s own lovely garden
proteas, wild wormwood and every wild flower blooms.

As God’s own lovely garden,
as dots full of gleaming fire allows flower
while doves, finches and bush shrikes sing with joy.

As dots full of gleaming fire allows flower
between blocks of rock stacked together
like tongues of flaming exuberance,
as if nature is singing about God’s creation
proteas, wild wormwood and every wild flower blooms
while doves, finches and bush shrikes sing with joy.

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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What Is Pink?

What is pink? a rose is pink
By the fountain's brink.
What is red? a poppy's red
In its barley bed.
What is blue? the sky is blue
Where the clouds float through.
What is white? a swan is white
Sailing in the light.
What is yellow? pears are yellow,
Rich and ripe and mellow.
What is green? the grass is green,
With small flowers between.
What is violet? clouds are violet
In the summer twilight.
What is orange? why, an orange,
Just an orange!

poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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Color

What is pink? a rose is pink
By a fountain's brink.
What is red? a poppy's red
In its barley bed.
What is blue? the sky is blue
Where the clouds float thro'.
What is white? a swan is white
Sailing in the light.
What is yellow? pears are yellow,
Rich and ripe and mellow.
What is green? the grass is green,
With small flowers between.
What is violet? clouds are violet
In the summer twilight.
What is orange? Why, an orange,
Just an orange!

poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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Come to my garden

Come to my garden
when purple irises flower perfectly,
morning glories summit over every thing
and be speechless by the glory
of sunspots that trumpet their beauty purple-blue
and violets that rise up everywhere.

Come to my garden
when purple irises flower perfectly,
see roses from crimson to auburn
and find no words and become dumbstruck
by odours and colours that my plants trumpet forth
and come and look at every thing, come my most precious flower,
come to my garden.

poem by Gert Strydom
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The Tree And The Branch

the tree looks
upon a branch
where a ripe
fruit is hanging

the tree says
it is mine
the branch say
i am holding it

the tree says
the branch too
belongs to it

angry about the
tree's greed
the branch lets go off
the ripe fruit

a hungry child
picks it up
and goes home
with a happy heart

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The blossoming

I thank you Lord
that you by grace blessed me
to let my slender flowers grow
flooding over in bell like strings
in internodes, joints of roses

not peach, purple or pink
like others of my kind
but in a pure white colouring
with odourless buds opening

and some ridicule, hold my words,
my verses of rhyme and free form in parody
but my flowering is from your hand

and I can understand that they are thinking
of flowers like roses, irises, geraniums
which are tempered against the elements
bringing forth fragrant odours
that perfumes the air
but in your shade and care I am blossoming.

[Reference: The blossoming by Tatamkhulu Afrika.]

poem by Gert Strydom
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My Grandpa Orange Garden

From my grandpa Orange Garden
You can saw green orange leaf
all over the place
it fruits had started ripening

He frequently late going home
My grandma hit “Kentongan ”)
For going home soonly
But my grandpa workinghard
Forgotten to eat and drink, and going home

When he going home he saw the roof falling down
And black cloud seen in the sky
Quickly my grandfather took the ladder
Up to the roof and care the roof

For bettering their room
The rain fall from the sky
My grandpa walking down from teh roof
sleppy, and never wake up again
my grandma cried till morning
forgotten the orange fruit harvest
she embrace her husband slept strectched on the ground
in the meeting room
where children and grandchildren are gathering

to day you couldn’t seen the green leaf orange
the fresh orange leave the smeel in my reminiscences
the garden leave high and dry
no grandpa touch down at
the leafs through,
it stalks to let dryness
dryness and to wither
the dush fly everywhere
the house and garden is empty
only ghosts dwell in that house

I still remember
I fomerly run there
Among the orange stem trees
Under the orange leaf shady
His Only one message:
Don’t pick those oranges before ripe

Jakarta,6/29/2005

poem by Prasetya Utama
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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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Wild garden

I saw rows of white,
yellow and red lilies bloom,
next to the railway tracts.

Loaded trains rattled past
and that garden,
sprang up by itself between the weeds.

With the early summer rain
rows of blue, white and pink wild flowers
bloomed next to the road that passed nearby.

Some finches nested in the trees
and red, yellow and green birds
flew past the vast garden
of earth that came alive
as far as the eye could see.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Moon Over You

on a Monday
morning
i go there
wanting to
see you

expecting that
love is in the air

sea breeze
blue skies
green grass
on the garden
some red roses
white daisies
ripe grapes &
strawberries

i am moon over
you and comes
this absence of a

noonday, till
late night, i am

still moon over
you, this hopeless

loveless romantic
waiting for nothing.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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It is strange to be single

I walk past vineyard of grapes,
see the struggle that the small avocado tree
has against the ripe
while a string of doves
on the telephone wire
looks cooing at me

and feel like the fallen tree
over which the hollyhocks, geraniums, carnations
and ferns are growing rampant and trailing
as if I am laid down dead as well

but still shoots
is reach high into the air
past the roof
like fingers to the sun.

It is strange to be single,
not to catch the view
of your sun filled eyes
and the dogs are following me
and the cats await me
and I am really lonely.

poem by Gert Strydom
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The Enchanted Garden

OH, what a garden it was, living gold, living green,
Full of enchantments like spices embalming the air,
There, where you fled and I followed--you ever unseen,
Yet each glad pulse of me cried to my heart, 'She is there!'

Roses and lilies and lilies and roses again,
Tangle of leaves and white magic of blossoming trees,
Sunlight that lay where, last moment, your footstep had lain--
Was not the garden enchanted that proffered me these?

Ah, what a garden it is since I caught you at last--
Scattered the magic and shattered the spell with a kiss:
Wintry and dreary and cold with the wind of the past,
Ah that a garden enchanted should wither to this!

poem by Edith Nesbit
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