There are people
There are people
that claims the street as their own
and stand
at parking places on the sidewalk
and do no work
but to look after cars.
If you park there
and ignore them
and do not
want to use their services
you immediately
become a racist in their eyes
and they will make a scene,
threaten to damage your car,
or make sure that it’s stolen
or so they tell you
since they believe
that you owe them something.
Some spray soapy water
without invitation
on the front window
of your car
when you stop
at a traffic light
and wipe it off
demanding a price.
I wonder why the education
is still lacking
since they have already
got their liberation
and just as odd
these people are ignored
by their compatriots in government
as if they do not exist,
while the country
falls slowly
but surely to pieces.
There are people
that claims the possessions
of others as their own
and at night
prowl around in the streets
shooting, stabbing
and robbing
and estranging people
from their cars.
l’Envoi
Still I wonder where
the problem lies
and would really like
both of my cars back
and I do not know
about white people
that sneak around
in black neighbourhoods at night,
hijack cars,
brake windows
and demand possessions
with loaded guns.
All that they do,
is try to make a living
or hurry away in their leaving.
{Reference: “First liberation, then education.” Political slogan of the ruling party.]
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Cars Are Cars
Words & music by paul simon 1983
Cars are cars all over the world
Cars are cars all over the world
Similarly made. similarly sold
In a motorcade. abandoned when theyre old
Cars are cars all over the world
Cars are cars all over the world
Cars are cars all over the world
Engine in the front. jack in the back
Wheels take the brunt. pinion and a rack
Cars are cars all over the world
Cars are cars all over the world
But people are strangers
They change with the curve
From time zone to time zone
As we can observe
They shut down their borders
And think theyre immune
They stand on their differences
And shoot at the moon
But cars are cars all over the world
Cars are cars all over the world
Drive em on the left. drive em on the right
Susceptible to theft in the middle of the night
Cars are cars all over the world
Cars are cars all over the world
I once had a car
That was more like a home
I lived in it, loved in it
Polished its chrome
If some of my homes
Had been more like my car
I probably wouldnt have
Travelled this far
Cars are cars all over the world
Cars are cars all over the world
Cars are cars all over the world
Cars are cars all over the world
Cars are cars all over the world
song performed by by Paul Simon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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God Is The Only Shepherd To Me (In Answer To L.R.)
Not Nelson Mandela, Thabo Mbeki,
or Jacob Zuma is a shepherd to me
and to them I do not bow my knee
as they are not godly
and their policies and laws rob me,
leave me needy and make me want,
robbing me of my university education,
robbing me of my experience,
depriving me from work,
leaving my people to be killed in cities,
to be murdered on farms
leading me to destruction
and I do not fear the evil
that is unleashed against me,
I do not fear to be without a job,
even a temporary one
I do not resist paying income taxes
to a corrupt government
of which the departments
do not function properly
even if people try to threaten me,
even when my property and two of my cars
have been stolen,
and the South African Police
are too inadequate to find them back
and I am driven into poverty
as the Sheppard in heaven feeds me, supports me
and with His mighty hand shields me.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Pretoria
I look at a city,
a city once modern, new
and progressive, the cultural centre
of a nation
but now poverty
and mismanagement
is taking its toll.
Where ten years back
people could live in its apartments
now is a ghetto,
with prostitutes on the street,
primitive men urinating against buildings
and teenagers walking with ghetto-blasters
playing music at full volume.
Where at traffic lights
windows are smashed with bricks
and valuables are stolen,
parked cars are taken,
where cars are hijacked
with the barrel of a gun
and cars are even stripped
at the police grounds.
A capital city in a country
that has thrown its borders
wide open to the rest of Africa
and every criminal
has headed there
and gangsters live in paradise
but in the suburbs
people still are making a living
in fortresses guarded by dogs
and security devices,
with panic buttons
for the nearest rent a cop
and people still pray
and go to work and play
as if crime is the norm
and the inadequacy
of the new government
doesn’t really matter.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Used Car Sales People
With the gift of the gab they would talk their way out of hell
These used car sales people they know how to sell
On their selling ability their jobs are at stake
The more cars they do sell the more commission they do make
On any deals they clinch they have never lost
And your trust on such people can come at a cost
The more cars they sell the more money they get paid
A hard job to succeed in the used car trade,
Shy and sensitive used car sales people one might say are rare
To sell one a car no effort they do spare
They have to sell cars or their boss them will fire
And other used car yard owners as car sales people them will not hire
The more cars they sell the greater is their pay
So to sell you a car they try every which way.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Signs of the time
As time passes
there are brand new cars
in which armed black people sit
dressed in black suits, with dark windows
beyond which they hide
while they do their duty
as agents of the government
and destroy criminals?
While white nurses, artisans,
fired mine workers
are begging for food at DJ’s restaurant,
some with degrees stay in squatter’s settlements
or in the veldt or in the bush
it is as if the world
is turning on its head in this country
and able persons are jobless on the street,
with incompetents in every government position.
As time passes the devil is totally loose:
the Falcons, who first had been the scorpions
(a South African agency similar to the American F.B.I) brake in
at the wrong house, in the middle of the night
breaking down the front gate,
breaking down the garage door,
breaking down the front door
forcing every room’s door open
breaking and destroying just what they find,
going through all the possessions
of a innocent man
destroying left and right and centre
without taking notice
or even realizing
that they are making a mistake,
they cause
more than a hundred thousand rands damage,
violate a citizen’s privacy,
his right to a free existence
so as if they can just come and go
as they want to
and when the owner
of the house wants to get a summons
they admit that they
by mistake harassed him
had broken all the mentioned things,
had caused huge damage,
say that he must make a list
and claim from them,
make a list
of witch they will pay
every single thing
and surely the man in the street,
the general citizen
have to take the money from his pocket
for taxes
and a person can only wonder
where they next are going to invade,
whose life they next will threaten,
whose things they are going to break?
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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To me you are
To me you are the woman
that walks up and down
at the traffic light
and smiles almost shy,
when I look up
and still give a view
of her breasts
To me you are
the hunger and pain,
that I hear in the voices
of children in back streets
where they loose all courage.
To me you are
the crippled gum sniffing children,
that swing walk
with eyes without hope.
To me you are the vagrant,
that struggles along shuffling
and worries about the next
sleeping place and food
and smile without teeth
when he gets a few coins.
To me you are the beggar
who stands unobserved
at a busy traffic light,
while cars are streaming past
where nobody knows or comprehends
his despair.
To me you are the drug dealers
who hangs out in clubs
and look whom they can still catch,
with their contaminating
deadly poison.
To me you are the street thug,
that brakes car windows with bricks
and steal the valuables of people
and sell it at only a Rand or two.
To me you are the criminal
that steals cars in the streets
and are happy
with the despair,
that he is dealing out unscrupulous.
In reality you are the big city
that gives and takes,
where people live like termites
past each other
and rowed in,
as if others do not exist
To rather stay far away from it all
and to get rest and peace there
at times wants to take predominance,
but I love you
like a husband does his wife.
In you is where
some people still build dreams
and wish and live
and have an own place.
In you I see children
giving bread to birds
and people,
giving money to car guards.
In you are places
where people are making a living
and really help each other
and still I believe,
that in places in you
there are more good than evil.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Bus ride at night
At quarter to five
the driver refuses,
that I get on a bus
in Burnett street
because it is already full.
There are men, woman and children
and we talk various languages
while we wait for the bus
and I see a car guard
dancing in the street
while he does tricks like a clown.
We wait on the next bus
and the afternoon passes
and the bus is very late
and it stays away
and just Putco and North Star busses
stop at other places.
At dusk the bus appears
and it’s got a double deck,
but is also full
and on the top level the roof is so low
that I bump my head
while it draws from the curb.
There’s no place to sit down
before we travel halfway to the city
and there’s a crowd of people around me
and we sit tight against each other
and in the front a child is holding onto a bar
while she licks the window with her tongue
and try to draw spit lines.
The bus braids through cars,
but it takes longer than an hour
to ride two stages
and a woman calls her husband
to pick her up at church square.
In Visagie Street the cars stand in a traffic jam
and it becomes night
while we wait in the traffic
and I embark from the bus
and twist through the pedestrians
and everywhere there are people
that stand in dark corners
and alleyways
and shout at each other in foreign languages.
At Church square I see stars in the sky,
but uncle Paul looks friendly
while the lights
of a few cars passes by
and I see how his men
are protecting him
and there’s nobody else in the street
and I wonder what to do
if the last bus has already left.
I wait at night at a bus stop
and an old black man
comes and stand near me
and we are both glad,
to catch a ride
on the last bus.
The bus is lighted brightly
And it’s comfortable and hot inside
and I see the zoo passing by
just before the bus stops for me
and red lights
disappears in the distance
and the evening wind tugs at my jacket,
but my house is near.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Cars
Cars
Almost everybody has one, but what little thought we give them.
We drive our cars to work and school but even then we don't give our cars much thought.
You go from one exteme to the other, one guy might pay about $20,000 for a car, while another may pay $150,000 for a car.
Cars are an earthly object, yet we all see people that go overboard with their cars.
poem by Sean Bitikofer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Like Canadians
By A Foreigner
I like Canadians.
They are so unlike Americans.
They go home at night.
Their cigarettes don't smell bad.
Their hats fit.
They really believe that they won the war.
They don't believe in Literature.
They think Art has been exaggerated.
But they are wonderful on ice skates.
A few of them are very rich.
But when they are rich they buy more horses
Than motor cars.
Chicago calls Toronto a puritan town.
But both boxing and horse-racing are illegal
In Chicago.
Nobody works on Sunday.
Nobody.
That doesn't make me mad.
There is only one Woodbine.
But were you ever at Blue Bonnets?
If you kill somebody with a motor car in Ontario
You are liable to go to jail.
So it isn't done.
There have been over 500 people killed by motor cars
In Chicago
So far this year.
It is hard to get rich in Canada.
But it is easy to make money.
There are too many tea rooms.
But, then, there are no cabarets.
If you tip a waiter a quarter
He says 'Thank you.'
Instead of calling the bouncer.
They let women stand up in the street cars.
Even if they are good-looking.
They are all in a hurry to get home to supper
And their radio sets.
They are a fine people.
I like them.
poem by Ernest Hemingway
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Making Cars
They've bailed the automakers out...
But there's no one about,
To drive.
They've listened to them rant and shout...
But there's no one about,
To drive.
Or
To keep them alive.
And why...
Why now is gas so cheap?
When people can't afford it.
And why...
Why are they losing sleep?
When they're making cars that people can't keep!
They've bailed the automakers out...
But there's no one about,
To drive.
They've listened to them rant and shout...
But there's no one about,
To drive.
Or
To keep them alive.
And why...
Why now is gas so cheap?
When people can't afford it.
And why...
Why are they losing sleep?
When they're making cars that people can't keep!
Oh no!
They're making cars that people can't keep!
Oh?
They're making cars that people can't keep!
Oh no!
They're making cars for people....
But why...
Why now is gas so cheap?
When people can't afford it.
And why...
Why are they losing sleep?
When they're making cars that people can't keep!
Oh no!
They're making cars that people can't keep!
Oh?
They're making cars that people can't keep!
Oh no!
They're making cars that people can't keep!
Oh?
But they will not shake away their greed needs.
Oh no!
And other fantasies they believe!
'Can you put that back on the assembly line?
I'd like to hear that one more time! '
They've bailed the automakers out...
But there's no one about,
To drive.
They've listened to them rant and shout...
But there's no one about,
To drive.
Or
To keep them alive.
They're making cars,
That people can't keep!
Oh?
They're making cars,
That people can't keep!
Oh no!
They're making cars,
That people can't keep!
Oh?
But they will not shake away their greed needs.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The problem with the auto industry is layered upon the lack of consumer confidence. People are not buying cars. I don't care whether they're or American cars, or international cars.
quote by Jennifer M. Granholm
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You are free
Not by shooting bullets out of guns,
or exploding bombs and missiles
or tanks and armoured cars that conquering
beacon of land, or aircraft that make
the air their own will people ever really be free.
Not by the exclusion of others,
the reserving of work,
expropriation of land,
possessions and money
or merciless violence
will peace ever come.
Not by hate, despair, robbery,
murder, injustice measured out as just,
might, corruption,
force, impoverishment and indoctrination
are the population bound in a nation.
Not by killing in war,
religion that tries to get righteousness
with violence
and bestiality in man
is paradise filled.
l’Envoi
Only by love and respect
where you ask forgiveness
for your own weaknesses
and do not keep holding others accountable
for the mistakes that they make
you are free from self
and before the world.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Saturday Night Streets
Saturday Night Streets
Cars driving back and forth
People of different colors walking down the streets
laughing
talking
drinking
enj oying the night
The streets are talking to me
These streets have stories
different cars, different colors
I Love these streets
I love the night
I love Saturdays
l think I'm in love with these streets
I'm in love with Saturday night streets
Mon, Tues, Wed, Thurs, Fri, Sun belongs to workers and the sun
Saturday belongs to the night, people and these streets
Saturday Night Streets
poem by Rebecca Succes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Cars
Cars
Here in my car
I feel safest of all
I can lock all my doors
Its the only way to live
In cars
Here in my car
I can only receive
I can listen to you
It keeps me stable for ( nights )
- this is the only wrong word you put days
In cars
Here in my car
Where the image breaks down
Will you visit me please?
If I open my door
In cars
Here in my car
I know Ive started to think
About leaving tonight
Although nothing seems right
In cars
song performed by by Gary Numan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Rapture
(harry/stein)
Toe to toe dancing very close
Body breathing almost comatose
Wall to wall people hypnotized
And theyre stepping lightly
Hang each night in rapture
Back to back sacroiliac
Spineless movement and a wild attack
Face to face sightless solitude
And its finger popping
Twenty four hour shopping in rapture
Fab five freddy told me everybodys fly
Dj spinning I said my my
Flash is fast flash is cool
Francois cest pas flashe non due
And you dont stop sure shot
Go out to the parking lot
And you get in your car and drive real far
And you drive all night and then you see a light
And it comes right down and it lands on the ground
And out comes the man from mars
And you try to run but hes got a gun
And he shoots you dead and he eats your head
And then youre in the man from mars
You go out at night eating cars
You eat cadillacs lincolns too
Mercurys and subaru
And you dont stop
You keep on eating cars
Then when theres no more cars you go out at night
And eat up bars where the people meet
Face to face
Dance cheek to cheek
One to one
Man to man
Dance toe to toe
Dont move too slow cause the man from mars is through with cars
Hes eating bars
Yeah wall to wall
Door to door
Hall to hall
Hes gonna eat em all
Rapture
Be pure
Take a tour through the sewer
Dont strain your brain
Paint a train
Youll be singing in the rain
Said dont stop to the punk rock
Well now you see what you wanna be
Just have your party on tv
cause the man from mars wont eat up bars where the tvs on
And now hes gone back up to space where he wont have a hassle with the human race
And you hip hop
And you dont stop
Just blast off sure shot
Because the man from mars stopped eating cars
And eating bars
And now he only eats guitars
Get up!
song performed by by Erasure
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Have I got to close the books?
No bad weather,
murderous natives
or even the British Empire
could stop our ancestors
to make a place
their own
at the southern end
of Africa.
Till on a day
some strange people rule
that has no concept
of that which is high and holy,
and tread every thing
with time into ruins
and believe that things are better
while criminals are stealing cars,
robbing banks, murdering people
and steal just where they can
and deceivers sit in parliament
and work are reserved
for only some.
Have I now also
got to close the books,
and leave the country forever
and climb on a jet plane
and make another place
with foreigners
my own
to have a life again?
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In Pretoria West
Years ago my car
was in for repairs
and I had to work overtime
and the work’s small bus,
took me home one night.
We first had to take other people home
and in Pretoria West
I saw a place,
where very poor white people
lived together like in a commune
in houses
with asbestos thin walls.
.
I could hear a drunk
and his wife argue
and somewhere a baby
cried disconsolately
and thin dogs,
sneaked around the building
afraid of being kicked.
There where teenage girls
chatting with boyfriends
at the windows of cars
and a mother screamed angrily
at one of them,
to immediately come home.
Still there were other people
who were driven there
by life and fate
and I saw people,
sharing the little that they had
with each other.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Rapture
Toe to toe, dancing very close.
Body breathing almost comatose.
Wall to wall, people hypnotized.
And they're stepping lightly.
Hang each night, in rapture.
In rapture.
Back to back, sacroiliac.
Spineless movement and a wild attack.
Face to face, sightless solitude.
And it's finger popping.
Twenty four hour shopping in rapture.
Fab five freddy told me everybody's fly.
D.j. spinning, i said, "my, my."
Flash is fast, flash is cool.
Francois, c'est pas flashe non due.
And you don't stop, sure shot.
Go out to the parking lot.
And you get in your car and drive real far.
And you drive all night and then you see a light.
And it comes right down and it lands on the ground.
And out comes the man from mars.
And you try to run but he's got a gun.
And he shoots you dead and he eats your head.
And then you're in the man from mars.
You go out at night eating cars.
You eat cadillacs, lincolns too.
Mercurys and subaru.
And you don't stop.
You keep on eating cars.
Then when there's no more cars you go out at night
And eat up bars where the people meet.
Face to face.
Dance cheek to cheek.
One to one.
Man to man.
Dance toe to toe.
Don't move too slow 'cause the man from mars is through with cars.
He's eating bars.
Yeah, wall to wall.
Door to door.
Hall to hall.
He's gonna eat 'em all.
Rapture.
Be pure.
Man to man, body muscular.
Sismic decibel by the jugular.
Wall to wall tea time technology and a digital ladder.
No sign of bad luck in rapture.
In rapture.
In rapture.
song performed by by Blondie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fake People
Most people who have fame, make it big just so people will notice their names.They think if their lives are right, that they shouldn't care with people not living the good life.
Some help out the community because they want change.Others do it just to get a bit more fame.Rappers talk about having money and cars, but not caring for the people behind bars.
I believe that not everyone is the same.I want to to know, if all these people who are fake would act this way if they suffered a different fate.
poem by Nehemiah Brent Jr.
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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
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