Gert Strydom Poems

Each and every weekday
grips with its own ferocity,
as if life was meant to be
made of days of labour.
...

When her fingers
lightly ripple the water,
a row of fishes
dart to come to investigate.
...

I killed them and still
they rose to haunt me
in my sleep
and death’s hand
...

There’s a bottle coca-cola
that stands icy and black
on my desk, .
...

When Michael or Gabriel
comes for me
do not write
RIP on my grave
...

I knew a man
who met a working girl
and with a twirl
of her head,
...

Like a little boy
he wants to play
with the rescue and fire helmets
and opens the glass cabinet
...

At times
my work, the church
and to drive in a car
becomes to much for me.
...

I knew a boy
who claimed
that doing drugs
and sleeping around
...

Without any rebellion
and without a great bleating
did the lamb
lie down,
...