En.Citatepedia^®.ro

There’s a place

There’s a place
where lost flowers grow,
in spite of no care.

An old dilapidated house
is half torn down
and litter lies everywhere,
like on an old rubbish dump.

Purple irises and blue-violet lilies
burst through the weeds
and I wonder what tale,
the old house could tell.

poem by Gert Strydom
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The Houses

1898 -- A Song of the Dominions

'Twixt my house and thy house the pathway is broad,
In thy house or my house is half the world's hoard;
By my house and thy house hangs all the world's fate,
On thy house and my house lies half the world's hate.

For my house and thy house no help shall we find
Save thy house and my house -- kin cleaving to kind;
If my house be taken, thine tumbleth anon.
If thy house be forfeit, mine followeth soon.

'Twixt my house and thy house what talk can there be
Of headship or lordship, or service or fee?
Since my house to thy house no greater can send
Than thy house to my house -- friend comforting friend;
And thy house to my house no meaner can bring
Than my house to thy house -- King counselling King.

poem by Rudyard Kipling
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In the garden irises are flowering (Novelinee)

In the garden irises are flowering
in colours of yellow, purple and blue
as if something to them are happening
some are mixed in yellow and purple too
and some are mauve, or some are somewhat brown,
I wonder if other flowers I will see
where magnificent they grow on their own,
while the weavers are singing constantly
in a kind of solemn serenity.

poem by Gert Strydom
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All our morning glory days are done

All our morning glory days are done
just like the flowers
that you made me rip out
from where they grew
towering under the sun.

The garden is empty
and stripped of the violet flowers
that grew everywhere
and I am no longer there

and wonder if the geraniums,
irises, marigolds, white lilies,
red roses and lavender
are still being watered

or is every thing in your life
just fading away
into death
with the falling leaves
of this autumn?

poem by Gert Strydom
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Purple Forest

I walk into a purple forest
The place is magical and free
The grass is violet, the sky is white
Purple defines every tree

I walk into a purple forest
There are purple buzzing bees
And a swamp of violet waters
creep up to my knees

I walk into a purple forest
A streak of purple runs across the sky
I hear a gentle whisper say
It was a fairy passing by

I walk into a purple forest
On violet sod I lie my head
But later, of course
I awake in my bed

poem by Summer Song
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Hecate's Due

You who are dead,
Do you know
They've dug up half the irises
That used to grow
Here in the quadrangle a year ago?
Those left are mere
Points of blue
That can't make sky of earth, as once
They used to do,
Didn't they? Buried flowers . . . Proserpin's due.

poem by Lesbia Harford
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Hecate's Due

You who are dead,
Do you know
They've dug up half the irises
That used to grow
Here in the quadrangle a year ago?
Those left are mere
Points of blue
That can't make sky of earth, as once
They used to do,
Didn't they? Buried flowers . . . Proserpin's due.

poem by Lesbia Harford
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Living in a House of Blue

Living in a house of blue
Waiting for a girl I knew
Living in a house of pain
Waiting for her purple shoes
To cross the threshold to my door
Like she did a thousand times or more
Looking for a perfect rhyme
To entice her back to the scene of the crime

Living in a house of blue
Waiting for I girl I know
She likes to go to the picture show
And watch the wicked witch cast her spell
She cries for the princess all night long
And falls asleep in my arms
When she sound asleep
I take off her purple shoes
And lock up our house of blue

poem by Brian Kilpatrick
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Late autumn

The yellow veldt, the skeleton chestnut trees
specs of orange-red aloes in the kopje
are near to the old white house
and in the late afternoon shades draw long lines

while I walk up to the house on the red-brown dirt road
and most of the flowers in the garden are stripped bare
but a few irises are flowering yellow,
purple and cream brown

and the sky is dull blue and the early evening cold
is already on the wind that is rustling everything
and after years I open the garden gate
are coming back to my childhood home

stripped from illusions,
and I am bare from the childhood innocence
but full of hope
and looking through a mature man’s eyes.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Shattered windows, Colors of white

Across the street is a new house with a room painted red, with no holes of white.
Next to me, a house purple, with its color pealing off, with holes of black and white
At the end of the street, an old house once yellow, what now remains white.
The sound of a hammer building a house, entering a place with a color unknown.

On the street,
Windows covered with ice
Some shine with light.
Some broken
Some fixed
Some lost, out of sight.

A house, two blocks from here.
Shines with lights of yellow, red, and green everywhere.
A wall keeping the wind from blowing anywhere.
The house next door, at the dawn of the day.
Paints its room black, and peals the color away.

The wall crumbles.
The wind blows across the colors of yellow, red and green
Breaks all the windows.
Turns the yellow to blue, red to black, and green to white.

The house two blocks away.
Adds a line of yellow red and green everyday.
To allow the house of blue, black and white to shine for us some day.

poem by Linda ErikssonBique
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You are sitting on the veranda

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

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

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

poem by Gert Strydom
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Sonnet: All Things on Earth Have a Natural Place

Each thing on earth must be, where it should be;
Ectopic makes it weird and dangerous;
A lion ought to be in forest free!
It cannot do whatev’r a house-cat does!

A cage is not the place for bird or beast;
A cell is not the home for any man;
One’s freedom should not be curbed in the least;
An animal that’s caged has less life-span!

A garden-rose must grow in gardens good;
It should not stand amidst the grasses wild;
The forest is the place for cedar-wood;
A garbage-dump is cruel for a child!

The place aright for family is house;
The place ideal is home for any spouse!

poem by John Celes
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The Color Purple

a friend of mine is obsessed with purple
she says it's a royal color
fits for kings and queens
and she feels like a princess
on her purple hair
her purple dress
and purple bra and
purple shoes
the walls of her house are painted
the railings of the stairs
the windows
the doors are all purple now
the flowers in her garden
and the leaves of her trees
the grass
all purple too
her speech is purple too
the movies she watch are all in the shade of purple
her car turned purple too
royal color that is what she says

i tell her bluntly, ' You are boring, purple! '

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Rinkhals in Muckleneuk Ridge

We were living in the mansion
in Muckleneuk Ridge
when Heinrich wheeled the
rubbish bin out to the street
to leave it for the collectors,
and the red haired neighbour woman
started to shout at him.

I was just getting out of my Volkswagen Polo
and within a minute I was there
like a avenging angel,
telling her to leave the boy alone
and that the pavement
doesn’t belong to her
and that we have got the right
to put out the rubbish bin
for the rubbish collectors.

She got red with anger in her face,
hissed like a snake trying to spit
and cursed me in English
and I told her to get lost.

That woman was aquatically
quite funny and always dressed
in a track suit,
(as if she had no other
type of clothes)
living in a dilapidated house
like a hermit
with rusting sink plate roof
and weeds standing knee high
in her garden
in that rich man’s neighbourhood.

It was when the dogs
tried to catch a half grown coucal
which the wind had blown
out of its nest
and I jumped down the steps
of some terraces
to rescue the poor thing

and I and that wild bird
got to love each other
and it would start to scream
with excitement as soon
as it heard my car
coming near

that Heinrich trapped a venomous
ring-neck spitting cobra
in our garden
and I wanted to kill it
and you said
that even snakes
have a right to live.

I told you that the snake
was apt to kill somebody
as I was leaving for work
and you took the kids
to let it free in the field,
(or so I was told) ,

but a few days later
that utterly rude woman
was really surprised
and screamed for her life
when a snake hissed at her
spitting in her eyes.

[Rinkhals = ring-neck spitting cobra.]

poem by Gert Strydom
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The house in Panorama Street

I once had a stretch of red rocky ground
on the street side
of a rented house
in Panorama street in Rooihuiskraal.

The cars criss-crossed past
and the bank took it back
and rented it out
and nobody else
wanted to make that house
his own.

I decided to let flowers,
sprout out
of that rocky earth.

There were small carnations
that grew creeping over each other
with the most wonderful smell
and opened
in colours of white, red and purple blue.

There were geraniums
that easily grew out of cuttings
and become big strong bushes
that was covered with flowers.

Vygies crept all over the place
and just where you look
the rocky soil stood in flower
and I wanted to stop the bank
when I got two months notice
and other people
bought that house
with my beautiful garden.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Violet

drowned in a pool of violet
the windows pour forth invisible echos
the leaking panes - my decrepit house-
leaking against a flooding ocean.
the fluids mix one in another
the colour is no more diluted.
still violet.
it remains outside
holding the house together -
tape on a house of cards
it does little good to pursue
orange, persimmon or other hues;
for blind are the lanterns
that guide those with-out
soon the lanterns'll drown too,
in a pool of violet hue.

poem by Crystal Korzinsky Chambers
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The spirit of our planet and family

spirituality and nature

Human nature is the key to a good heart,
I think the mother is a symbol of compassion,
And has taught us the value of compassion,
Everyone has a seed of a good heart,

Nature and our planet,
Is nothing special,
Nothing sacred,
Nothing holy,
We have a love for our house, our family,
We have no other planet,
We have no other house or family,
Except the one we live in,
Or family we have,

Disturbances and problems exist, on our planet,
Solve these problems and disturbances,
For we can not live on other planets,
The moon looks beautiful from a distance,
But we can not settle there, it would be horrible,
It is only my thoughts,

Now take our blue planet,
It is much better, and a happier place,
So take care of our planet,
Take care of our own place,
Take care of our house,
Take care of our families,

It is only my pondering,
On human nature,
Our blue planet,
Our house we live in,
Or the family we have,

poem by Batibchar Mocculta
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The garden in the hillocks (Tartoum)

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

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

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

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

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

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

poem by Gert Strydom
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Come to my garden

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

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

poem by Gert Strydom
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Everything is going to be wet

Every day rain falls down
from the overcast grey sky
and lightning bolts
flash blue white
like the fingers
of the gods
caressing the earth
while the leaves of autumn
cover every tree
in auburn, yellow and brown.

Green leaves on the stems
of big pink hollyhocks
here and there
dip up and down
when hit by drops of rain
as if suddenly coming alive

and it’s going to be
a wet winter
and probably
not all that chilly
with rain falling
out of season.

The grass is green
and everything but trees
are growing
as if it’s still spring.

and flowers bloom
on geraniums, roses, hollyhocks,
lilies, irises and petunias
in colours ranging
from white, orange, yellow,
violet to red and blue
and without covering
everything is going
to be wet.

poem by Gert Strydom
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The Monument Of All Our Wrongs

i build a house
no one likes it.

the house is empty
i put some chairs.

someone comes and
says, this house is

lonely, it needs
a sound

it is boring and needs
a paint

i put a tree beside
its stairs

i grow another
fence

i put a lone bulb
on a post

and leave the house
for good

that is what the
house is made

there is always
missing

something is
always wrong

this is the house
of regret

it is the monument
of all our wrongs.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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