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The night has come early

The night has come early,
the thunder hits with power
at my house against the hillock,
as if it is coming from God himself,
when you knock I am surprised,
see the lights of your car shining,
it is very rough outside
with rain against the windows,
you embrace me, take my hand.

poem by Gert Strydom
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On the small hillock

On the small hillock the mist was swirling
opening only here and there
and then suddenly appeared a leopard
sneaking up some sharp edged rocks
as it came nearer and nearer
to a group of baboons
and there was something wild,
something dangerous and innocent to this
before the hunter and its prey
was suddenly swept away
in thick banks of fog.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Only for a moment

Biking along Lehigh drive
On an early sunny morning
Not a cloud in the azure sky
My! My! What a wonderful day!
I continued onward until
I reached the Lehigh boat-launch pad.
No longer able to resist
The allure of the calm river
I laid my bicycle against
A hillock, shed my shoes and socks
And walked to the shallow rivers edge
Stood there for a moment or two
Walked in ankle deep from shore
And became a young lad once more.

poem by Albert Ahearn
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Sheets of slow rain in Sligo

Drifting, drifting towards Dunmoran,
Benbulbin and Knocknarea,
darkening the bay of Ballisodare,
the wind sweeps howling,
wetting and dousing,
the mountain carpet.
With incessant rain
and sheep languish on Ladies Brae
with Yeats asleep,
and Mebdh at rest
upon the hillock Knocknarea,
howling like a banshee.
The poets bare Benbulbin
waits, calmly,
as a ghost ship in the bay.
With such beginnings
Noah went to work.

poem by Bernard Kennedy
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Poetry is Universal

There’s poetry rich in every...

Flora and fauna
Crack and crevice
Frond and leaf
Insect and beast

Cloud and star
Sand and soil
Mount and vale
Storm and gale

Bloom and blossom
Bud and inflorescence
Fount and fall
Fen and wall

Mound and hillock
Mountain and peak
Dew-dropp and drop

[...] Read more

poem by John Celes
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In The Distant Veldt I Saw Him

In the distant veldt I saw Him
where He holds His hand over the wild flowers
and there was a colossal hillock
on a summer day with the sky another kind of blue

when I tried to find holy moments,
when I walked back in the footprints of a child
and free from the blackberry-bush
under the weather and wind

I devoured some of nature's treasures
and I was blind for my Lord
while I only saw the works of His hands,
when I went back to some of my childhood places.

poem by Gert Strydom
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On a hillock outside the city

On a hillock outside the city
a monument build from marble and stone
guards forevermore,
catching the sun’s
rays one new day dutifully.

It tells true stories
of a nation’s struggle to survive and be free
from oppression and a great trek
across the veldt and over high mountains,
of vicious wild men
and the belief
in the creator God
who came to aid
to save from total annihilation
when they called on Him.

[Reference: Voortrekker monument just outside Pretoria.]

poem by Gert Strydom
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Op ‘n koppie buite die stad

On a hillock outside the city
a monument build from marble and stone
guards forevermore,
catching the sun’s
rays one new day dutifully.

It tells true stories
of a nation’s struggle to survive and be free
from oppression and a great trek
across the veldt and over high mountains,
of vicious wild men
and the belief
in the creator God
who came to aid
to save from total annihilation
when they called on Him.

[Reference: Voortrekker monument just outside Pretoria.]

poem by Gert Strydom
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There’s a time that the sun sets

There’s a time
that the sun sets
and it’s also
how life goes.

My dad read the last time
the poem that let the hairs
on my arms raise
of a horse
with a rider without a head
like only he can

and when I was naughty
the man with the hat and jacket came
and never again
and later I find it hanging
in his wardrobe.

Red-brown lumps fall on a wooden chest
and what does a toddler know

[...] Read more

poem by Gert Strydom
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It was a small white house

It was a small white house
near to a hillock
with a red painted plate roof
and it felt somehow
as if I had been there before.

The red steps onto the polished porch
shone as if it had just been polished
but there was something
in that glowing sheen
reminding me of a day in childhood gone
when I was cornered on that veranda

and cold water from a hosepipe
splashed all over me
from where my smaller brother
was spraying me

and I didn’t want to go into the house,
much too scared that he would follow me.

poem by Gert Strydom
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