En.Citatepedia^®.ro

When the sun kisses the hillocks

Late in the afternoon when the sun kisses the hillocks
a deep red colour appear in the west
when nature, man comes to the evenings rest,
while I hear guinea fowls screaming from the bush,
there is a kind of silence that comes suddenly,
when man is saying his prayers, is going to God
when some are busy with deeds of love,
with the essence of living and of life
and others still pursue further fame and wealth.

poem by Gert Strydom
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When the rest of nature comes to me

Late in the afternoon each bright weaver gambols
when the evening star shines blue-white,
each pretty butterfly flutters around
when wild pigeons land on the ground;
I am astonished in the restless city
when the rest of nature comes to me.

Through the trees the wind is a whispering,
when birds call in the silver twilight,
when the sun disappears, red behind the hillocks,
when stars appear with lights that wink,
I am astonished in the restless city
when the rest of nature comes to me.

Far away guinea fowls are calling,
preoccupied I sit peaceful on the porch,
see in the distance city lights shining
when the bats cavort to and thro,
I am astonished in the restless city
when the rest of nature comes to me.

poem by Gert Strydom
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I Am From Heidelberg With Its Sugar Bush Hillocks

I am from Heidelberg with its sugar bush hillocks
and cannot remove the memories
from childhood days from my thoughts;
still I see open protea flowers waiting on bees,

with their smell that lingers in the air,
and I am caught by aloes
that fills the hillocks with their orange-red colour,
and in the late afternoons I find the shadows that the hillocks throw

and when the jacarandas in the city bloom,
when the garden in my yard is full of flowers,
when I find comfort at the fireplace in winter
then my thoughts keep going back

and even when my darling looks great-eyed at me
(whom I adore with my heart and soul)
and my friends that visit constantly
I cannot remove the city which is always crowding into life

and although our house of stone and brick
exists as if it will remain eternally,
where it's bordered by palisades like a fortress,
protected by electric wires

when the city's end suddenly comes,
when by man destruction
or a nuclear accident suddenly occurs
I will return to Heidelberg with its sugar bush hillocks.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Then I Longed Back To My Own Place

I was looking at the wide ocean
while standing for moments on Table Mountain,
I saw seagulls swarm under in the bay,
when the Southeaster blew everything into a jumble;
then I longed back to my own place,
to my home at the Sugar-bush-hillocks.

At the Strand I wanted to dream on my own
when a mishmash of people suddenly streamed around me
bolstering from busses, swimming in their underwear,
with one screaming deafening with a shrill voice;
then I longed back to my own place,
to my home at the Sugar-bush-hillocks.

At Clifton the girls were topless
they were coaxing and I wanted to blush,
at Sea Point lights flared into the night
but in Gauteng one was waiting on me;
then I longed back to my own place,
to my home at the Sugar-bush-hillocks.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Forms of Wealth

To money is attributed wealth
But the open truth of wealth
Is, It is not the only kind of wealth—
There are also other forms of wealth!

Good health is the best form of wealth
Forging rich links in relationships is wealth
Spontaneous love for all life forms is wealth
To have enthusiasm in life is wealth.

Acquiring life-long learning is wealth
Experience and wisdom in life is wealth
Meeting new people is also wealth
Visiting new places too is authentic wealth.

The quest to explore something is wealth
To have a positive mind-set is wealth
Existence of deep internal peace is wealth
Early morning waking up with joy is wealth.

Possessing high self-respect is wealth
Having strong spiritual connection is wealth
There exist so many types of wealth
Constitute all these and you're with full wealth!

poem by Chandra Thiagarajan
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Silence (Part I)

Sometimes I see you as my child,
Sometimes I see you as my sweetheart,
And when I look into your eyes,
I see that tender and sweet smile,
And I want to say what’s in my heart,
And I want to tell you how I feel,
But my voice remains there, still,
And I just stare at your loving face,
And let the love from my heart,
Flow like a wild river in furious race,
to enfold your sweet and pure soul
with a sea of love and tenderness.

Sometimes there’s so much to say,
but nothing flows from my lips,
And only silence is there to stay,
And only the silence I should keep,
Because what I had to say was already said,
How words could express
never-ending love and tenderness?
How could I just say at one time,
I love you more than my own life?
And there remains the deep silence,
Silence and more silence,
to signal that divine presence,
of my silent love; my heart’s essence.

But this silence is not empty silence,
when divine love fills all my senses,
when nature’s beauty colours your soul,
and fades away all pity and woe.
Because when there is silence,
you can hear the silent language,
the heavenly music of my heart’s song,
God’s eternal music He’s been playing all along,
And in that silence you’ll hear my song,
The endless tune that my love sings,
with the sweetest notes in your luscious dreams,
which eternally flow like endless streams.

(2009)

poem by Roberto Echanes
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When the sun goes down late in the afternoon (anaphora poem)

When late in the afternoon the sun hangs just above the trees and hillocks,
I think that you must experience the colours of the clouds yourself
I think that it would be pretty in a landscape painting,
I think that this dusk brings a silence, that it’s lonely without you,
I think that you are late, are maybe still working, or have got some other plans
I think that the gathering clouds will catch you with rain,
I think that the doves tomorrow evening will also be in love and coo like this,
I think that the jasmine and lavender tomorrow evening will also fill the air.
I think I will dream of branches that hit from the wind on the roof,
I think that maybe tomorrow I will see you for the last time.

poem by Gert Strydom
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I mean, it's been quite busy, especially with the rain delay the first few days, and then having to play the late evenings, waiting here every day. It's been kind of difficult.

quote by Daniela Hantuchova
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Just Leave Me To Nature

In Claraghatlea near Millstreet my life's journey began
And in that old Townland i grew into a man
But i cannot say where my remains will lay
I will be with Nature and that is okay.

I will be with Nature and it will not matter to me then
If i am not remembered as one of the great men
Who were of a benefit to human kind
For centuries of fame i do not feel inclined.

I've heard her birds sing and I've breathed her air
Just leave me to Nature of me she'll take care
And even if my bones to ashes will burn
I was born of Nature and to her I'll return.

Just leave me to Nature for to rest in peace
From the cares of living I'll have found a release
In Claraghatlea near Millstreet i first saw light of day
But i am not to know where my remains will lay.

poem by Francis Duggan
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There Were Late Afternoons

There were late afternoons when as a child
I would see the tall popular trees
making the pale blue sky seem much higher
where they grew next to the old farm dam

with there branches whispering
in the early night breeze,
with doves and finches calling
from their nests in the shelter of these trees,

when an early moon would appear
and the evening star would suddenly start twinkling
blue-white in its sheer brightness against a darker blue sky,
like a mother goose leading all of the other stars.

There were early evenings when the sun
died with its deep red glow touching
the hillocks that were covered in sugar bushes,
and red flowering aloes,

when the scent of protea flowers was sweet on the air,
when blue changed to darker black,
when darkness came suddenly
and a myriad of stars sparkled all over the sky

while in the distance fires came to life
at the rural mud huts, while jackals
and dogs started to howl at the bright yellow moon,
while I knew that mother would be home soon.

poem by Gert Strydom
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There Were Late Afternoons As A Child

There were late afternoons when as a child
I would see the tall popular trees
making the pale blue sky seem much higher
where they grew next to the old farm dam

with there branches whispering
in the early night breeze,
with doves and finches calling
from their nests in the shelter of these trees,

when an early moon would appear
and the evening star would suddenly start twinkling
blue-white in its sheer brightness against a darker blue sky,
like a mother goose leading all of the other stars.

There were early evenings when the sun
died with its deep red glow touching
the hillocks that were covered in sugar bushes,
and red flowering aloes,

when the scent of protea flowers was sweet on the air,
when blue changed to darker black,
when darkness came suddenly
and a myriad of stars sparkled all over the sky

while in the distance fires came to life
at the rural mud huts, while jackals
and dogs started to howl at the bright yellow moon,
while I knew that mother would be home soon.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Breaking The Silence

They told me to run, but just how far?
Can I go wearing the black mask of fear?
The hate in my eyes always gives me away
The tension building slowly
Now I lost everything I had in you
Nothing we shared means a thing
Without you close to me
I cant live without you
Breaking the silence of the night
Cant you hear me screaming?
I look for your face in the neon light
You never answer me
Theres no direction to my stare
No more flame burning in my heart anymore
Quiet, I keep it to myself
Until the sun sets slowly
I hear your voice in the evening rain calling
Nothing will keep us apart
No more lies and fear
Theres no end to our story
Breaking the silence of the night
Cant you hear me screaming?
I look for your face in the neon light
You never answer
I could make all the wrong seem right
If you were by my side
Id gather all the tears you cried
And hide them deep underground
Cant look back, its just a waste of time
Cant erase this hate from my eyes
Breaking the silence of the night
Through the streets Im screaming
Looking for you in the neon light
Why dont you answer me?
Breaking the silence with my cries
Cant you hear me screaming?
We could make all this wrong seem right
But you never answer me

song performed by by Queensryche
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Never Ending Kind Of Intimate Thing

Your white body lies like a continent
with breasts as hillocks, slender thighs
and the valleys somewhere in between
while tiny shadows fall in the afternoon.

I bury myself with great pleasure in you,
feel the warmth of your blazing volcano,
reach up to the centre core of my existence
and each and every glance in your bright eyes

draws me deeper, draws us still closer together
and the lost of self, where nature flees from me
there is a tender kind of peace at twilight
while we love each other past all feelings.

There is peace in the separation that comes later,
the separation of skin, of thighs of genitalia
but still your gaze were burning into my very soul
and I love you; love every part of your body,

with the smell of love like fresh rain around us
rising from the rose of your tender hot pubis,
with nipples still somewhat hardened aroused
on your soft firm breast that are fragile to touch.

Boundless desire flames again and again,
while your beauty bringing sheer joy,
bringing a kind of very deep tranquillity,
as if the thirst, the yearning for each other

is a never ending kind of intimate thing,
that always exists, with a kind of grace,
that has an infinite kind of ache for fulfilment
a kind of indescribable joy that comes with bliss.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Angel Kisses

I don’t know what an angel looks like
I don’t even know if they have wings
But I know when I need a reminder
Something wraps around me and sings
It’s the wind in the trees
Makes me pause for a moment
And it’s singing to me
Invisible hand brushing my cheek

Angel kisses to remind me
Everything is okay
Angel kisses and suddenly
I remember what I’m here for today
It’s my chance to love you through this
Daily dance and pass along to you
Some angel kisses

When I think about all I have to do
It’s hard to even know where to start
A day late and a dollar behind
But I try to play my music with heart
It’s the language of the birds in the trees
Floats me up for a moment
And it’s singing to me
Grabs my heart, takes my hand, close my eyes, I feel the..

Angel kisses to remind me
Everything is okay
Angel kisses and suddenly
I remember what I’m here for today
It’s my chance to love you through this
Daily dance and pass along to you
Some angel kisses

I wish I could keep those
Gentle reminders
How do you stay peaceful?
Let me be kinder

Angel kisses to remind me
Everything is okay
Angel kisses and suddenly
I remember what I’m here for today
It’s my chance to love you through this
Daily dance and pass along to you
Some angel kisses

poem by Patricia Genetos
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Early I Viewed The Morning's New Birth (Cavatina)

Early I viewed the morning's new birth,
the eastern sky
was aflame while I walked on a path
that wounded by
a small copse, some hillocks and a field,
up birds did fly,
pheasants and guinea-fowl screeched protest
while in nature I was extremely blest.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Late In The Afternoon

LATE IN THE AFTERNOON

Late in the afternoon
Late in life
Lyric poetry is still possible.

It is quieter of course
And calmer of course
And its passion is subdued of course
But it is still possible.

Love does not die in old age
It simply sings softer.

Even now towards the end of this happy day
The light has its own sad song.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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Doves fly past in pairs

Doves fly from sunrise
until late afternoon past in pairs
and the whole day their singing resounds

and just before the rainstorm comes (out of season)
the air is full of swallows
sweeping up and down
catching insects.

starlings, sparrows and finches scream
as if the end of this autumn,
is already the beginning of spring

where they are eating blue-black berries
in evergreen trees
and it’s as if nature
knows something secret about this winter.

The rays of the sun are now measured out much cooler
but the grass still has its green colour
and there are irises
which flowers out of season
from all the rain
and the giant sage bush
is covered with purple clusters
hanging in strings

and early in the mornings when I get up later
the black-collard barbet knocks me awake
asking screeching
when I am going to get up
and I look at him
where he endlessly are scolding me
and I wonder
why the birds
are suddenly so jolly?

or do they know
that the season
is at the edge of change
and that man with pollution
is causing irreparable damage?

poem by Gert Strydom
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Maybe love has something similar to lightning

Maybe love has something similar to lightning
not something frightening
but as special essence
that lingers on the inner eye, a kind of thing

a kind of inner art
that stays grained into the heart
beyond living, beyond time and space
when destiny does people part

and sometimes the separateness
turns into a kind of emptiness
where you realise the finality of death
but still affection does not want to rest

and in memories love sometimes keeps going on
while in person to the earth you are gone.

poem by Gert Strydom
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When The Late Night Burns Away

When the late night burns away with the morning sun
and darkness disappears
in the game of the blue sky
there is a kind of kindness,
suddenly some peace that falls on earth,
then all pain is missing
and you are suddenly amazed when you awake,
when the first rays of heat falls over your body;

then the sun is like a Godly flame
and on the floor
the splashing rays draw patterns,
when they peep in;
then suddenly you know that you are truly living,
when the birds stir,
you hear the first jubilant cries,
then you want to bow down before the presence of God.

poem by Gert Strydom
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The Women of the West

They left the vine-wreathed cottage and the mansion on the hill,
The houses in the busy streets where life is never still,
The pleasures of the city, and the friends they cherished best:
For love they faced the wilderness -- the Women of the West.

The roar, and rush, and fever of the city died away,
And the old-time joys and faces -- they were gone for many a day;
In their place the lurching coach-wheel, or the creaking bullock chains,
O'er the everlasting sameness of the never-ending plains.

In the slab-built, zinc-roofed homestead of some lately taken run,
In the tent beside the bankment of a railway just begun,
In the huts on new selections, in the camps of man's unrest,
On the frontiers of the Nation, live the Women of the West.

The red sun robs their beauty, and, in weariness and pain,
The slow years steal the nameless grace that never comes again;
And there are hours men cannot soothe, and words men cannot say --
The nearest woman's face may be a hundred miles away.

The wide bush holds the secrets of their longing and desires,
When the white stars in reverence light their holy altar fires,
And silence, like the touch of God, sinks deep into the breast --
Perchance He hears and understands the Women of the West.

For them no trumpet sounds the call, no poet plies his arts --
They only hear the beating of their gallant, loving hearts.
But they have sung with silent lives the song all songs above --
The holiness of sacrifice, the dignity of love.

Well have we held our father's creed. No call has passed us by.
We faced and fought the wilderness, we sent our sons to die.
And we have hearts to do and dare, and yet, o'er all the rest,
The hearts that made the Nation were the Women of the West.

poem by George Essex Evans
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Women Of The West

They left the vine-wreathed cottage and the mansion on the hill,
The houses in the busy streets where life is never still,
The pleasures of the city, and the friends they cherished best:
For love they faced the wilderness -the Women of the West.

The roar, and rush, and fever of the city died away,
And the old-time joys and faces-they were gone for many a day;
In their place the lurching coach-wheel, or the creaking bullock-chains,
O'er the everlasting sameness of the never-ending plains.

In the slab-built, zinc-roofed homestead of some lately taken run,
In the tent beside the bankment of a railway just begun,
In the huts on new selections, in the camps of man's unrest,
On the frontiers of the Nation, live the Women of the West.

The red sun robs their beauty and, in weariness and pain,
The slow years steal the nameless grace that never comes again;
And there are hours men cannot soothe, and words men cannot say
The nearest woman's face may be a hundred miles away.

The wide bush holds the secrets of their longing and desires,
When the white stars in reverence light their holy altar fires,
And silence, like the touch of God, sinks deep into the breast
Perchance He hears and understands the Women of the West.

For them no trumpet sounds the call, no poet plies his arts
They only hear the beating of their gallant, loving hearts.
But they have sung with silent lives the song all songs above?
The holiness of sacrifice, the dignity of love.

Well have we held our fathers creed. No call has passed us by.
We faced and fought the wilderness, we sent our sons to die.
And we have hearts to do and dare, and yet, o'er all the rest,
The hearts that made the Nation were the Women of the West.

poem by George Essex Evans
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