The flags at the Pretoria news hangs limp
The flags at the Pretoria news hangs limp
hangs limp
while I walk to the bus stop
and a man with a straw hat
with a badge on it
carries a backpack
and is armoured with a leather jacket.
His white smoke clouds
curls into the morning air
and a schoolgirl,
gets a cigarette from him
and a small group
smokes with him.
a Air force officer
with a blue penguin cap
on his head
walks past like on every work day
and I wonder why he
has to be so early on his post.
I buy sweets from a street vendor
who also sells newspapers and cigarettes
and I see his fingers
counting sixteen in the cold,
before he replaces his hand
into the pockets of his coat.
The people are already
forming a hell of a long queue,
to catch a bus to Hatfield
and the air is this morning
rather grey than blue
and I wonder why
a young lady
keeps looking at me.
a Bus that looks like the right one,
stops a away at a short distance
where the driver
changes the sign
and it parks at the right place.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Six o’clock on a Friday morning
It’s six o’clock on a Friday morning
and I wait for my bus
and across the street,
the lights are burning cheerful and yellow
in the square and dome shaped windows
of the state library
and I wonder what documents are kept there
Street hawkers sell newspapers and sweets
in front of the Pretoria News,
while passengers are already
catching busses in rows.
There’s an icy chill
that hangs in the morning dawn light
and there’s a skew pointed obelisk
that is in front of the high court chambers
and a newspaper heading
talks about the recession
that is blowing hot and cold,
but it’s freezing
and the cold even eats
right through my leader jacket.
On the east side of Vermeulen Street
the sky becomes a light yellow,
while the blue of the heaven
folds open all over the rest
and streetlights stand in a long row
up the street past traffic lights.
Schoolgirls dressed in blue
are watching school boys with red jerseys
and young women
stand and shake
from the cold and I wonder,
how the old red delivery bicycle
behind the pillar
are not getting stolen
where it stands every morning on its place.
There’s a street sign that points to the Pierneef museum
into the L te Groen Eureka factory building,
but it’s still too early
to go and look at paintings
and I wonder how
the Pierneef paintings inside looks.
On the side of a building
I am amazed at the Tswane sign,
but this big city
will always stay Pretoria for me
and I wonder how people
can build buildings so pressed into each other
and look at old and new buildings
standing rowed in onto each other
and the bus stays away,
while others come and go
and I wait
a while longer in the cold.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Early morning ride
Early in the morning
hawkers are standing next to the street
and they sell flowers, newspapers,
cigarettes and sweets.
At church square two doves are pairing
on uncle Paul’s head,
while people walk to and fro
and some are in lines
to buy bus tickets
It’s another thing when you are
stressed out
and are scared,
to be late at a new job.
a Bus stands with a closed door
making fumes,
while the driver is walking around inside
and already there are a large number of people
lining up in a queue.
a Pair of love stricken young people
are holding hands
and talk about the previous nights
party and drinks
that they enjoyed
and I try to see the route
to know were I have to get off.
School children tease each other
as far as we go
and time gets wings
and rushes by
and suddenly
I have to disembark.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Hell Of A Band
Ladies and gentlemen.
Please welcome to the center of the stage, the one, the only...
You got it my hips are shaking left to right and uh, Limp Bizkit,
Limp Bizkit's got the power.
Say uh, Limp Bizkit,
Limp Bizkit's got the power.
Sin, sin, bullet to the head, little John slaps that beat.
Sammy hits that bass hit nookie, rumble you outta your seat.
Now where's that freaky ass son of a bitch?
That guitar raving man?
Lethal's scratchin' up them balls,
Limp Bizkit's one hell of a band.
Left, left, left, right, left.
Left, left, left, right left.
Yeah, my back is aching, my belt's too tight,
My hands are shaking left to right.
I said uh! Limp Bizkit,
Limp Bizkit's got the power.
Everybody say uh! Limp Bizkit, Limp Bizkit's got the power.
Everybody say uh! Limp Bizkit, Limp Bizkit's got the power.
Everybody say uh! Limp Bizkit, Limp Bizkit's got the power.
Everbody say uh! Limp Bizkit, Limp Bizkit's got the power.
Uh! Limp Bizkit, Limp Bizkit's got the power.
Ha ha! Uh, Limp Bizkit, Limp Bizkit's got the power.
Everybody say uh! Limp Bizkit, Limp Bizkit's got the power.
Uh, Limp Bizkit...(fades out).
song performed by by Limp Bizkit
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Long Journey
Motorcycling along
the N1 freeway
from Pretoria in the north to Cape Town
the flaming sun rises over the horizon
small like a ripe apricot
while its dimensions gets larger
and then tomato red
a little later it turns orange and like a ripe fruit
hangs untouchable up on the sky
and corn fields, fences and trees
fly past almost blurring
in the twilight sketched like pencil drawings
and the sun like a huge pit being spitted
crosses the sky
changes to yellow and then to white hot
and the sky turns from dusk grey
to bright blue
and later to a darker hue
and the hot wind bristles
as if with loving fingers
touching and stroking your whole body
and in the early fresh morning
you draw in at a garage,
make a pit stop, to check the oil,
to fill your motorcycle up
and have a breakfast
at a Wimpy roadhouse
and the smell of fuel
hangs in the air
and you find children there
looking with huge curious eyes
at your motorbike
and gazing at you,
as if a hero character
has just walk right out
of a cartoon magazine
and you remove your helmet
take off your leather gloves
visit the loo where a guy or two
looks at you and comments
on your motorcycle, your leather jacket
the weather and the road
and in the restaurant
the waitress pours a Mega coffee,
smiles dazzling
when she puts it on the table
with your breakfast of steak,
French fries and coke
and you can swear
that there’s a twinkling in her eyes
before she walks away
with a French plate swishing to and thro
and buttocks leaving a distinct impression
of female grace
but the sun is drawing water
and time is flying,
you motorcycle thunders alive
and you return to the freeway
where at speed you pass
cars, greyhound busses and trucks
and the road feels almost without end
right through the flat Orange Free State,
later the acrid hell hot Karroo
where you see grazing flocks of sheep
like white specks
and some windmills
flashing and reflecting the sun
on their huge spinning blades
somewhat like lonely landmarks
and you make some more pit stops
to refuel and stretch your legs
have another meal
and just before driving through
the last tunnel on top of a hill
dusk envolopes the world, the sun dwindles away,
the evening star is just above the horizon
and a little later star after star flies pass
like leaves in autumn falling from a tree
and you are free, almost at the end
of your journey
or maybe you are always just passing by,
travelling to a new destination
with the wind, the sun and sky
and some people that you meet on the trip
and sometimes you go very fast,
at other times almost creeping slow
until suddenly destiny causes the journey to end.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Misty Morning, Albert Bridge
I dreamt we were standing
By the banks of the thames
Where the cold grey waters ripple
In the misty morning light
Held a match to your cigarette
Watched the smoke curl in the mist
Your eyes, blue as the ocean between us
Smiling at me
I awoke alone and lonely
In a faraway place
The sun fell cold upon my face
The cracks in the ceiling spelt hell
Turned to the wall
Pulled the sheets around my head
Tried to sleep, and dream my way
Back to you again
Count the days
Slowly passing by
Step on a plane
And fly away
Ill see you then
As the dawnbirds sing
On a cold and misty morning
By the albert bridge
song performed by by Pogues
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When She Already Catches A Putco Bus At Four
When early at four o’clock in the morning
she has to catch a Putco bus to her work
there is smoke hanging over the shacks,
for a while she walks over the wet veldt,
as the morning star appears and she shivers
from the cold that is icy, see a snake
sailing over the ground and she is scared,
nothing is defiling the early silence
and later with the roaring of the bus
where the headlights of it is very bright
like searchlights, blazing, cutting through the dark
she can still rest for another short while in bliss
before the daily exhausting duties,
that short moment passes far too quickly.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Very Early Spring
The fields are snowbound no longer;
There are little blue lakes and flags of tenderest green.
The snow has been caught up into the sky--
So many white clouds--and the blue of the sky is cold.
Now the sun walks in the forest,
He touches the bows and stems with his golden fingers;
They shiver, and wake from slumber.
Over the barren branches he shakes his yellow curls.
Yet is the forest full of the sound of tears....
A wind dances over the fields.
Shrill and clear the sound of her waking laughter,
Yet the little blue lakes tremble
And the flags of tenderest green bend and quiver.
poem by Katherine Mansfield
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Ocean Blue
Well you took me home
And you took me back
But deep down inside
The feeling just died and i
Couldnt see why
From indigo to royal blue
I travel far but no one will do
Anytime, anyplace
Every shape every face
Brings memories of you
Blue to be blue
To be blue
Ocean blue
Blue to be blue
To be blue
Ocean blue - ocean blue
Fair weather friends might drift away
When summer ends and skies burn grey
So I walk to the ocean
Pilot these shores
Just thinking of you
Its time we kissed the clouds goodbye
From now on its strictly blue sky
Come rain and shine
The outlook is still fine
Im thinking of you
Blue to be blue
To be blue
Ocean blue
Blue to be blue
To be blue
Ocean blue - ocean blue
Blue to be blue
To be blue
Ocean blue, ocean blue
Ocean blue, ocean blue
Ocean blue, ocean blue
Ocean blue, ocean ocean
Ocean, ocean
Blue to be blue
To be blue
Ocean blue
Blue to be blue
To be blue
Ocean blue - ocean blue
I stand at the head of the queue
Theres mutinys every crew
Wishin and wonderin bout you
Ocean blue
song performed by by Abc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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A moment in time! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
Summer at peak;
a young man
in a white singlet.
Summer at peak;
a young girl
in short sleeves.
Summer at peak;
A child licks
Ice cream.
Summer at peak;
an infant
On inhaler.
Summer at peak;
A young couple
Cosy in cinema hall seats.
Summer at peak;
A vendor
Sells lime water.
Summer at peak;
Gulmohar petals
lie limp on grass.
Summer at peak;
Dust haze,
Road rage.
Summer at peak;
beads of sweat
slide on lips.
Summer at peak,
Street wars,
Blame it on heat.
poem by Mamta Agarwal
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Blue Morning, Blue Day
Out in the street its 6 am, another sleepless night
Three cups of coffee, but I cant clear my head from what went down last night
No we wont have our own little ways, but somehow we keep it together
You hear me talk, but you dont hear what I say, I guess it dont even matter
Chorus:
Blue morning, blue day, wont you see things my way
Blue morning, cant you see, what your love has done to me
Ive always listened to your point of view, my ways are cut through men
And Ive always been a patient man, but my patience has reached its end
You tell me youre leaving, you tell me goodbye
You say you might send a letter
Well honey dont telephone, cause I wont be alone
I need someone to make me feel better
Chorus
(solo)
Chorus
(blue morning) blue morning, (blue morning) blue morning
(blue morning) blue morning, blue blue blue day, yeah
song performed by by Foreigner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You’re in another country called Cape Town
I peer at a city
while the rain is pouring down
and see blue-white thunder
falling from the sky
while dark clouds are milling up high
blown by storm winds
and the smell of rain
rises fresh from the earth
and my thoughts loiter
and I know where I am
and you’re in far off Cape Town
and I in my Pretoria.
Below me I see the zoo
and a city stretched out
in clear squares,
great buildings among statues
and gardens,
and on a hill
the sacred place of a nation
and you’re in far off Cape Town
and I in my Pretoria.
The houses in the suburb
are build for the summer heat
with verandas and big rooms,
with yellowwood floors,
with fans in the ceilings
and yards as big as parks
and trees with purple blue blossoms
lining every street
and you’re in far off Cape Town
and I in my Pretoria.
I hear a crowd roaring
in the stadium near to the university
for their rugby team to win
and everywhere blue flags are waving
and some faces are painted blue
and some heads have caps
with horns thrusting into the air
and you’re in far off Cape Town
and I in my Pretoria.
On the other side of the mountain
avocado and some tropical trees grow
and here I stand in the hero’s acre
among the fallen great
and to Andries Pretorius
I offer my salute
and in church square
my eyes stare
at the statue of uncle Paul
who still faces north
now turning green
and you’re in another country called Cape Town
and I in my Pretoria.
[Reference: To -. Composed at Rotterdam by Thomas Hood.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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The City Of London
Introduction:
I wrote this in the middle of the night, many years ago.
My mind went back to when I was a little girl
and my brother and I went to visit my Grandfather.
We stopped that day to walk through the City, there was a mist that morning and a fine rain, the sort that makes your hair frizz.
The tranquillity of the early morning streets was rudely broken
by people coming into the City to work and so here is my memory:
----
Early morning after a thunderous night
I can breathe easy.
If I'm quiet I may hear the sound of birdsong.
Sometimes there is a mist.
It hangs over London like a veil.
Soon dawn's empty streets
will heave with massing crowds.
but until then all London is at peace.
The gentle tinkling of milk bottles
breaks the quiet
and the smell of bacon and fried bread
waft through the chill morning air.
Sounds of sirens fill my head and
concrete rises heavenward, filling my eyes,
crushing their foundations through my soul.
A sickness seeps through me,
everything beautiful is gone.
'Morning paper, read all about it! '
Girls hurry buy in tight blue jeans,
men in suits, some in Mac's,
high-heeled ladies, clicky, click, clack.
Poor old tramp, fingernails black,
stirs on the floor beside a closed door,
‘Got the price of a cuppa luv', he calls.
The girl quickens her pace.
A couple kiss in tender bliss
A young man sighs, a baby cries,
an old lady dies on the streets of London.
Early morning after a thunderous night
you can breathe easy.
You may hear the sound of birdsong
Sometimes there is a mist.
It hangs over London like a veil
poem by Ruth Walters
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On the square
My motorbike is at a garage for a service
and when I return from work
I cross the square
to catch a buss
in Paul Kruger street.
There are hawkers selling sweets,
fruit, newspapers
and food
and people
walking to and fro.
This afternoon he is
on holy ground
with a shouting bugle
that yells to people
not to give money
but their hearts to Jesus Christ.
I wonder what uncle Paul
would think
about the neat black preacher
who is standing right against him
and the group
that listens soberly
and see grey-blue doves
picking up crumbs of bread
and I am glad
to drive my motorbike tomorrow again.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Early morning when the first rays fall (pantoum)
Early morning when the first rays fall,
when the sun hangs blood red
this part of the universe recall,
in moments of awakening that has been acquired.
When the sun hangs blood red,
birds twitter with the songs they sing
in moments of awakening that has been acquired
as the good news of the morning that they bring.
Birds twitter with the songs they sing,
to and thro insects and bees fly
as the good news of the morning that they bring,
with butterflies rocking on flowers under the blue sky.
To and thro insects and bees fly,
the buds of morning glories open to the sun,
with butterflies rocking on flowers under the blue sky,
ants in brigades begin their daily fun.
The buds of morning glories open to the sun
early morning when the first rays fall,
ants in brigades begin their daily fun
in moments of awakening that has been acquired
poem by Gert Strydom
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Early Morning Rain
In the early morning rain with a dollar in my hand
With an aching in my heart and my pockets full of sand
I'm a long way from home and I miss my loved one so
In the early morning rain with no place to go
Out on runway number nine big 707 set to go
But I'm stuck here on the grass where the cold winds they do blow
And where whiskey was and bars and the women they were fine
There she goes my friend, she rolling down at last
Here the mighty engines roar, see the silver bird on high
She's away and westward bound, far above the clouds she'll fly
There the morning rain don't fall and the sun always shines
She'll be flying over my home in about three hours time
This old airport's got me down it ain't no earthy good to me
Because I'm stuck here on the ground, cold and drunk as I can be
You can't hop a jet plane like you can a railroad train
So I'd best be on my way in the early morning rain
song performed by by Grateful Dead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ox Cart Man
In October of the year,
he counts potatoes dug from the brown field,
counting the seed, counting
the cellar's portion out,
and bags the rest on the cart's floor.
He packs wool sheared in April, honey
in combs, linen, leather
tanned from deerhide,
and vinegar in a barrel
hoped by hand at the forge's fire.
He walks by his ox's head, ten days
to Portsmouth Market, and sells potatoes,
and the bag that carried potatoes,
flaxseed, birch brooms, maple sugar, goose
feathers, yarn.
When the cart is empty he sells the cart.
When the cart is sold he sells the ox,
harness and yoke, and walks
home, his pockets heavy
with the year's coin for salt and taxes,
and at home by fire's light in November cold
stitches new harness
for next year's ox in the barn,
and carves the yoke, and saws planks
building the cart again.
poem by Donald Hall
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This winter
The air is grey
and the cold bites with the rain
and this morning, there’s fog folding around me
I am goalless and empty without you
and I do not know what your words mean,
but you have no place for me and my life is grey.
The sadness falls
like a cloak over me,
while goallessness folds around me.
My cheeks are wet and there are drops that stick to it
and its not rain and it is wet from weeping
and I do not know where to find light in the greyness.
Everything is dark and I wonder what my future holds
and your heart is made of rock,
while pain and blackness falls around me.
I am searching for a heaven that hangs sapphire blue
in the future over our lives and like the Lords blessings,
comes right through the darkness and meaningless grey
and fold open like a new morning.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Bussing to Work
Sitting on a boring bus to work,
I dream and stare and read,
grey morning light suffuses us,
we users of this beast
Stops come and go, take people on,
and deposits those who leave.
For destinations unknown,
and of no interest, to me.
Work lies ahead, sleep stays behind,
My missed compatriot.
And you are on your bus to work,
Missed more yet than that.
You sit there in your grey lit suit,
I hope you think of me
Minutes away, so close behind,
I left you on our stop.
Waking up in your arms, so warm,
Still all I want to feel
In mornings cold and busy days,
I think of you and me.
How after this long day of work,
We’ll share togetherness and then
Tomorrow morning after showering
I’ll leave you at the stop again.
poem by Kevin Linnekamp
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The gliding death angel
Only a dot is caught
in the early morning air
of the eagle
in its morning flight
where almost invisible small
it hangs storeys high
in radial winds
in a little dot against the blue
before with stretched out claws
lightning fast
as a shadow
it falls from heaven
with death
striking in precision.
[Reference: Arend speel doodsengel by Jan Lourens.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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