Monday, 26 February 2018

why one

one snow flake fell
drifting softly
past the window
which needed cleaning
why one
the answer to so much in life
is why
why does the grey feel drawn to me
a silent stalker
eating away at the edges of me
until I question who
and what I am
like sun damage
invisible at first and then
appearing in rough and darkened patches
on my soul



Copyright © 2018 by Eryll Oellermann

Monday, 19 February 2018

today is monday

today we are shrouded in cloud
or mist, that whipe vaporous stuff
that obscures ones sight
limiting distance and blurring definition
peaceful it is, the world when covered
with mother nature’s soft blankie
I hear the rooks call out
before they loom into sight
to settle in the branches
of the old unleafed oak tree
a good day to wander
an old forgotten grave yard
paying homage to the past
while descended cloud moisturises
this worn and wrinkled african face



Copyright © 2018 by Eryll Oellermann

Monday, 14 December 2015

the always unknown




the grey the grey
sky grey mind grey
why fight
the creeping mist
the underneath of anger
sink into the place
the place where no questions ask
of yes and no
or even maybe
fall into the cloud
of no answers required
heavy heavy heavy
bound to the unquiet of my mind
lose myself there
free of responsibility
cast away
the anchor of decisions
float free within the turgid waters flow
until another time another place
exist
not live
waiting for what for who
the new tomorrow …
the always unknown


Copyright © 2015 by Eryll Oellermann

Friday, 29 May 2015

The sleeper



sleep dances
elusive in the moonlight
just beyond my reach
while a hundred small aches
remind me of the passing years
frustration drives me from my bed
padding barefoot
through the moonlit house
in search of anything
to break the turning tossing pattern
of my nights
the perfect sleeper
sleeps no more

Copyright © 2015 by Eryll Oellermann

Copyright © 2014 by Eryll Oellermann


rails








rails” she said, “write of rails”
hand rails, towel rails, stair rails
railway rails
tracks coming to and from
my first love
well, not the first
but teenage love, heart bursting kisses
strong arms to experience
male hands teaching touch
train cars swaying
twin rails merge and disappear
in the distance
lost in a mirage of heat
from bloemfontein to capetown
clickety clack clickety clack
hot hot days
riding on the rails
coal driven steam powered
open windows and bread and butter
soot decorated
the endless karoo, desert flat
in the empty land of dry
trees line the long rail
peach pits carelessly tossed
from carriage windows
taken root and grown against the odds
blue, blue eyes and flashing smile
charm without effort
young love's come true dream
a forever fairytale
grown dusty in time




Copyright © 2014 by Eryll Oellermann


No more than a dream

No more than a dream

Is the darkness of night
caused by absence of light
is the world turning reason
for changes of season
does the rising sun mean
that the dark hours have been
devoured and rejected
and daylight respected
do we dance on our toes
singing praises in prose
will we live till we die
will this day laugh or cry

do these words carry thought
or more casually wrought
no secrets lie hidden
scant sweet love is bidden
we grow old and falter
youth no more our alter
and yet we still follow
thoughts vacant and hollow
the touch of a hand
draw a heart in the sand
as long as we breathe
we continue to weave

sad tales of failure the search for our soul
childhood remembering the death of a mole
barefoot and heat waves tumultuous storms
the gushing down water the great white ant swarms
the roar of the free way the sound of the sea
the buzz of mosquitoes a'feasting on me
my head on your shoulder for comfort and care
no reason was needed for me to rest there
a hot day a cold drink a run through the rain
a cricket sings solo there's the rain bird again
storm lilies will blossom the hot earth will steam
the land of my birth is no more than a dream



Copyright © 2015 by Eryll Oellermann





Tuesday, 26 May 2015

curse the summer


weeds grow so much faster
would I pump and poison
would I slash and mow
by choice
do bowling green lawns
and pristine borders
mean more to me
than life
were I to rebel
disregard the social mores
desist and watch
a meadow grow in natural chaos
where once the discipline
of cut and rake and dig
held sway
would I congratulate myself
or curse the summer
of unstoppable growth


Copyright © 2015 by Eryll Oellermann