Wie ein Wirbelwind irren meine Gedanken, ganz ohne Schranken. Würd so gern wachsen, betrachtet werden oder mich einfach zur Ruhe begeben, doch in meinem Kopf sind andere Dinge die mich bewegen.
Immerzu kreisen meine Gedanken, ganz ohne Schranken. Die Hand, die mich von hinten umfasst, meinen Körper entlangstreicht und mich zu sich zieht, bis mein Gehirn sich keinen Ausweg mehr sieht. Mein Herz und mein Kopf sehnen sich nach Liebe und Geborgenheit, wie eine ungegossene Pflanze, die um Hilfe schreit. Die Tulpe, die sich nach nichts mehr sehnt als Zuwendung und doch wird sie als selbstverständlich angesehen und erfährt nur Schändung. Ja, so kreisen meine Gedanken, ganz ohne Schranken und ich wünsche dich zu mir, doch du bist nicht hier. Wo ich dich doch bräucht, wie die Tulpe die Sonne um zu entfalten ihre ganze Wonne.
Written: March 18, 2025 for contest Sponsored by: Rick Parise
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A tall tree stands quietly, imparting its tales,
dew drops fall like stars in the morning.
Flowers develop beautifully before tossing,
the sky gradually shifts color, to our avail.
Nature's ever-changing splendor is shown,
life's passing events are cleanly captured.
Solitude fosters heartfelt attraction backward,
stillness possesses what time implies on its own.
Watching seasons perform in their ballet,
dinge is a profuse nostrum nature may spray.
Every breath causes life to wither and sway,
leaves become gold and then float away.
Each night she left him bleary -
his mind foaming in a glass
of Guiness.
Disappointments wore her life thin,
nuptials picked to a fugue and dinge,
by his thick-tongued spiel.
“I can change him.”
Nothing changed.
Long she withered and waned.
Friends doled out sympathy
like spreadable butter,
yet her bread was dry.
Long she withered.
Daily she wiped
a vinyl calico tabletop
wet with spilled beer
and self-pity.
She got a second job.
Fashionable spring swirls her leaves, in a fancy cloak
Waltzing winter rapidly over the hill, beyond the rise.
April sneers as grass hoppers flick from blade to blade
Have they returned to life?
From their snow coffins?
Luxury and joy are tossed about by daffodil showmen
They have popped through the last threads of gray white snow
Looking perky and fresh against the cold dinge.
Sun comes back to take additional licks of the cold stuff
By Wednesday the monarch will be here
The rabbits are ready.
Daar is soveel dinge wat ek wou vra.
Soveel meer wat ek kon leer.
Maar nou is dit te laat.
Oupa het ons verlaat.
Oupa het ons gegroet
toe God vir oupa roep.
Ek wil nie meer kyk
of myself vergryp
aan die dinge van die vlees
wat my wil oorheers.
Ek roep na die Vader
Hy trek my nader.
Selfs in die donker
is Hy my genadig.
The Master of Nuances
Supreme literary intensity
Rainer Maria Rilke—
Inspired as Orpheus sings
Predilection for Die Dinge
A mastery of true nuances
A thirst for poetic symbols
He sings now with Orpheus
And the angels in Heaven.
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved
December 5, 2016 (Verse)
Amidst the hues of grassy green
wildflowers peer in scanty folds
between the thistle, of blue-gray,
they drink not of the morning's dew
for it lingers less in drier air,
yet grow within the barren brae.
Scant fuchsia and amethyst shades
adorn the parched and dusty soil
below the mountain's rocky ledge,
where clouds of pink swirls linger
above the snow capped tips
as the sun slips atop its edge.
I stand beneath the crimson glow
as it brushes against small streams
reflecting, an iridescent salmon tinge
then fades within the shade
cast beneath scarcely grown pines
amongst the mountain's dinge.
July 29, 2019
Tricon Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Emile Pinet
The African Heat
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Seyon felt a silent pain;
Almost agony
People feel at the knowledge that
They are dispensable after all
She had also felt
The shame of a child who sees a grown - up
Suddenly caught in the act of chasing
A butterfly over velds and roads.
Wel, dit is 'n spreekwoord;
The African heat
Does things to women,
Miskien vreemde dinge
Strange things.
GHOPS
Wisdom murmurs amid paucity of things—
seekers contemplative in cross-legged trance.
Pondering vaguities pensive meditation brings—
to apprehend with nonchalance of glance.
While to acolytes, such subtleties impinge—
denied are those of stifled grasp.
For in their minds a fetid dinge,
mundane failure to enclasp.
Stunted ones thus held in thrall,
ever signal their incurious pose.
While unmuted is a mounting wrawl,
from those abhorrent in appose.
The blind above in fog would lead,
who daily task us for our gaze.
They tire us with unending screed,
and we ignore while they abrase.
Rather would I summon stillness—
watch quiet water smooth a stone.
Free myself of this world’s illness—
love gently life I choose alone.
Ek het jou lief
Ek het jou lief , nie net vir wat jy is nie ,
maar vir wat ek word waneer ek by jou is .
ek het jou lief nie net vir die hoogtes wat jy bereik nie
maar vir die hoogtes waarheen jy my lei.
Ek het jou lief , vir die goeie dinge wat jy in my na vore bring.
Ek het jou lief, omdat jy al my swakhede oorsien wat ek niekan mis kyk nie,
en omdat jy die lig en verborge skoonheid in my raak sien
wat ander nie die moeite doen om te vind nie.
Ek het jou lief, omdat jy die moontlikheid van swakheid in my igroneer
en omdat jy slegs agslaan op die moontlikheid van goeie in my.
Ek het jou lief omdat jy jou ore sluit vir die wan klanke in my
, en eeder vir my musiek vir die lewe bring.
Ek het jou lief omdat jy my help met die balke in my lewe
sodat ek eendag 'n tempel daarmee kan bou.
Ek het jou lief omdat jy daarin geslaag het om my gelukkig te maak
waneer ek nie eers wou smile nie.
jy het dit gedoen . . . Nie deur aanraking nie .... Sonder 'n teken ... Net deur jou self te wees.
ek het jou onvoorwaardelik lief?
Seeing my dignity FADE into obscurity,
Am I who i am supposed to be?
Is this all of me?
Watching the CLOCK. Noticing hours
Slowly slowly drip drip
I sit in my corner writing in my journal.
I sit in my corner waiting for my name to be
Called for LINEN.
I hear the din from other areas.
I sit in my corner, I am not dethroned.
Waiting to be called for supp
I am not alone.
My journal as my comforter my confidant
My home.
Peering through the dinge of a broken window pane.
Watching for the elite parade of stars as NIGHT falls
Tripping over the moon.
my anonymity is stalking the streets
like a preoccupation. mornings, slowly I creep
into august daylight, filling beat boroughs.
passing the time: digging fake burrows:
motel rabbitrooms don't come with sheets:
boxes gloomy in the dinge; dead-end streets.
dark corners; alleys; clean and replete.
rowers; faces; kept random, entreat
to be shadowed and cut - copied and reprinted:
E. de Silhouette: silk-screen and tinted.
marionette hands are fire-flies nigh night
like acariasis-itchy eyes: broken from sight
watching the downpour:
downbeat and worn
like tire-worm whitewalls:
peeling and torn.
the blanched, arched faces
(trampled like elephant’s acacia)
are garnets staring blankly at me
between the tiny gaps of a wintertime fleece
a paisley studded blanket, wrapped knee-high round niece.
running tubes from great maple: palsied cold saps
berry's blood ulcer pours like paint with no cap
from a bucket it spills: unravels, unwraps.
It splashes my feet then runs red and abrupt;
silvery and smooth, sanguis from a cup.
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