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
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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
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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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Morning thoughts
Morning thoughts
~
A sun rises over roof tops
Greeting the cold morning air
A wind blows heavy, swaying trees
The branches stripped bare by winter
The world is slowly waking
And the picture beyond my window
Emerges to life once more
I lay motionless in silence
Nursing warm coffee in my hands
Early thoughts begin to stir
My pen yet to be put to paper
I think back to dreams
The night passed what they brought
I think to the day ahead
What will it bring
Thoughts of love and romance
What could I write of them
I watch a world waking
A sun rising over rooftops
And I listen to my thoughts
poem by Matthew Holloway
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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
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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
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At Toni’s
Just before I want to drive
through the portcullis at work,
you phone me
and I have to stop
to hear
what’s on you mind.
The roar of the motorbike
makes that I must listen well
to hear what you say
and you want to go to Toni’s
and I wonder if you know
where the new precise are?
I have just cut through the traffic
and parked my bike beyond the house
when you stop at the front gate
and the barking of the dog’s tell me
to catch some speed.
The afternoon sky is clear and bright blue
and its still hot afternoon
and I give you a nice kiss
through the car door
that you open for me.
You are very early
and had left early at work
and the watering
of the vegetable garden,
have to wait till later
and there’s magic
in your smile
At Toni’s which now
is just beyond chamberlain’s
small lamps are already burning
and although we arrive without a booking,
a table is quickly
given to us.
The evening is romantic and peaceful
that’s much better than just nice
while the sun slowly sets
and your eyes
glitter and shine with the lamps.
I wish I could drag hours out
like this with you
and throw a bit of
balsamic vinegar in my plate
while the calamata olives
and pizza
taste heavenly
and you
and the sweet desert
with a cup of strong coffee
make the evening special for me.
poem by Gert Strydom
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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
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Early in the morning
Early in the morning
I see her getting warm
in her small blanket,
while we drive to work.
Sometimes I wonder
about what she is thinking
and the cat eyes in the road shines
and I concentrate past the sharp oncoming lights.
Still it’s nice to be together
in early dusky morning
and at times her hand rests
loving on my leg.
The wild bean café’s coffee
is very nice and hot
and she buys a pie which I eat later.
Today goes slowly
and I wonder at what time,
she is going to leave work
and if she will get me in time?
poem by Gert Strydom
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Old Hands And Old Eyes....
old hands unbutton
the blouse of the day.
old hands make coffee,
open the dusty blinds.
old hands wash a few dishes,
make breakfast for the dogs...
old hands feed the stray cat,
make toast and wait.
old eyes caress the sunlight
as if an old friend.
old eyes see the work,
yet stop, to touch the morning.
old eyes kiss the trees,
the squirrels, and distant mountains.
old eyes ache with longing,
and amazement.
old hands and old eyes
begin the journey anew.
listening intently for the footfall,
for another candle, a hoe.
for the scent of nearness,
perhaps only remembered.
old hands and old eyes,
take the plow, the hammer,
and the nails....
old hands and old eyes,
waiting for love!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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My Favorite Time
My favorite time of morning
Is that time of morning when
I have a cup of warm coffee in my hands
And the sun barely peeks over the land
When the day is yet unwritten
When I am alone in the quiet
With thoughts of you
To keep me company
At my favorite time
My favorite time of the day
Is that time of day when
I hear your voice or see your words
And I know you are engaged in me
As I am engaged in you
As I am replete with thoughts of you
Warm thoughts of you
Across the miles
At my favorite time
My favorite time of the night
Is that time of night when
I close my eyes and dream of you
And my dreams are vivid, sweet and real
In them we are together
In them there is no yesterday or tomorrow
Only a never ending today
With you always
At my favorite time
So my favorite time really
Is that real time
I am privileged to think of you
And to know that no matter what
You are all I could ever want
You are all I will ever need
In a partner, friend and love
I know this now because with you I am always
In my favorite time
poem by David Terry
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A Cup of Coffee
I start my day with coffee as my friend
The beans so fresh, as it blends
Giving out an aroma, that wakes me up
I stumble to the kitchen and look for the cup
I pour some black liquid and sip right away
I just want coffee, to start my day
Then on the road I'm on my way
Coffee is my friend to make my day
Stuck in traffic, I loose my mind
I then sip my coffee and just rewind
I get to work with a cup in hand
Juggling with papers I can't withstand
The coffee at work tastes bitter and cheap
But it's better than getting caught counting sheep
All day long, I make pot after pot
Of black steaming mugs of liquid gut-rot
Tanked up on coffee, I face the day
Taking anything that comes my way.
poem by Meena Mustafa
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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
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Stuck In Limbo
Me and all my naive thoughts, sometimes I wish they would just all shut up.
It's not like that could ever happen I keep telling myself.
Trying to stay a realist even as I aspire to reach a higher calling.
And thoughts linger of time spent upon these dreams.
Hoping they are not a waste in the melting pot.
I sorry sir, It's not editable.
That I wouldn't even wouldn't even feed to my dog.
Boy, thanks for all the encouragement mr. realist.
Maybe I should rip up a idea not yet even put upon the paper and jump off a bridge in to water fridgid cold.
If I was to continue in such self pity I would drown.
Instead I move on, knowing not the road in which I follow.
But still I walk down it.
I'm not ashamed because I still don't even know who I am.
Yes a man but of what kind.
Am I of the good as I try to be?
Hard working, but of the work is it time wasted.
How many times can you look in to a black abyss and come out the same.
Damaged and no way out.
With every negative thought rings upon more and more doubt.
If I can't believe in myself how can I ever truly trust.
Come on now pull it together and just be tough.
Even in times so grim, at least I'm alive and kicking.
A fish still flopping upon the water.
But the splashes are no where big enough.
Not even a ripple will reach most.
I am but a mere empty shell?
The soul has long left this body.
Leaving everything just so cold.
My hands become the ice.
And anything I touch becomes just as frozen.
Stuck in a constant limbo.
It is as inanimate object.
It will never move on it own.
A life to always be lived alone.
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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This Early Morning
this early morning
we are talking about
something
somehow you are the curious kitten
coming near my bed
wanting a little warmth
from my hands
and i perfectly understand this need
on the cold days
of our lives
a nice morning conversation perhaps
something not hot
just warm to rub some sparks in our thoughts
i begin to talk about some treasures
i keep inside my heart
how often i open my trunk
and simply glance at them
they are more than diamonds and gold
and certificates of some
deposits
for they glitter not in my eyes
but in my soul
they make me see clearly the meaning of my life
i become young again
i can even fly to distant lands where some of my memories
are buried
all these make me live and live life the way it must be lived
always giving and not taking
something somewhere
oh! you will never know but soon you will understand and see
when you close your eyes in the darkness
and remember too the treasures of your heart
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Flying High
My oh my!
What a gorgeous day to fly
Let's release that puffer kite
High in the crystal clear blue sky
We're running out of string
Send that kid on his bike
To the hobby shop to get more
What do you mean, what for?
Why, to fly that kite
Beyond the clouds, earth and universe
The wind is perfect today
We can do this beyond the moon and stars
oops! string broke over passing cars
Where is it now?
Where the past kite fliers now fly
My, oh my!
How high, this kite did, fly
poem by Matt Mondschein
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Thoughts Just Thoughts0
Who am i?
A lonely vesicle
An open shell
Only to be filled with thoughts
Only thoughts
Thoughts capable of causing
Causing so much damage
Thoughts that falsify good intentions
Thoughts I hope will never cross
Even the darkest of people
But I continue to smile
It’s all we can do
But we are continually
Insisted to cry
We let our eyes fill
With salty waters
And lock those doors
We hide behind
Reassuring ourselves
Those others are on the outside
So we are stuck in this isolation
That is welcoming and intimidating
All at the same time we cry
We show our emotions
To no one but ourselves
poem by Charlie Alexdranda
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Winter night
The wind and winter bites piercing
and I want to lie closer to you
and outside everything is quiet.
The moon hangs silver
and throws a dead light
and I feel how cold,
this winter really is.
Your hands are hot
when I touch them,
but feels icy
when you touch my body.
Somewhere in the distance
cars are passing,
but its peaceful
and nice and hot
in our bed.
Before I close my eyes
and disappear into sleep,
I thank God
that you love me
and for how marvellous
you really are.
poem by Gert Strydom
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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
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That Summer
I went to work for her that summer
A teenage kid so far from home
She was a lonely widow woman
Hell-bent to make it on her own
We were a thousand miles from nowhere
Wheat fields as far as I could see
Both needing something from each other
Not knowing yet what that might be.
til she came to me one evening
Hot cup of coffee and a smile
In a dress that I was certain
She hadnt worn in quite a while
There was a difference in her laughter
There was a softness in her eyes
And on the air there was a hunger
Even a boy could recognize.
She had a need to feel the thunder
To chase the lightning from the sky
To watch a storm with all its wonder
Written in her lovers eyes
She had to ride the heat of passion
Like a comet burning bright
Rushing headlong in the wind
Now where only dreams have been
Burning both ends of the night.
That summer wind was all around me
Nothing between us but the night
When I told her that Id never
She softly whispered thats alright
And then I watched her hands of leather
Turn to velvet in a touch
Theres never been a summer
When I have ever learned so much.
We had a need to feel the thunder
To chase the lightning from the sky
To watch a storm with all its wonder
Written in her lovers eyes
She had to ride the heat of passion
Like a comet burning bright
Rushing headlong in the wind
Now where only dreams have been
Burning both ends of the night.
I often think about that summer
The sweat, the moonlight and the lace
And I have rarely held another
When I havent seen her face
And every time I pass a wheat field
And watch it dancing with the wind
Although I know it isnt real
I swear inside I feel
Her hungry arms again.
She had a need to feel the thunder
To chase the lightning from the sky
To watch a storm with all its wonder
Written in her lovers eyes
She had to ride the heat of passion
Like a comet burning bright
Rushing headlong in the wind
Now where only dreams have been
Burning both ends of the night.
Rushing in long in the wind
Now where only dreams have been
Burnin both ends of the night
song performed by by Garth Brooks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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So you are back reading this poem again
I see you sitting alone in a coffee shop
Two cups of coffee now, just to pass the hours away
Waiting for nobody
You pretend
Busy with your wireless laptop
Typing some words
Looking at the road beyond the glass walls
Cars keep passing by
Not one is stopping
Shall you pretend some more
That any of those cars is the inspiration
Of your write-up for today?
Okay, you are into advocacies for women
For the underprivileged
For the kids
For those who do not know how to smile
But let me suggest
As you read this poem
Back to my arms again
This time
Take more time with me
In this game
Of loneliness this passion for boredom
Have compassion to both
Of us-lonely souls searching meanings
In laptops in coffeehouses on more
Cups of coffee
I am taking the mug, it is bigger
And its holding effect is a little longer
And some cigars this time.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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