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Penveer is a platform for avid poets and authors to share their poetry and creative writing. Once registered, users can submit poems of no longer than 24 lines and short stories of a maximum of 500 words.
20:05 (GMT+2), Wed, 14 October 2015
DREAMS Why do dreams invade my rest; take me on journeys East to West; to places where I’ve never been; and people I have never seen; sometimes so clear, I feel I am there and sometimes sinister and full of fear. What happens on this nocturnal flight? when I travel through the endless night? Are dreams just thoughts in my mind? or are they there to help me to find answers to questions that bother me? Are they trying to set me free by sending me from pillar to post waking me when I need sleep most? Elusive, mysterious things are dreams which no one can understand it seems.
Posted by LULUMEYER | Comments Comments (0)
This is Brazil – Christ the Redeemer
11:44 (GMT+2), Tue, 28 April 2015
You always remember your first or so they say… It was the first time Mother & I left the country together. Boarding a flight to Brazil, it still seems unreal. Majestic mountains, multitudes of people singing and dancing, delicious foreign cuisine, cosmic colourful beaches, and a kaleidoscope of people surrounding us is just the tip of what we experienced. For two weeks this felt like home. Communicating with hand gestures and traveling like tourists, with paper maps we navigated our way around São Paulo and Rio de Janeiro. It rained for days on end but we were determined to see Christ. After several busses, trains and a shuttle from Ilha do Governador we finally arrived at Corcovado. As if that wasn’t enough we still had to walk up uncountable steps to reach the top of the mountain. The magnitude of the moment was too insurmountable to put into words. We were in total awe, soaking wet and speechless. At last! We met our Redeemer and what an encounter it was. The words of Isaiah 52:7 dawned upon me, How lovely on the mountains are the feet of Him. The moment was larger than life itself just like the statue. The view was just as spectacular, picture perfect postcard quality. I waved the South African flag, our symbol of hope in front of Him who is our representation of peace, Mother even took a picture. A remarkable moment I wouldn’t mind to relive. Spiritually this was what I needed. To remind myself that God puts things into perspective. Cristo Redentor’s open arms welcomes people of all races, cultural backgrounds and continents. I was lucky enough to be one of those people.
Posted by LMA | Comments Comments (0)
Hey Brother!
09:53 (GMT+2), Tue, 17 March 2015
Hey Brother I know I'm a Good Lover! I gave u everything, and u gladly took it from me. my music, my dance, and my poetry. all i have now is rhythm less words. hey brother, i know i'm a good lover! somebody sing me a song help me find myself hey brother, i know i'm a good lover! in the process of loving u, caring for you, putting u first, and telling the world that you are the only one for me i neglected myself, i forgot that i 2 needed love! hey brother, i know i'm a good lover! with out any assistance, i have loved u everyday! i wrote u love poems, even named my pot plant after u, just to b sure tht it gets sm sunlight and water. hey brother, i know i'm a good lover! but now i am tired of dancing with myself and my love is 2 beautiful 2 have been thrown back in my face hey brother, i know i'm a good lover!
Posted by Leblackpoet | Comments Comments (0)
Toe kind was nog 'in' was...
07:26 (GMT+2), Tue, 17 March 2015
Ek het nog altyd geskryf soos wat ek praat.
Plat, eenvoudig en carefree.
Na al die jare is ek steeds dieselfde.
’n Kind.

My hart verlang na die dae
toe ’n Barbie al was wat ek wou hê.
Die dae
toe ons grootste vrees mondeling was.

Ek onthou die dae
toe ons paddavissies in die vlei gevang het,
die dae
toe ons in die veld agter die huise rond gehardloop het
opsoek na veldblomme en sprinkane.

Ek onthou die dae
toe ons boomgeklim het
en ons nerwe af geval het,
die dae toe ons nog wegkruipertjie gespeel het.

Ek onthou die dae
toe ons tol gegooi het,
loeshokkie gespeel het,
en albaster geskiet het
dat die grond onder ons naels vassit.

Ek onthou die dae
toe ons saans tok-tokkie gespeel het.
Ek onthou die dae
toe al die pad-kinders byeengekom het
om krieket te speel,
die dae
toe dit nog oukei was om alleen by die huis winkeltjie ’n brood te gaan koop.

Ek onthou die dae
toe my Ma ons saans moes roep om huis toe te kom voor die skemer val.
Ek onthou die dae
toe my Pa ons biblioteek toe geneem het
om boeke te gaan uitneem.

Ek onthou die dae
toe almal Egoli gekyk het op MNet Open Time.
Ek onthou die dae
toe dit nog kwai was om fiets te ry om die blok,
toe ons nog tou gespring het,
toe ons nog wol gebind het om skipping te speel,
toe ons nog klap-ska-loe-loe gespeel het.

Ek onthou die dae
toe tienerswangerskap nog ’n skande was.
Die dae
toe DStv, Mxit, Facebook en Twitter nog onbekend was,
die dae
toe Hemelvaart nog ’n publieke vakansie dag was.
Die dae
toe ons blomme in ons hare gesit het
om die begin van lente te verwelkom.

O hoe het die tye verander.
Dinge was destyds soos my taal.
Plat, eenvoudig en carefree.
Hoe anders is dinge tog nou…
net soms,
verlang ek na die dae toe kind was nog ‘in’ was.
Posted by LMA | Comments Comments (0)
chicken farm
13:15 (GMT+2), Fri, 24 October 2014
I saw some pictures today
Of a farm far away
And it took me right back
To when my life was off track

I remembered so clearly
How I came there so weary
Dave gave me a home
When I was broken and alone

The best time I’ve had there
Though nowhere have I cried so many a tear
Those beautiful sunsets, as God paints thy sky
Oh, and that mountain, it still makes me cry
Wherever I go I can never forget
The brush strokes above, orange, purple, blue and red

Bruce on the tractor
Patric on the back-actor
That four-o-clock rooster I swore I would cook
But never could find, wherever I’d look

Lulu and its sticks
And little baby sticks
Annett saying hi
Whenever she passed by

The gumtree by André’s gate
Where I met my Jesus, one night late
When I looked out the door of my green chicken hock
I could see the cross, my anchor, my rock

God’s home next door
Merle’s paintings, ceiling to floor
Wednesday night soup
All welcome to the group

I remember the places
And the friendly faces
A place of healing
And that great freedom feeling
Posted by Elaine | Comments Comments (0)
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