En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Today the eastern horizon is yellow gold

Today the eastern horizon is yellow gold
and buildings are framed
like pieces of a puzzle
against the sky
in the way that they fit into Pretoria.

a Few doves pass above
and it looks as if the Jacaranda’s
are already getting life
, and I see the first green leaves appear,
but some are still stripped
like skeletons against the air.

There’s a white taxi
that drives reckless
and cuts in in front of us,
to stop a hundred meters further
in the middle of the road
to pick up someone.

The sun becomes a white-hot ball
and to bright to look at
while it climbs higher in the air
and the morning gets direction.

poem by Gert Strydom
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In My Childhood Days I Pick Lilies In The Marsh

In my childhood days I pick lilies in the marsh,
I pick lilies, the most beautiful that I can find
in colours of red, yellow and white
but now a tar road cuts past.
The highway runs almost to eternity,
I wonder where the dilapidation did start
see no coots, plovers calling
broken lies the marshland that I love
and I have to search into the bright blue
to cling to the untouched
while smoke clouds of white, yellow and grey hang
like a blanket that is folding over everything
while wealth increases, nature becomes distorted,
and the plain has offices that is encroaching it.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Sabbaths, W.I.

Those villages stricken with the melancholia of Sunday,
in all of whose ocher streets one dog is sleeping

those volcanoes like ashen roses, or the incurable sore
of poverty, around whose puckered mouth thin boys are
selling yellow sulphur stone

the burnt banana leaves that used to dance
the river whose bed is made of broken bottles
the cocoa grove where a bird whose cry sounds green and
yellow and in the lights under the leaves crested with
orange flame has forgotten its flute

gommiers peeling from sunburn still wrestling to escape the sea

the dead lizard turning blue as stone

those rivers, threads of spittle, that forgot the old music

that dry, brief esplanade under the drier sea almonds
where the dry old men sat

watching a white schooner stuck in the branches
and playing draughts with the moving frigate birds

those hillsides like broken pots

those ferns that stamped their skeletons on the skin

and those roads that begin reciting their names at vespers

mention them and they will stop
those crabs that were willing to let an epoch pass
those herons like spinsters that doubted their reflections
inquiring, inquiring

those nettles that waited
those Sundays, those Sundays

those Sundays when the lights at the road's end were an occasion

those Sundays when my mother lay on her back
those Sundays when the sisters gathered like white moths
round their street lantern

and cities passed us by on the horizon

poem by Derek Walcott
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I am from Pretoria

Notwithstanding the way
that the country and world goes,
I still want to stand for many years
in the streets with purple-blue
Jacaranda trees.

Let my friends go and live
in London, New York,
Amsterdam and Sydney
but in Pretoria I earn my keep
and no other city
calls me away from my fatherland
since only Pretoria
is right for me.

I am from Pretoria,
a place where princes stay
and if you go to Pretoria
you will find many Afrikaner princes there.

In Pretoria noble Afrikaners are everywhere
and they build their lives
in the right way
and like their ancestors,
still cling to the hand
of the Almighty God.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Hymn Of The Sun

Thy dawning is beautiful in the horizon of the sun,
Oh living God,
When thou rises in the eastern horizon
Thou fillest every land with thy beauty
Thou art beautiful, great, glittering, high above every land
And thou carriest them all away captive;
Thou bindest by your love
Though you are far away
The roster are crowing
And the people are getting ready to start the new day
Sunshine beautiful
When the sun is shining we are all happy
It put happiness in our lives
The sun illuminates the sky
It is a big ball of fire
Bigger than a soccer ball
The sun is perfect in the sky
White and pure, white and perfect
Radiant is the sun, to perfect to be hold, giver of light and life
Your light is like a memory, a dream that fills the eyes, be they open, Be they close
In the morning, you are new, in the evening old
Born in the morning, you deliver the sun, to the world also
We glorify you
We praise you
We worship you
Almighty Lord
There is no other like you

poem by Aldo Kraas
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How to make your wishes come true

She liked white and had not said a word yet

On her tenth birthday
she stood on the red steps
of the red opera house
-the red opera house on the north side of Sydney Harbour
almost opposite the white opera house

She scattered orange petals, yellow petals, green leaves and spoke
in a light blue voice
A bird of navy blue pink and gold feathers stood by her. Was this the grateful bird? Purple gold and white danced
She said
white stillness, pure gold, purple wonder, gold strength, pink joy, pink infinity, navy blue now, strong indigo blue, light blue fountain, the green first reason, compassionate orange, endless yellow,
royal red, single red, free orange, free yellow, green depth as clear as crystal, all attractive light blue, strong indigo blue, strong navy blue, pink wishes, gold compassion, compassionate purple,
gold of golds, of creativity, white of whites, gold truth, purple mentor, funny gold, pink friend of children, navy blue of nature,
indigo blue knowledge, light blue song of nature, green creation, yellow in senses, orange guide, red way, red inspirer, orange giver, yellow help, dazzling green, light blue of the delicate, with indigo blue eyes, navy blue good, with pink kind eyes, golden hair, golden complexion, purple complexion, gold warmth, of white space, white and gold love, of all purple knowledge, gold presence, pink in thunder and storms, navy blue pleasure, indigo blue beauty,
light blue lines, all attractive green, of yellow stirring music, of orange, red refuge, clear red, orange orange, yellow yellow, with green giving hands, of green, light blue truth, indigo blue essence, navy blue sparkle, pink with gold, purple guide, gold here, here white, white is the sun with penetrating vision, purple and golden constant winner, gold reach, of all pink, infinite navy blue, indigo blue knowledge, light blue care, deep green in greens, orange truth, dedicated to yellow, red peace, red glory, orange beauty, yellow, of green and light blue evenings, handsome indigo blue, intelligent navy blue, pink of pinks, of gold golds, purple purple, gold friend,
openness, formless white and gold, prevailing purple, efficient purple, purple origin, purple form, gold and permanent pink, navy blue belief, indigo blue blue, dense green, orange, yellow, red friend, red
and fell silent

Are the colours telling us that reciting the girl's words could make all our wishes come true? What else do red orange yellow green light blue indigo blue navy blue pink gold purple gold white know?
Today is a Monday

poem by Bhupen Thakker
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A lane in England

In autumn I walked in England
in a lane full of trees
where leaves lay auburn
on a road wet from rain.

Barren, stripped oak trees
were between other green ones
and it was as if I was going
right through a tunnel
with here and there trees
of which the leaves were more yellow.

In the distance the road bended to the right
where a bush fence
cut neatly square
and telephone poles
ran along the edge of the road

and the green moss banks
were covered with auburn leaves
at places
and on the other side
of the road
a shrub stretched out green and long
like a sausage
that was lying next to the road

and I would love
to have a lane like that
next to my driveway.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Papa And His Son

small son
like a toy soccer ball
yellow and black spots
in the warm hold of
Papa the giant
to his mind
his hands are powerful
against the walls
and tall buildings
against the hot horizon
he laughs
at son who raises his hands
in total surrender
not afraid anymore
if ever he falls
Papa is the giant
his words are true
like walls and tall buildings
like strong hands
like laughter
like white teeth
like words of comfort
of horizon's assurance.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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nature-Day Ending -Izeli

Jacaranda in full bloom,
points it's branches to the setting sun.
Gentle breeze rains blossoms from on high
to carpet the earth with their purple dye.

Heavy flapping of the cawing gulls
swallows in pairs dance in a race
Bright green light green shadows lengthening
White disk with a shimmering face.

Dark green treetops turning yellow green
Olive lit hillside now to be seen
Tiny butterflies fluttering bye
Dust like dots of the tiny fly

Here I sit and drink in the life
of nature and creatures
as the day is ending
I marvel and wonder at the life I see,
in a perfect rhythm of eternal blending.

poem by Mary Mc Creath
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Orange blossoms on a tree

Orange blossoms on a tree
catches my eye,
where it stands alone
in the inner city
and there’s a blinding bright sun
that is already hanging quarter height
in a cloudless sky.

It’s Wednesday and half week
and it’s spring with green leaves,
trees full of blossoms
and almost summer
because the sun’s bright rays
are already early hitting my eyes

There’s a woman with a pink blouse
and purple skirt,
that crosses the street
and are not looking out
for the oncoming cars and taxis.

Doves crowd around a man
that throws pieces of bread
on the ground next to him,
at the art museum
and the sun is now rather
bright white than red.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Peace Returns Again

We live, We die.
We mourn. We cry.
And those that are left
pick up the pieces
that were that person's life,
little pieces that fit together
like a puzzle that just like the weather
is filled with changes
of highs and lows,
of happy times
and all their woes.
The last piece of the puzzle
fits right into place
and frames the picture
that was their face.

We keep that puzzle in our heart
and remember with love each little part
that was that person's life.
We then are left with an enigma,
a puzzle that relates their life.
It lives on in the mysteries of this world
but becomes solved in the afterlife.
And peace returns again.

poem by Edwina Reizer
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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
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The Life of a Flower

As the snow melts with upmost intensity

Out of the white field under the blues sky a green spot rises

The rise of a legacy of a summer, a legacy of blooms

The sun rises and white is no more

White once now is green, green signs of life

Life that will live for a summer time, summer that never ends

From green to yellow, yellow that perfects the view

View out of sight, so far away you can see the Earth curves

From yellow that blinds the eyes to cloudy skies

Now is time again, say good bye till summer comes back

From brown, the name of a legacy that lasted a life time

Brown surrenders to white, so smooth takes it by force

And Earth sleeps again under the white blanket

Forever and ever life lives and dies

Perfection is all.

poem by Kevin Woo
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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
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Anniversary (November 24)

The treasure of trees
golden mounds
on the green ground.

Urged by the morning sun
yellow leaves
coruscate in chilled air
radiant
with the afterglow of a summer
well lived.

But thirty-two years ago
the light died
when dark death’s hand
seized your struggling heart.

We buried you,
bright treasure,
under still
green grass.

The mud from your grave
clung to our shoes
as we wept our grief
in bright puffs of white breath
ascending like incense
into the good sky.

And thirty-two years later
I still choke on bitter sorrow.
Tears
still sting my eyes.

But looking through the bright window,
I see in November’s gold,
a faint reflection
of the enduring glory
that lights your
endless day.

poem by Steven Federle
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Bright Colors

bright colors hang
on a horizontal pole

a white bench a red
pail and purple clouds

yellow sand black
sea grass and lavender
shadows umbrellas

on alternate orange and
white and saffron and

yellow green and crimson
blue sea with white foams

escape from a shrinking world
to the sea breeze and solitude

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Six o’clock on a Friday morning

It’s six o’clock on a Friday morning
and I wait for my bus
and across the street,
the lights are burning cheerful and yellow
in the square and dome shaped windows
of the state library
and I wonder what documents are kept there

Street hawkers sell newspapers and sweets
in front of the Pretoria News,
while passengers are already
catching busses in rows.

There’s an icy chill
that hangs in the morning dawn light
and there’s a skew pointed obelisk
that is in front of the high court chambers
and a newspaper heading
talks about the recession
that is blowing hot and cold,
but it’s freezing
and the cold even eats
right through my leader jacket.

On the east side of Vermeulen Street
the sky becomes a light yellow,
while the blue of the heaven
folds open all over the rest
and streetlights stand in a long row
up the street past traffic lights.

Schoolgirls dressed in blue
are watching school boys with red jerseys
and young women
stand and shake
from the cold and I wonder,
how the old red delivery bicycle
behind the pillar
are not getting stolen
where it stands every morning on its place.

There’s a street sign that points to the Pierneef museum
into the L te Groen Eureka factory building,
but it’s still too early
to go and look at paintings
and I wonder how
the Pierneef paintings inside looks.

On the side of a building
I am amazed at the Tswane sign,
but this big city
will always stay Pretoria for me
and I wonder how people
can build buildings so pressed into each other
and look at old and new buildings
standing rowed in onto each other
and the bus stays away,
while others come and go
and I wait
a while longer in the cold.

poem by Gert Strydom
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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
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Climbing

High up in the apple tree climbing I go,
With the sky above me, the earth below.
Each branch is the step of a wonderful stair
Which leads to the town I see shining up there.

Climbing, climbing, higher and higher,
The branches blow and I see a spire,
The gleam of a turret, the glint of a dome,
All sparkling and bright, like white sea foam.

On and on, from bough to bough,
The leaves are thick, but I push my way through;
Before, I have always had to stop,
But to-day I am sure I shall reach the top.

Today to the end of the marvelous stair,
Where those glittering pinacles flash in the air!
Climbing, climbing, higher I go,
With the sky close above me, the earth far below.

poem by Amy Lowell
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Colors to Notice

While on morning walk today,
Thought emerges to describe the color
Of Mumbai sky, but can’t get the correct word:
It is aluminum-like, light gray,
Same wherever on the entire irregular patch
Of sky in Bandra, I am allowed to see through
Hedged in by trees, buildings and roofs.

As the eyes sweep down, the colors
Around me attract: green, blue,
Black, yellow, red BEST bus, the objects reflecting
There is no end to my counting:
In green alone I can see
Seventeen different shades.
Once I start enjoying the difference
Between one green and another
Luxuriant, shiny or dark,
Light-green, or parrot or bluish green
Or green seen against sunlight from below
Or with sunlight falling on the green leaves, -
In between remembering the sea-green incorruptible
Of Carlyle in his French Revolution
Or Lady Macbeth’s seas before becoming
Incarnadined -
Greens stretch unending in mind, and around,
Till suddenly the purple morning glory in front
Mocks me: while the special dark pink, above
Of bougainvillea blushes silently at stupid man
Who shows off his reading to Nature,
And makes up by waving and dancing gently.

Colors of Life and Nature are around me
Anywhere anytime:
I love them, including
Different black shadows in the dark.

poem by Daniel Trevelyn Joseph
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New Year

WHITE year, white year,
Muffled soft in snow,
A diamond spray whose gems are gone
Before their grace we know,
A crystal-coated spray whose hours
Melt when looked upon,
Hoarfrost stars and hoarfrost flowers,
White year!
Green year, green year,
Sweet with sun and showers,
A windblown spray whose blossoms bright
Are the seven-colored hours,
A dancing spray whose leaves are days,
A spray whose leaves delight
In azure gleam and silver haze,
Green year!
New Year, new year
From rosy leaf to gold,
A shining spray on the Tree of Time
Where myriad sprays unfold,
A spray so fair that God may see
And gather it, bloom and rime,
To deck the doors of Eternity,
New Year!

poem by Katharine Lee Bates
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