Gert Strydom Poems

It was my forty sixth year to heaven
and autumn was in the trees
and a slight breeze frizzled my hair
touching me with the first icy fingers
...

Our host a painter
who ran a travel agency
to make a living
said that my normal voice
...

You wanted to know
about evil and good
and God’s brotherhood
...

He paces the space off
between the bars,
draws a cigarette out of his ass
and a match
...

My footsteps resound
on yellow wood floors
and around me rooms are empty
as you have left
...

The hotel room is eight levels up
and a interesting place
to find some intimacy,
to be alone, two people together
...

I went wandering on a journey with you,
exploring the secrets,
the mountains, the valleys
of your body
...

In the garden we sat watching the stars,
talking softly, intimately while she smoked
and the cigarette glowed red
with her perfume and its flavour
...

It was much too hot
in that Pick-a-Pay shopping centre
in the middle of a Pretoria summer
and something went awry
...

That idiot constable
of the South African Police
who was your colleague
gave you a Marijuana cookie
...