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!
Related quotes
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!
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!
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!
This morning I lock the cold wind out
This morning I lock the cold wind out
with a nice hot leather jacket
that I zip close up to my chin
and on the motorbike
my hands are almost frozen,
but my thoughts are with you.
While I pass a string of cars
I wonder if you are stuck in traffic
or already at work?
It’s as if your eyes are burning into my soul
and constantly you accompany me
in my thoughts
to all the places that I go.
As if I will somewhere leave the road
and you will also get off the bike
and in a coffee shop
will take my hands in yours.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Motorbike ride
This morning it was dripping when I got up
and I wanted to say goodbye,
but I thought that you are probably still lying
and that it’s cuddly and hot
and that I am going to pull you out of sleep,
then I withhold myself from it.
It’s another thing to play Russian roulette
with the rain.
I decided to take the chance
and the road to work with the motorbike.
At places the road was still wet
and there where sand flushed over the road,
but I won the rain this morning
and opened the throttle
and the cool wind
blew strong over my body
and before it fell I stopped at work.
This afternoon I will have to play again
die the game with the rain
and I pray that it will fall later if it has to fall,
or I will be wet and cold
and it will be a hell of a thing
to get home.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The new day started wonderful
This morning it felt
as if I was going to ride
into the red ball of the sun
while the wind
knifed strong past me
and the blue Honda motorbike
quickly eated up Soutpansberg Avenue.
There’s something magical and enchanting
to a rising sun
that is just hanging halfway
above the black tar road
and the colour of that red ball
still stays with me.
I drove with power
up the hillock of Gordon Street
and the rays of the sun
was at my side
and the caboodle of cars
couldn’t bother me
and the new day
Started wonderful.
We do not always realise,
how much we have to be thankful.
We are just too much set
in the here and now,
while the greatness
of God’s love
are all around us.
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!
This Morning The Rain is Sieving Down
This morning the rain is sieving down
while I drive my motorbike
to town to get a few things
in the shops
and I have to visit the Internet café.
The drops of rain is somewhat blinding
and my leather jacket is nice and hot
and the helmet guards my head,
but my jean is really soaked
and when I stop
it’s a great thunderstorm
with rain pouring down.
People walk with umbrellas
while some
with shopping bags above their heads
run to the nearest shelter
and here and there
a car is waiting for another to pull out
in the full parking aria
and I wish that the rain
will disappear for a while.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
On the highway
I who have traded
open spaces, fields
and the azure sky
for crowded pavements
and neon lights
find my place
to meet the Lord
on the dangerous road.
I have found the sapphire sky,
the breath of wind,
the white-hot sun
on lanes packed with cars,
busses and trucks
of every shape and size.
Every thing flashes by
as my motorbike catches speed
and accelerates
and men in cars sit irritated
stuck in rows of traffic
and I bob and weave by
while life throbs everywhere
and death grasp at my heels,
l’Envoi
I feel raw power
throbbing below me
and experience the majesty
of wind, sun, sky
and the countryside
that rush by
and life is great
and in silence
I pray to the Creator
and when it rains
it humbles me
and I slow down
and am cold and wet
and know that I am
just mere man.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The joy of the road
It’s a big joy
to take the road
and drive past cornfields
and to get the sweet sour smell
that water leaves there
for the first time
in your nose.
It’s a big joy
to drive on a road
that allures black in front of you
and goes up and down through the landscape.
There’s something indescribable
if you become part
of the sun and the wind
and with a motorbike
to find your place
in the world around you.
There’s something magical
to hear the insects
in the bushes
outside of Pieter Maritzburg
and to smell the summer sun
on the plantation trees.
Still greater is
to catch the smell of the see
on the wind
to see the blue waters
lying in the distance,
while free like a bird
you drive nearer to it.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The highway man
The wind was howling
and shaking the big oak trees,
and the moon hanged like a sickle
gliding like a ship over the dark sky
and the motorbiker came riding
and the light of his motorbike cut
through the rain and kept him
locked to the stretch of road
that twisted up a hill.
He’d a round black helmet on his head,
a black leather jacket and black boots
and he rode through the weather
to where a light sparkled in the dark
and the girl of his heart was waiting.
poem by Gert Strydom
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 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!
Cul de sac
At the parking
of the Ok-bazaar / Shoprite in Springs
a one-way street runs out
straight into a traffic light
that cuts a T
into two directions.
This morning the traffic light
is blocked
by a crowd of rioters
that comes from the right side,
from where I want to go.
The police block the road
to the left with a car
and some policemen walk along
with the uprising.
There’s a foreman, instigator
or head man
walking in front
and he hops up and down
and shouts something to me
and he comes straight in my direction
and it looks as if the devil is in him
with a crowd
of revolting barbarians following him.
Nobody is going to drill me
with bags of rubbish
and tree branches
or throw pieces of glass
in front of my tyres
and the light is red
and the rioters are half mad
and my motorbike has a lot of power
and its boss cannot wait.
The policeman says stop
but can hardly
look out for himself
and what about me?
I drive past
going straight for the leader
and give a lot of gas,
my motorbike
can cut fine corners,
although it’s past the back
of a police car.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Afternoon rain
Every day this summer
in the late afternoon
the rain just keep pouring down
as if the milling clouds
and the storm has its clock set.
Thunder flashes here and there
white-blue electric bolts
from a sudden grey sky
and big and small drops fall
rushing down to the earth.
Heat rises in steaming white patches
on the hot black tar road
while the first drops make it wet
and water suddenly streams everywhere
in miniature rivers.
People run to reach their cars
and are stuck in huge traffic jams
where cars crawl meters at a time,
while others go to bars
and enjoy a drink or two
and smoke their cigars.
Two teenage girls
that are soaking wet
with T-shirts clinging translucent
dance on the sidewalk
in the falling rain
and their giggles
catches my ear
and suddenly it’s fun to live.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
On A Storny Day While You Are Driving Alone
you drive towards home
alone
under a strong rain
and wind
the storm has come again
inside the car
you hear nothing
you only see
the mess outside
you
you do not turn on
the radio
there is nothing there
only the buzzing
the FM stations lost
in the midst of this
chaos
you hear the silence inside you
talking
it is tired of the day's
heavy workload
you hear the sound
of the windswiper
you see the water
ahead of you along the
way
as the car cleans itself
so you may see the road
ahead
meeting you
the white bridge,
the thick lines of rain
like walls
like some liquid ropes
bursting on the glass
there are no cars
meeting you
no lights
except the darkness
and
the leaves blown away
from you
you think and you know the
difference:
you are losing your sense
of home
the sense of direction
insists
still towards this road
you do not like it
anymore,
you still think in the middle
of this storn
you want to stop and
watch the river
overflow
you wish the bridge is broken
you want it taken away
dismantled
you imagine there is
no more connection
whatever
you see nothing at the end,
what you see is simply
the storm
you stop again on the side of the road
where the tree shall fall and
you are under it,
you do not think of the car,
or of yourself anymore
what is there anyway?
there is no one waiting,
there is nothing worth meeting
and surely
life is not worth living
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Last Open Road
How fast can I run?
How far can I go?
These are the questions,
The young want to know
I met her in Brooklyn,
She was coming from a place
I said "where are you going to"?
She said "where have you been"?
'Cos I'm trapped in here,
Set me free
I know your world let me see
Take me down that last open road
Take me down that last open road
Take me down that last open road
I know there is so much past
this place
I see it smile on your jagged,
ragged face
Something tells me,
something strong
There's a world I've heard of,
So before it's gone
Take me down that last open road
Take me down that last open road
song performed by by Chris Rea
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Biker with the big heart
His heart is big,
so big as if
he can fit the whole world into it,
but there’s only place for two
on his motorbike
and while the refs
of the years climb
his life slides past
with a speed leading to a end
and the loneliness grips him
as his mate has been gone for a long time,
missed life
and wasn’t on time
for their last motorcycle ride
and now it’s only him
who are alone
in the saddle of life
and at times he still wants to open the throttle,
feel the wind flow though his hair
washing like a river in flood,
experience the heat of the sun
and feel the adrenaline
flowing like something living through him,
but the road is far too long
and the end stays distant
as he doesn’t reach the intersection
of life and death
and his love and melancholy remains
and the biker always drives on
searching for answers
that doesn’t exist.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!