A brood of vipers

While working as a senior accountant
at the head office of a major worldwide religion:

I have seen colleagues
running to tell tales
which were fibs, slandering others
to get their own way,

using the name of God
in prayer and twisting
His arm,
to get their own way
as if their words are His,

(smiling in friendship
while stabbing the knife
in the back) ,

meddling with salaries and pensions
to defraud and decrease

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poem by Gert Strydom
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On a spoor

We were hot on a fresh spoor
and the bushman tracker said
that the enemy were not far ahead

when we crossed through some dense bush
under some trees
and looking up I saw something on a branch

camouflaged, dappled into the shade
and yellow eyes peered down at me
filled with rage, with energy

and astounded more than anything
I brought the gun to bear,
but the pent up energy,

melted with languid grace
right into the tree
as if it wasn’t aware of me, aware of us

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poem by Gert Strydom
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Lucifer (in answer to N. P. van Wyk Louw)

Thus he rebelled without anyone stopping him,
wanted to put up his throne above, at times
equal to that of the almighty Creator
and approached others for this goal,
felt at times that his jealousy was noble
where he stood at the edge of the precipice
and thunder flashed ominous around him.

He dragged a third of once holy ones along
to all at once squander their lives,
joy, virtue and nobility
and along with them
later missed the glory, peace and love
of the heavens and knew
that he (the flaming son of the morning)
is trivial to the Most High (who is always honourable)
could not even stand in His shade
and through stars, he had torn, through the heavens
to declare war, as in his heart he wanted to win
as if insanity was eating through every reason and sensibility

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poem by Gert Strydom
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The grocery store

I drove my old blue
Honda CB900F motorbike to town,
took a small backpack along,

as I had to buy some Whiskas cat food,
the ginger coloured Persian likes
the blue marked kind that contains fish.

The small backpack had nothing in it,
was flat on my back,
the store had just opened

and I was in a hurry
to get to the Internet café
before the better computers were taken

by other customers
which would cause me to crawl along
on an old 486 dilapidated model.

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poem by Gert Strydom
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The Perfect Girl

Maybe I will have to wait through aeons
to find her, to find the perfect girl
whose feelings reach out to me
softer than the fluttering of any butterfly
whose voice is crystal clear with an own loveliness
and at times she dwells in my dreams
walking at times covered in a white cloak
with slim feet and pearly white toes.

I have heard her sweet laughter
falling softly as snow
but covering me in a kind of warmth
that delights, that at times are amusing
at other times brings sheer tranquillity
and if she’s human or something of the divine
I do not really know
only that she is beyond beautiful

One night suddenly she appeared
in another kind of dream

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poem by Gert Strydom
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Lovely To His Eyes (Hybridanelle)

A farmer walks up to his horse and it is spring again
in the distance there’s ploughing red Massy Ferguson tractor
and he bridles the horse and there is pain

His son is out there tracking the field
seems young, vital and strong
and it’s as if he has now got to yield

and the earth is soft underfoot after the rain.
and he’s still the administrator.
A farmer walks up to his horse and it is spring again

and he still has some power to wield
and his eyes measure the ploughed field, the smell of fresh earth,
seems young, vital and strong

and he wonders how many years still remain
but the ache reminds him of the words of the doctor
and he bridles the horse and there is pain

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poem by Gert Strydom
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Fishing For Carp (Hybridanelle)

Fishing for carp, with a six-pack cooling in the river
and the ringhals till now with eyes brown and unaware
something makes a sound, a movement making you shiver

when on your right a banded spitting cobra appears
with the woman leaving to prepare sausage
when it immediately rears

and girly is ready with the food, ready to deliver
and it gives her a great scare.
Fishing for carp, with a six-pack cooling in the river

and in your mind you are crunching gears
and you wish for her to be anywhere, but right there,
with the woman leaving to prepare sausage

and you are angry at the old deceiver
while she brings a tray full of goodies with loving care,
something makes a sound, a movement making you shiver

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poem by Gert Strydom
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Grandpa Danie Brand [2]

After taking part
as a youngster of sixteen
in the second Anglo-Boer war
where he had to spend nights in the open veldt

fired so much on the British
that his hands were full of blisters
from the rifle
of which the barrel got white hot

he married Lenie Swanepoel in 1918,
was really in love with her
and from 1926 he farmed on the farm Welgemeen
near to Steekdoorns in the Vryburg district

where he himself build his own homestead
from Josef’s stone and put up fences
and turned the wild veldt
into a viable farm.

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poem by Gert Strydom
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The empty evenings are the most difficult (in answer to Mandi Engelbrecht)

The empty evenings are the most difficult
when alone I write poems,
when I sometimes listen to Classic Fm
while I have got nothing to do,

the two old people
go to bed when darkness comes
and we say our prayers,

at times they insist
that I watch a religious DVD with them
and they talk about the news
and newspaper reports

but much too soon the evening is past
and the cocker spaniel
looks at me with her dark eyes

while the Persian cat goes outside to hunt,
and I read poems of some English friends

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poem by Gert Strydom
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Klipdrift basic training camp

The sun inspects
rows and rows of trees
and at night
the moon is at ease while every thing freezes

and when as a citizen you pass the gate
you become part of the machine
that hurries up and waits
and even if you have a brazen soul

some idiot with two chevrons
and crossed swords on his sleeve
makes you run to and fro
as if there is nowhere else to go

and you will not leave
this hell of a place
before he has made you run, leopard crawl
carry the pole and pee in the hole ten thousand times

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poem by Gert Strydom
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