Gert Strydom Poems

Here I am to confess that
patriotism and glory during wars
are just lies coined by politicians
who haven’t got the guts
...

It’s quiet, very quiet in the veldt
even the crickets and grasshoppers
are without sound
...

Blockhouses had been erected right over the country,
farms had been entered and burnt to the ground,
Livestock and animals had been slaughtered
and women and children were rounded up
...

From pools of blood bushes, trees
and aloes grow in the veldt
where British soldiers
fired on my countrymen
...

The old brown and white photograph
of my grandfather and his brothers
fading somewhat after more than a century
show four young men
...

While walking in the park
we followed a road
twisting past a old green battle tank,
...

The sulphur sky stretched from horizon
to horizon above me
without a cloud to be seen
or a speck of a single bird,
...

Nobody saw him, the dead man
but still he was there
lying in the sun in the park
as he did the day before.
...

The golden cocker spaniel
tried to catch some sacred ibises
where they were pecking
the ground
...

Painting calmed you,
brought tranquillity to your soul
more that a cup of tea could do
...