Gert Strydom Poems

The words of being in love and love
did past us
while you were reading my poems
...

At the gate to the street
there are dustbins
and rubbish bags heaped up
and you have
...

I

Hunger gnaws at my stomach
and a much deeper hunger of which the pain does not want to fade
...

Bundles of vestibules lay tables full,
anything from pumpkins
to green watermelons,
even milk are ladled out in buckets
...

Out of the mist and rain along the old road
down the slope of a small mountain pass
an old man rides with his bicycle to town
with a plastic bag in which bottles tingle
...

Come to my garden
when purple irises flower perfectly,
morning glories summit over every thing
and be speechless by the glory
...

No feather from Woeperdal,
no fox’s hair that falls somewhere,
no African marigolds in the spring sun
urge me to be as much in love
...

At first we think
that they are Mirages
and know this time
the enemy is going to get
...

If it’s lust or love
nobody will ever know
and the night in front of the hot fireplace
I cannot forget easily
...

In different places
in the city the Holy Ghost
is being sold and people clap hands
and some are pushed
...