En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Were winter fires swept

Were winter fires swept, burnt the veldt to ashes
and left it blacker than the night
green grass, bright early wild flowers
are sprouting after the first showers
poised on long stems
in colours of white, purple and pink.

poem by Gert Strydom
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The Purple Sage

Purple sage is a beautiful thing,
Flowering in violet,
In winter or spring.

The leaves vary from silver to green,
It grows wild in Texas,
Of the wild it's the king.

Flowers are white, purple, or pink,
But only the purple,
Makes you mind stop and think.

Songs and stories, have come down through time,
Of the purple sage,
In it's inhospitable climes.

If your'e ever in Texas, come check it out,
Cause the purple sage,
Is what Texas is about.

11/15/10 Alton Texas

poem by Juan Olivarez
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The beginning of spring

It’s as if the last repose of winter isn’t spent,
as if it carries on without end
and the veldt is stripped bare,
the winter grass burnt to ashes
but still some flowering buds declare
that sap is already in their branches, in their veins
and everything else is waiting on the spring rains.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Carnations in the garden

There are carnations in the garden
in colours of ruby red,
pure white and blossom pink
and some pink with deep purple inside
and others purple-blue.

I smell the sweet fresh flowers
and look at colours
hue as if by magic
into each other.

Some grow in flowering pots,
some are planted in flowerbeds,
others even in the rock garden

and the flowers at places are mixed
to catch the eye
and everywhere there’s care
and a lot of love
that went into the tending of it.

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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In the Highveld

(after Toon van den Heever)

I

In the Highveld with the sky cobalt blue and open
where rock rabbits, steenbok and baboons revel,
you see the wind skipping through the long grass
and you can still believe in God and His angels,

the rain gathers with thunder
where through the open spaces you can see far into the veldt,
you are astounded by the beauty of flowering proteas
and you still can realize your dependence

but when the city’s rumbling becomes too much,
the jacarandas start flowering in the streets,
buildings of steel and concrete start to curtail you,
you dream about wild flowers appearing everywhere

and it’s the places of a child that you miss,
in the Highveld where the veldt stretches out into the distance.

II

In the Highveld where the veldt stretches out into the distance
and the wind rollicks through the grass
the sky is pure blue and you can look for hours at it,
there you can find freedom from the city’s imprisonment.

When the wind rustles through the march you loose all sadness,
you see the African red-knobbed coot gathering her chickens,
you can hear the finches’ caper, branches full together,
you see every great small happening,

how wild flowers of every imaginable colour
grow as if planted in secret
(and I will go back if I only could)
where I can find some serenity, can have peace
where I will know about God’s heritage;
there the sun shines.

III

There the sun shines
where proteas and aloes flower wildly,
bright up to the horizon
coming out of the earth by themselves

with violets growing purple-blue right through the marsh,
with daisies stretching white over the veldt,
with long tailed widow birds flapping their wings
and the earth is covered with long green grass.

To this piece of ground I am trapped
even when my days are drawing to their end,
it goes even to my heart’s deepest yearning,
with every plant, bush and flower

as it’s bought with sweat and blood,
nobody can strip it from me.

IV

Nobody can strip it from me,
I have to go back to where the sun hangs golden
in the sapphire heaven, I have got to strip the city from me
(but if I only could)

the big desire stays and out of the town I must go
away from the ambulance and police sirens that cuts through everything,
trains whistling almost endlessly,
I have got to go to where only the frog choir and crickets sing.

Again I have got to get the smell of sugar bushes,
smell the rain, spring, summer and even autumn
I must get away from a world where tinned pleasure seduces,
where people use other people for their own pleasure.

I want to stand in the green fields of grass,
when the day dies.

V

When the day dies
letting its last rays fall,
with the birds flying to their nests
darkness comes to this part of the universe,

the doves at dusk still call to each other
as if their voices bind them in the darkness,
you can see the moon sailing golden-yellow through the sky,
you are sometimes blinded by the bright rays,

the city lights glitter far away
in all the colours of the rainbow,
here you want to bond your life to a loved one,
catching her moments long in your eye

when people come together here,
the madness of the human existence is exorcised.

VI

The madness of the human existence is exorcised
even in later years past your own youth,
when you are in the world that your heart desires,
you want to invite the new spring to stay with you

shaking out that which bothers and torments to the early summer wind,
feeling the effervescence of new life,
blinded by the sun you want to find healing
while the whole of spring washes through your life

with the light, air, the flowers, birds and sun splashing down
as if your autumn is only in your imagination,
you want to wash yourself clean from old age,
you are searching for exorcism from the darkness

there are still flowers sprouting out everywhere,
when the colours of autumn smoulder in the trees.

VII

When the colours of autumn smoulder in the trees
with branches being full of coloured leaves,
the sun is still heating as in summer
before the first biting winds begin to whine.

I see opened pod upon opened pod
that lays brown scorched without any signs of seeds,
the dull blue sky has clouds in milky white,
trees become a wild watermill

that is halfway skeleton, halfway still carrying leaves,
afternoons are still drawn out
and even when days earlier end in winter
it’s a time without equal,
as if the summer can last forever,
in the Highveld with the sky cobalt blue and open.

poem by Gert Strydom
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The Beautiful Camellias

The camellias bloom in Winter when the skies are cold and gray
When the sun shines at it's weakest and the Spring seems far away
Each tree an individual by the shade of flowers they bear
An avenue of camellias of one shade of flowers more often than not rare.

In shades of pink and creams and reds the colours one might name
Each is an individual for no two look the same
The beautiful camellias resplendent in their flowers
They bloom in lawn and garden on Winter's coldest hours.

In late fall in Victoria in the Southern Hemisphere
The flower buds on camellia tell Winter days are near
And before the wattles come to bloom towards the end of July
The flowers on the camellia tree lose their petals and die.

The beautiful camellias bloom in the cold winter showers
And long before the southern spring they will have lost their flowers
And on June's coldest and wettest day great beauty I can see
A mass of pink flowers blooming on the green camellia tree.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Colours

Colours are just colours
One might suppose
Rage is red…
But then again…
so is a rose

So colours are more
Than they seem, don’t’ you think
For boys it’s usually blue
For little girls always pink

Yep, colours are colours
Perhaps that’s all they should be
Just something to look at
Only something to see

But colours have emotion
At least they do to me
Perhaps I just don’t see hues
In the same way
that you see

Because blue to me
Is more than just a hue
It’s the sky, it’s berries,
Oceans … and sadness too

Green is envy, grass and dinero
Purple is royalty, plums and passion
Yellow is cowardice, butter and tallow
Colours are … whatever you wish to fashion

Perhaps I see colours differently than you
Perhaps exactly the same way… I hope
But my advice to you, whatever you do
Is … don’t get me started on taupe! !

poem by David Whalen
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In The Early Morning [2]

In the early morning
dew covers every piece of grass and flower
and I see green sprouts in the soft ground

that appears after the first rain,
some grow luxuriant and others are slender and fine.
Some dew covers every piece of grass and flower,

and new buds appear
on long green stems,
some grow luxuriant and others are slender and fine.

in an aromatic existence.
At dark red roses and pink hollyhocks
on long green stems,

butterflies appear new from there metamorphoses
while the sun spreads its yellow-golden rays,
at dark red roses and pink hollyhocks

bees and butterflies fly to and thro
in the early morning
while the sun spreads its yellow-golden rays
and I see green sprouts in the soft ground.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Colours Of Life

Sunny morning, golden noon, rose pink twilight, silver moon.
Grey black cloud, creamy sea, lightning bright, green brown tree.
Yellow with age, white with fright, red with rage, black as night.
Green with envy, rainbow hue, in the pink, sky of blue.
Countless colours running rife. These are the colours of our life.

poem by Rod Morris
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Between The Covers

I have plucked
Every primrose and daisy
Sprouting in myriad colours
On every wild vegetation,
Grown around my neighbour’s fence.

I have also plucked
All the flowers on my path
In their youthful fragrance,
Of spilled out pollen,
And in their sealed-dreams,
Clinging intimately to the
Tender stems of unknown creepers.

I don’t know
For whom they bloomed,
For the hot Sun?
For the cool Moon?
Or for the soothing South Wind?
Just see!
The flowers have never complained,
Either loud or in whispers,
Or perhaps
I have not cared to heed
Their effeminate indignation
Against my reckless passion,

Believe me.
I have also not spared
All the early flowers
Of Spring and Summer
Grown in the distant meadows
Only to press them for you
Between the covers.

poem by Arkay Drk
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Incantation

A white well
In a black cave;
A bright shell
In a dark wave.

A white rose
Black brambles hood;
Smooth bright snows
In a dark wood.

A flung white glove
In a dark fight;
A white dove
On a wild black night.

A white door
In a dark lane;
A bright core
To bitter black pain.

A white hand
Waved from dark walls;
In a burnt black land
Bright waterfalls.

A bright spark
Where black ashes are;
In the smothering dark
One white star.

poem by Elinor Morton Wylie
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First rain

The past winter had come
with black ripe
and had turned the green grass,
even the flowers into dead,
yellow withered things

but now in this early spring,
rain was showering the earth
with thousands of kisses,

bringing back life
and the sweet smell
drifted up from the wet sand
as if something great
had come forth
out of the creator’s hand

and later a rainbow
with brilliant colours
stretched from horizon to horizon
against the dark black clouds

while in the distance
lightning bolts were crashing down
one after another

and in my imagination
I could already see
tender shoots sprouting.

poem by Gert Strydom
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A vase of flowers

I saw a vase of purple-pink roses
lying on your dark brown buffet
and simply had to have it.

“Who painted this, ” I immediately enquired
loving the picture more with each look
that I took of it
as it’s not your thing
to paint still life’s with flowers.

“I painted it. It’s like painting pillow slips, ”
you replied and astonished
I looked at it again
and this was on board
and not in water colours
but done with oil paint.

The folds of the cups were edged
in ridges along their lines
using the techniques
of your abstract paintings
and one smaller unopened bud
laid next to the bowl
almost running into your name.

Little pink flowers was in the background
where the transparent vase with green stems
was against the wall on a tiled floor.

[Reference: Vase with roses by Mandi Engelbrecht. (This painting belongs to me.) ]

poem by Gert Strydom
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My Last Dream

If you look,
you still can
find empty
Summer meadows….

where paths
and roads
are made
of grass….

there, early
Rabbits run
wild through
pink eyed
flowers….

and the Sun
sprinkles mornings
with dew-
dripping showers.

But later as
the late sun runs….

you sleep,
as
candy floss
blossoms
drift down
to colour
the black
picnic cloth.

And now...

you are gone.

poem by Ian Bowen
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My Drug Dealer

Today-
I asked myself.

Why are the oak tree’s purple?
And the grass blue?

Why is the sky green?
And the leaves hot pink?

Why is that gravel red?
And the rocks of that garden yellow?

Then I thought
and thought over again
a million times

and realized...

I’m high.

I’m up higher than the orange clouds in the green sky
My heart is as bright as the rocks of that garden

My thoughts are as eccentric as the hot pink color of the leaves
that fell from the purple tree

My eyelashes flutter flirtatiously like the way the wind
blows the blue blades of grass around.

Love is a drug,
and I’m high-

You happen to be my dealer.

poem by Breanna Schwartz
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Red, pink, violet,
Blue, green, purple, black, grey, white
Colours of the World,

haiku by Kieran J1996
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Flowers of mercy

In the field they are scattered
pink, white and brown-red
and emerge by them self
as if by mercy

and shoot up between blades of grass
and weeds
and the brittle heads
looks almost plastic fine

and still there’s nothing artificial
where the flowers stand in the veldt
with only the rain and sun
going over them.

Your love I also found
so unplanted,
which by its own accord
grows into my depths
and through hard times
still stays with me.

Other flowers
want to bloom around me
and I try and cut old feelings
down short,
as you are the flower
of flowers to me
and I just want to grow
deeper into your soul.

poem by Gert Strydom
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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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The mist

Here in Springs the mist hangs in the mornings
almost like the Cape’s winter rain
that draws a grey cloak over almost every thing.

At sunrise the street lamps glow amber
and here and there a light is on in a house
and I hear a car, hooting goodbye.

When I walk on the grass
the water rises through my shoes
and leaves tracks along the driveway.

Flowers in colours of ruby red,
shades of pink to purple
and pure white are stringed in between the leaves

and as if every thing is fresh and new
water runs like drops of dew
down from the leaves.

The mist closes every thing off,
surrounds things, into an own world
where visibility is at times
just meters far.

Still the missing
that I have of you
is something with a greater intensity,

no sun early in the morning
burns away,
the being away that divides us.

There’s nothing clearing up this missing
but to talk with you,
better still to have you here.

poem by Gert Strydom
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About Flowers And Trees

I

Why did the chrysanthemum wait long
to open it's quivering twisted rays?
When other flowers are gone it grows strong
in these much more colder wintry days

with cups making blossoms like anemones
some seen as feathery, plumed, or spidery
growing big or smaller in shaded tones,
in the winter portraying nature's imagery

in bronze, brown, purple, red, pink and white
with a single or semi-double blossom
growing to man's and the Creator's delight
when ripe makes growing very unwholesome.

Why was it not sprouting, rising, growing
at the beginning of the lovely spring?

II

At the beginning of the lovely spring
in the veldt among big acacia trees
when the first drops of rain are visiting,
drawing new life, flowers and buzzing bees

I find the bulbous hyacinth flowering,
and its appearance, its fragrance
is almost totally overpowering
when it makes its sudden appearance

with pale-blue petals of strings all opening
smelling like a tiny perfumery,
with bell shaped small cups that are hanging
bright among the green and brown scenery

displaying the joys of living and life,
many times have I counted groups of five.

III

Many times have I counted groups of five,
in things making the way that nature is
and have seen five eggs coming to live,
five leaves on flowers with five small bees.

Even on some trees that number is right
but strangely sometimes it might be wrong
and while in nature I walk along,
I see different flowers in a throng,

hear various birds singing their beautiful song,
there's something in all flowers, in each tree
that tells something about its makers will
who makes all things how they are to be

I have seen even five bundles to a sheaf;
the trees are butting in flower and leaf.

IV

The trees are butting in flower and leaf
as if some kind of magic word was said,
in rejoicing without any small grief,
the growing long green stems upwards do spread

as if new life has come to them again
like from scratch they are programmed to do,
after receiving power from summer rain
but like humans sometimes they do die too

carrying more bountiful each summer day
to the custom of their kind and their breed
till the summer suddenly dwindles away,
again they are stripped as if in need

and I like the fragrant fresh smell the best,
while walking through a huge pine forest.

V

While walking through a huge pine forest
a gentle wind like a friend greeted me
and for lingering long moments I did rest,
feeling from the whole big world somewhat free

and it was filled with the catching smell
of pine trees and soft in its embrace
for many moments long did I there dwell,
by songs of twittering birds amazed

and I then longed forever to be
among the flying birds, the buzzing bees
and the soft shadows, the tranquillity
of the peaked mountain, the large trees,

but sometimes lightning falls in a blue-white spark,
when the stormy wind blows strong in the dark.

VI

When the stormy wind blows strong in the dark
and the dark black evening suddenly glows
and the wind whispers with a howling bark
among the waving, rocking trees and throws

branches breaking, snapping, twisting, tearing;
you can hear that great savage strange beast
walking about, awoke from slumber stirring
during winter in the forest, in the east

suddenly coming to its greatest strength
somewhere in the thick enveloping fog
as the long night draws out darker at length
while its breaking, mauling log upon log,

from this windy monster I want to be free,
let me find some peace and tranquillity.

VII

Let me find some peace and tranquillity
at some places where man have never trod,
experience the greatest kind of beauty
that still is spared from the iron rod

with which man rules cities, huge countries
let me see miracles, see nature's joys,
away form buildings and big industries,
far away from the scorn, the manmade noise.

Let me smell some sweet wild flowers and lie
on wild grass to find nature's peace and rest
under a clear blue unpolluted sky,
away from even them whom I love best

and I wonder before the winter comes along,
why did the chrysanthemum wait long?

poem by Gert Strydom
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