some new poems by me

Braaivleis

Dis 'n stomende warm somer-sondag,
Die hemel is koring-blommetjie blou.

Grassnyers brom oor die warm wind,
Vliee en ander goggas gons om my kop.

Die reuk van 'n houtvuur terg en lok,
Terwyl my vuurjie gloei en warmrooi dans.

Die bure se kinders baljaar in die tuin,
terwyl pa's by braaivlies vure bier drink.

So 'n regte lui Suiderafrika somer-sondag,
Met braaivleis, koue bier en uiltjies knip.

Maar ek skrik wakker in die gryse koue,
en kan maar net droom van die sondag somer son.

********

Jy Alleen

Omdat jy woon in my hart,
voel ek al jou smart.

Omdat jy sit aan my sy,
wil ek by jou bly.

Omdat jy my wil verstaan,
het jy my verslaan.

Omdat jy altyd hard probeer,
is jou eer my eer.

Net jy en jou alleen,
wil ek aan my sy he as dit reen.
As die duisternis daar wink,
en wreedaardig daar weerklink.

Hier waar die wereld teen ons staan,
is jy aan my sy en my skerm wat my bewaak.

Hier waar ons swymel deur die see,
is jy nog by my en bereid om hulp te gee.

Hier is ons weerloos teen die vuur,
maar jy steeds by my in ons vermoei'nde uur.

Hier maak ons sin uit woesterny,
en jy altyd by my word ons tog nog eendag vry.

Net jy en jou alleen,
wil ek aan my sy he as dit reen.
As die duisternis daar wink,
en wreedaardig daar weerklink.

I don't know if you can do anything with this one but I wrote it after the last performance conducted by Weiss Doubell after going on pension. Since then We haven't had a single opera in our theatre anymore.

Concerto

The concert master stands,
The oboe gives the "A".

Silence. Pregnant in Anticipation.

The conductor walks on,
Purposeful, tails flapping.

He lifts the baton and gives the upbeat.

The opening chords flow like water through the desert.
Emotion engulfs us, holds us in its velvet hands.
We move and sway in the power of the sound.

Today the joyful cords strike a sad note.

The end of an era has arrived.
The end of our music may be in sight.

The final chord dies away in bitter sweet triumph.
Eyes tear up and hearts are full.

Applause erupts through the stricken silence.

One by one stands in honour of the master.

We see the faces of our beloved colleagues on the stage.
Will we ever create beauty together again?

The painted wooden stage that has seen so much joy and tears,
Resounds in thunderous appreciation.

Will we ever stand there again, sing there again?

Who will sit in these seats?
Will generations to come still enjoy our art of arts?

Reluctantly our standing applause dies down.

Maestro takes his Final bow.

It is done.