En.Citatepedia^®.ro

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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

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
Vote! | Copy!

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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

To someone that I loved

I. The odours of jasmine

The odours of jasmine, gardenia
and lavender sneaks in
through the room’s window
and it smells like a perfumery

while rays upon rays march over the bed
climbing over your arms, body and legs
while we lie stretched out
close to each other,

ignoring the sounds from the street,
where cars rush by,
the barks of the dogs
yelping at passing strangers,

only when you wake up,
I draw the curtains shut
as we feel the coldness of twilight
and join in body and soul.

II. On the porch we watch the setting sun

On the porch we watch the setting sun,
while sweet St. Anna wine
sparkles in our glasses
and there’s an intimacy,
a type of tranquillity

in the experience of early evening
while lights shine yellow and white in the distance,
the bottom of the clouds is almost ruby-red,
the black are already darkening some clouds,
while other remains snowy-white

the darkness catches us
with a full yellow moon
and like naughty children
we sneak into our house,
we sneak into our own bedroom

while joy foams like champagne
we are very intimately together
melting into one body
and while your hand later
still caress my back like a butterfly

barely touching here and there
I realise that you are the best part of me,
with your soft sweet lips
barely touching my cheek,
your hot breath against my body.

III. While the night is being born

While the night is being born,
the darkness sneaks into our house,
sneaks into our bedroom,
a sudden breeze begins blowing

far off against the horizon
near to the Magaliesberg mountains
blue-white streaks of thunder
flashes like canon fire

while we can smell
the scent of rain, of wet earth
on the breeze that is blowing stronger,
tossing the small potato trees to and thro

your face is full of terror
in the light of a lightning bolt
falling just outside of the window
and your eyes look big and white

while I cuddle you close to me
and your arms enfold, wrap around me drawing
me still closer and suddenly
the night is chilly

while big drops of rain pound down,
splashing until the rain pours like a torrent
and we find comfort in each other
melting with passion into one another.

IV. The alarm clock wakes me

The alarm clock wakes me
while it’s still twilight
and with the falling rain
the early morning is still dark
as if the night is lingering.

Outside the large jacaranda trees
wave in the storm wind
dropping purple-blue flowers
like a shower of confetti
and the street gleams

while cars drive past splashing
water in a spray
and we have to get ready
for the new day
and quite lazily you stretch out,

drawing me back to bed,
drawing me close to you,
drawing me into your warmth
while our lips, bodies and limbs
intertwine to become one.

V. We agree to meet for lunch

We agree to meet for lunch
in a restaurant just off church street
on a autumn day
on the twentieth of May

and you are smiling,
lifting a glass of red champagne,
when so near that we can feel the wind of it
a tremendous explosion erupts shattering,

shattering the innocent people in Church Street
with deadly sharp pieces of glass and concrete
and I pull you down to the ground
as we take cover behind the small table

where we were eating,
the air is suddenly full
with the sound of people
screaming in pain and terror

and as we rush out,
going into Church Street
and there’s blood and guts everywhere
with terrified, screaming, mutilated
and wounded people

where ever we look
and you cry in relieve of escape,
in sheer terror and shock
and the world has gone amok.

poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

When Days Get Long

I

When summer days get extremely long
the sky becomes a much deeper hue,
a myriad of birds fill the cobalt blue,
constantly singing their gorgeous song

it is as if everything do belong
to the coming spring, are singing true
like some beautiful birds and insects do,
while colourful swarming in their great throng

over the gentle meadow and the valley
filling the tranquil grey evening sky
softly singing a sweet kind of medley
while in jubilance they still do fly
over fields of hay and fields of barley,
sunny day after sunny day pass by.

II

Sunny day after sunny day pass by
with almost a kind of smothering heat
the fields, the open veldt and dirt road lie
far to hot to tread with just bare feet.

Everything shimmers, the poplars that rears
like huge fingers pointing to the sun,
massive broad oak trees of many years
and grass and flowers where life has just begun

glitters in a new emerald green sheen,
the wind rustles things touching one by one
as if finding things where there had not been,
between huge black boulders rocks and stone

the sun blazes on every day the same,
I see the sun making wings of hot flame.

III

I see the sun making wings of hot flame
on the few white clouds in dazzling colours
and in the west there are some small wild game
drinking water while the evening hours

brings the white and blue stars out dazzling clear
with night predators in the pitch black sky
and some more wild game are drawing near,
I hear the hyenas laughing, wild dogs cry,

the growls of lions, the howling of jackals,
I get the smells of the earth and the bush,
I hear some leopards growling, their calls
that are where they are lying in ambush,

at night the predators are hunting prey,
making a living in the dying day.

IV

Making a living in the dying day
swarms of birds fly calling with flapping wings
poplars, cedars and many trees do sway
while the twilight is grey, full of life, brings

as if by some magic, all at play
flying leaves, bats insects and flying things
with a few that lonesome away stray,
most are flying to nests in trees that swings

and eventually places of rest receives
the many small things that are fluttering,
the wind settles among the moving leaves,
the numerous evening birds start to sing

until the full moon shines its silver rays,
when night fades slowly as on other days.

V

When night fades slowly as on other days,
man is still bound by nature and destiny
to the world in which he works and plays
as it probably will be to eternity.

The yellow sun, the cobalt blue heaven
is like it has been from its very birth
with its joyous bright splendour even
like any other day upon this earth

but a time will come when man will be free
from all death and all kinds of destruction
from heartache, the sorrows that he see
with a new amazing introduction

to a place that’s holy, pure and bright;
now suddenly it is silver twilight.

VI

Now suddenly it is silver twilight
and the sheer darkness of night flees away
before the coming new breaking day
with the blazing sheer redness of sunlight

constantly reflecting against the bright
unclouded sky open in its solid grey
with the red blossoming as if its to stay
and in the veldt guinea fowl flees in fright

while a small jackal laughs out its delight
and the few milling dark clouds do stray
before a strong wind as if in spite
and through bushes and grass rocking it plays
churning up eddies before going out of sight
while the hot sun rises with its golden rays.

VII

While the hot sun rises with its golden rays,
you come from a country where rivers meander
where the rain sieves down for many days
where some beautiful wild birds do wander

in lush overgrown tranquil water-meadows,
far away from the busy big city,
filled with thick green living hedgerows
where many bright wild flowers are pretty

but I still do wonder what you will see
in a land where vicious savage beasts
have no civility and do roam free
where the natives have very weird feasts,

where the flaming sun does spare no one,
when summer days get extremely long.

poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Miracles

Twilight is spacious, near things in it seem far,
And distant things seem near.
Now in the green west hangs a yellow star.
And now across old waters you may hear
The profound gloom of bells among still trees,
Like a rolling of huge boulders beneath seas.

Silent as though in evening contemplation
Weaves the bat under the gathering stars.
Silent as dew, we seek new incarnation,
Meditate new avatars.
In a clear dusk like this
Mary climbed up the hill to seek her son,
To lower him down from the cross, and kiss
The mauve wounds, every one.

Men with wings
In the dusk walked softly after her.
She did not see them, but may have felt
The winnowed air around her stir;
She did not see them, but may have known
Why her son's body was light as a little stone.
She may have guessed that other hands were there
Moving the watchful air.

Now, unless persuaded by searching music
Which suddenly opens the portals of the mind,
We guess no angels,
And are contented to be blind.
Let us blow silver horns in the twilight,
And lift our hearts to the yellow star in the green,
To find perhaps, if, while the dew is rising,
Clear things may not be seen.

poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Going Home

When I was a student
I came through the rain,
with storms whipping the Cape
right through the Karoo
into Gauteng
flooding rivers
and blocking mountain passes
with land slides.

Avoiding fallen rocks and creeping
at sixty kilometres an hour
on the N1 till Worchester
on a road
that had only one lane open,
I passed the police
who were closing the freeway.

For fifteen hundred kilometres
the road was soaking wet
and my BMW’s four headlights glared
at any other vehicle that I met

and the ABS-brakes,
the six-cylinder engine
and power steering
did their fare share
to keep me on the road.

Every now and then
I had to stop to get fuel,
checked the oil,
checked the air pressure,
visited the washing room
and Coca Cola kept me awake
right through a soaking night
while I was on my way home
to sunny Pretoria.

I came to the house
in a early dawn,
was greeted by the dog
crying from joy
and wagging its tail,

got a huge plate
of sausage, putu porridge
with tomato gravy
and fried eggs
and coffee from my mother,
went to bed
and slept as if I were dead
right into the next day.

poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Road Ahead Was Meandering

The road ahead was meandering,
while I drove at a steady speed
taking the path as it did swing
with the wind rushing at my chest and feet,

the sun shining hot on my body
and the action of driving,
had a pleasure to it, while I felt free
a part of the motorcycle

which roared with power beneath me
and I was one with the black stretching road
while far in the distance I could see
a truck creeping along with its load

and I enjoyed speed and sheer tranquillity,
felt one with the passing nature
and the elements of the wind and sun had a kind of affinity
while the feeling was in perfection awesome and pure.

poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The never-ending road

I saw the landscape passing by,
while the car swept
on with a never-ending road.

Buildings rose up into the air
and everywhere people were
packed square by square
in offices, flats and apartments.

White yellow mine dumps
and huge cranes glided by
and I felt small as a fly,
against the immensity of it all

Acres of corn surrounded me
and all the way to the horizon,
I saw no tree.

The green was all around me
and a mechanical spray point,
where showering water in an arc.

The land flattened
while I drove South
and grey thorn bushes flashed by.

Here and there
some rocky outcrops
stood red brown against the flat plain,
but everything begged for a dropp of rain.

In the far distance up in the sky
a lightning bolt twisted to the ground
and when the rain came gushing down,
life sprouted from the sand.

The road stretched on
and in the distance
the black of the tar
met with the sky
and except for the windmills I passed by,
that road could have been
anywhere on this good great earth.

poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The white girl

I fill my blue motorbike
at the garage
and the smell of fuel
is strong in the air.

The early morning sun
hangs bright in the sky
and already it’s a hot day.

I go to the shop
to buy a can of Coke
and get caught
in the middle of a fight
of a white girl
with the black cashier
and she tries to draw me
into her argument.

She’s beautiful and spoiled
and shouts and slams her fists down
on the counter
and in a temper tantrum
grabs the card reading machine
and throws it on the ground
and there’s hatred in her eyes
and her words lack respect
and any dignity.

I see how the machine
breaks into bits
and paper rolling
down an aisle
and time freezes
into parts of reality
and I have no cash on me.

Suddenly I am dismayed
at being of the same race
and culture and nationality
as that spoiled grown up child.

poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Dome of Pearl

One summer day we went
with me to Paarl mountain
which glistens white
in the rainy winter season
like a huge pearl

Your hair tied in a French plate
swished to and thro
were you walked
on the narrow track
up the slope in front of me.

I could see every muscle
moving of your delicate bottom
and embraced you from behind
while we stopped to catch some breathe.

Your sweat and perfume
was very alluring
and we were thirsty
and drank some Coke
before continuing the walk up

on that cream coloured
domed granite hill
looking somewhat like
ice cream without a cone
in huge dimensions.

We went right up to the white
height indicating beacon
with a deep abyss under us
and the wind rustling
through your fringe and my hair,
the sun burning down ferociously

and breathtaking the whole Franschoek Valley
stretched patched green, yellow and brown
with grape orchards up to Simonsberg
which lay somewhat flat in the distance
with clouds shrouding its peak
and your felt somewhat dizzy.

[Reference: Paarl meaning pearl.]

poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Night was coming

Night was coming
with a piercing huge orange sun
breaking through
white and black clouds
in the west.

It found a gap
and the sun was hanging
like a orange ball
above the street
and it was blinding.

Cars passed barely visible
above the orange glare
and some had already
turned their lights on.

The sun dipped down
below some trees
and for a time
it glowed behind them
and soon it would be dark
and the first stars
were already appearing
and a full yellow moon
was rising,

but below bright lights
was already burning
right across the city
in colours of amber
streetlights
green, yellow and red
traffic lights,
blue lights flashing
on police cars
and almost every bright colour
caught on neon signs
while people came and went
to different destinations

some smiling and relaxed,
others in a hurry
and some others
locked in a world of their own.

poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The mountain pass

There are bullets that draw sparking lines
on the rocks next to him
and in the mountain pass,
Jan Pieterse and ten men
stand to keep
the English back.

The smoke of shots being fired
hangs like fog around him
and gunlock after gunlock,
are cocked time after time
and Jan Pieterse and his men
shoot carefully while the morning’s dusk appears.

At the bottom a Boer commando
goes through the river’s ford
and there are horse hoofs resounding
and a liddite bomb,
explodes like a flaming star
in the grey air
before the sun rises.

The dust clears
and the commando rides away
and it’s just Jan Pieterse and one comrade,
that is still alive
and they give their horses full reigns.

It’s only Jan Pieterse that gets away
and he turns his horse around,
chase back into the bullets
and liddite bombs
to get his mate.

With his wounded comrade
hanging over the front of his saddle
Jan Pieterse and each Englishmen
experience the first red rays of the sun
and his horse walks slowly on,
as if no bullet can touch him there
and nothing can kill a Boer hero.

The English stop shooting
and cheer about the bravery
of a enemy Boer,
that disappears with rifle in his hand
over the horizon.

[References: The historic heroic story of Jan Pieterse during the second Anglo-Boer war. The poem “Rit-rympie” by Toon van den Heever.]

poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!