"veldt" poems
Don't tell me you love me
I've heard it before
The words have no meaning
I need to have more
Don't tell me you need me
That might not be true
For words without substance
Mean less than they do
Actions speak louder than words
I know what you're saying
But, I haven't heard
You have to show more
In a physical way
You've got to show actions
If you want me to stay
If I hear "I'm sorry" again
I will show you the door dear
"I'm sorry" is empty, vacant, a veldt
It's not what I need, It's what you think I should hear
Show me some actions
Back up what you say
After all, words mean nothing
They're just the script for this play
Show me you love me
Don't just say "I do"
I want you to mean it
Show me something new
The words have no feeling
The emotion is gone
It's like you're reading the lyrics
To a music-less song
Actions speak louder than words
I can hear what you're saying
But, with no meaning it hurts
I need reinforcement, it's simple you see
Because Actions speak louder than words
So show me you love me
Don't tell me again
Your words have a hollow, dead sound
So show me with actions, that I am the one
If you want to keep me around
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 11:39 PM UTC
"There are animals in the road"
the traffic reporter said
"We're not told what they are
find another route instead"
And so I got to wondering
though I wasn't going that way
what the mystery beasties were
that were on the road that day
Were they a herd of wildebeeste
who took a wrong turn on the veldt
or perhaps a wayward mule train
delivering some sacks of spelt
Maybe a team of trainee reindeer
diverted from the North Pole
or a bunch of llamas from Peru
that fell through a wormhole
Or bears, or wolves, or lions
could be zebras or kangaroos
surely not beached aquatic mammals
or elephants trumpeting the blues
Exotic beasts seemed unlikely though
it was more likely cattle or sheep
though it could have been migrating badgers
moving goalposts somewhere safe to keep
Cynthia Pauline Jones, 27/10/13
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 8:36 AM UTC
Fighting demons
Bursting bubbles
He's in my head
Among the rubbles
Seeing that most things get done
He works at it from moon till sun
He tilts at windmills only he can see
Please meet.... Don Quixote
My affliction
or my soul
hearing voices
takes its toll
Fighting what may not be there
And if it's not, why should I care?
Before the windmills in my mind
Don Quixote....you will find
An empty veldt of muddled thoughts
On a crooked road to nowhere
A wasteland of x's and noughts
With no way to get there
A wilderness of abstract themes
And wishes that I need share
The guardian of what I write
Tilting windmills in my minds air
Hidden loves
Broken hearts
So much to do
just where to start
No Sancho Panza by his side
In my head he's stuck inside
Keeping madness at arms length
Don Quixote...my minds strength
Unfinished tales
Broken dreams
So little time
Or so it seems
A wayward soldier on his way
What windmills will he fight today?
The thoughts I write reveal what's me
Allowed outside by Quixote
An empty veldt of muddled thoughts
On a crooked road to nowhere
A wasteland of x's and noughts
With no way to get there
A wilderness of abstract themes
And wishes that I need share
The guardian of what I write
Tilting windmills in my minds air
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 1:00 PM UTC
They throw in Drummer Hodge, to rest
Uncoffined—just as found:
His landmark is a kopje-crest
That breaks the veldt around:
And foreign constellations west
Each night above his mound.
Young Hodge the drummer never knew—
Fresh from his Wessex home—
The meaning of the broad Karoo,
The Bush, the dusty loam,
And why uprose to nightly view
Strange stars amid the gloam.
Yet portion of that unknown plain
Will Hodge for ever be;
His homely Northern breast and brain
Grow to some Southern tree,
And strange-eyed constellations reign
His stars eternally.
3.7k
Is tamed wildness
And manufactured wilderness-
A plastic world
All my young son will know?
I have known gritty gravel roads
And sunburnt savanah veldt.
Swam and splashed
in muddy dams and reservoirs.
I have sat high above,
in mountain peaks studying clustered clouds
close enough to reach out and run my fingers through by day,
and I have counted the dancing stars above
in vast dark nights.
I have discovered treasures in the misty valleys on early mornings
And seen sun streak through
heavy storm clouds
to colour a grey sky with radiant rainbows.
I have seen surreal snow fall
And slowly erase the world around us.
I have seen majestic beasts truly free-
Wildebeests, various buck and cautious rhinos,
Zebras that danced and played
Around an elephant that loomed high above them,
And elegant wings that whispered
upon westerly winds.
And it has all left me marked,
these magical moments tattooed in
my south african soul-
And I am more for it - filled.
what will feed their sould now?
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 3:34 PM UTC
I friend-zoned myself, i don't know why
Bitterness i felt, i think this is good bye
My frozen heart has melt, by that sweet lullaby
By this phase i dealt, as a man don't cry
As i lay down through the veldt, i look at the sky
I will wait, i will wait, my princess is waiting.
I will strive, i will strive, the bard is coming.
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 6:00 PM UTC
Before the time of Legions strong
When Romans wore their tresses long,
Before the ape man rose *****
To view the world as circumspect,
Before the storms of red dust came
To render this parched land arcane,
There grew a tree of ugly norm
Of massive girth and height and form,
Ungainly so and so immense
As to astound thee to commence,
To fear the very sight beheld
On Africa’s savannah veldt.
The baobab rose from the plain
Unearthly, in demonic name,
An apparition to dismay
All those who dare to come this way.
Vaulting from savannah grass
To clasp the heavens in it's grasp
Then spread its’ limbs, as if to be,
All silhouettes’ eternity.
Giant Aloft in giant-less land,
Far more than thee would understand,
Mystic in its’ silent way
Eternal as the light of day,
Starkly silhouetted sight
Affronting delving sunset’s might.
M.
18 January 2016
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 11:01 PM UTC
It is with great sadness that I must announce that wit has withered and died. Actually, it probably died years back, but, like a character on a soap opera, it returns in flashbacks on occasion.
The ability to use wit to insult, as Will Rogers, Dorothy Parker, and the great writers of the past is no more. The use of wit to make someone leave feeling good about themselves, while having just been put in their place verbally, is an art.
I told someone the other day that he was a veldt of intellect, he didn’t know what veldt meant, I could see from the complete look of “duh” on his face. He told me **** off….and then after I laughed, he said it again.
This is the replacement comeback now….fuck off. Witty…at the least. Groucho Marx, was great with the witty comeback, Noel Coward was a genius with his ability to use wit to disarm a situation. Now, **** off. yep….that’s it.
If, wit has a resurgence and there is a verbal afterlife, let’s hope **** off is left at the door, holding a copy of watchtower.
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 12:02 PM UTC
Lions roar in the distance
Heartbeat pounding beside you
Looking out over the African veldt
Birds fly above
You wonder
Who passes out liberty
The ability to soar freely
The ability to choose
Why hath thee not chosen thy own path
Why art thee trapped
In shadows
Of some days
Bright red
Others yellow
Yet more so
A shade of darkness
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 8:21 AM UTC
Broad shouldered lions
stand over the ocean’s quietude,
roaring thunder in the surf,
thudding sand laden questions
with salt soaked and matted paws.
Surly supplicants beseech the sea,
whose tides answer only to the sun and moon.
A lions home is the African veldt,
so, go home king of hearts…
The seeker leads and the answers follow.
For, what gives the lion his strength,
is the softness of his dreams.
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 3:19 AM UTC
Beautiful pair of dove
Veiling their head in neck
Avoiding the hearty gaze
Love That's beyond love
With the twit in the beak
They twitch, Twirl and toss
From Rome, Italy to Paris
In the sky of Candy floss
Like a snow covered dame
And the snowman in the veldt
Forms the heart of snow
In which the atmosphere melts
Windy air and ****
Cooing voice and bliss
Beautiful pair of dove
Veiling their head in neck
Avoiding the hearty gaze
Love that 's beyond the love
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 6:29 PM UTC
There are butterflies in your stomach?
They flutter when you see him;
a furious blush paints your face,
raw brush strokes and
unadulterated emotion
leaving behind a rich pigment
known as cluelessness.
Mix in a bit of pallor,
and it's embarrassment.
They beat their mosaic-printed wings
with a stumble of your feet
or a failed exam,
a 68 in Applied Physics
when you should have pulled a crisp 69.
They find Eden-tier gardens with excitement
on par with that of a pajama-clad kid on Christmas morning,
and I bet you relish in the feeling.
But little did you know,
Miss Little Innocent sitting there
with her head weighed down
with her heavy thoughts and knock-off Docs
pigeon-toed in a less than symbol
(don't you know that, sixty-eight?),
had elephants,
prides of lions,
*********
the whole savanna
housed inside her ribcage,
bones rattling from deafening roars;
a cognizant mind stumbling from the seismic waves
of leviathan footsteps,
shaking the ground she walks on.
The pain in her chest,
the god awful attempts to provide
for her own microcosmic ecosystem
wracked her frail frame without mercy.
She continued to bounce her knees
and answer your questions
with breathy, exhausting syllables,
but you put yourself out of commission.
You write and write about your butterflies,
but think about how
it must feel to have to accept
lionesses gnawing on your shoulderblades.
Would you ask for your beautiful ******** back?
Jan 3, 2018
Jan 3, 2018 at 9:46 AM UTC
nowadays they have to pinch the ends
of their cigarettes before they cross the threshold no longer allowed to herd the crumbling swarms of ash across the gingham veldt
outside the window, on the pavement, lies a bible and the radio declares their readiness is high
seems like a good night to let the smokers in and warm around a last embered light
on the table I browse the “priest“ they called him
in the centrefold, deep in the heart, a flyer,
man’s journey into christ,
I guess we’ll find out soon enough the veracity of the divine
but until the young-un and the white horse riders have decided who can piss the highest
leave us to the daily diary and its tales of
days of ******* each other’s husbands and wives
I bought a Dylan Thomas book one the way home, from the junk shop,
when I got it back I saw blood on the back cover
I licked my finger to wipe it off but she said “no!
you fool“
sure it carried the plague of some cursed lover
I plagiarise myself
a drink is most definitely in order
the tawny coolness tock tick toxic keen as the sharpest dissection
and then you can find me not just like everybody else but just like
everybody else, lying, hemi-hydrate, below the bridled tension
of life’s meniscus
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 3:43 PM UTC
Wild dogs of the veldt
stocking shelves in aisle three
stalking gazelles
with me in supermarkets
in Savannah
Predatory packs of discount snacks
Toto on the radio
but Georgia always on my mind
Yes, ma'am, I will gladly help you find
the best watering hole
this side of my primitive soul
But, pray, don't leave me in the morningtime
before I've got the chance to find
a ride home
Aug 25, 2020
Aug 25, 2020 at 4:09 PM UTC