These are just a few of my poems ...

Latitudes of Lore

where would we see
as in a dream
the regal and mysterious
Sheba floating by
on a barge, to Jerusalem?

where would we hear
Modjadji the rain queen
ululate as she leads the dance
to invoke rain
amongst the ancient cycads?

In the shadow of Kilimanjaro,
Africa beckons with bony finger.
She spells the coordinates,
the latitudes of lore,
to the ruins of Zimbabwe
and secret elephant graveyards.

Africa, enigmatic, with pulse
tuned to the equatorial heartbeat,
hides behind her veils.

Copyright Delina Greyling
Oct. 2011


MUSICAL PICNIC              

a streak of sunlight tears
the grey fabric of the sky wide open
and the sullen imp which lives within
wets a little finger and holds it to the sky.
A balmy day coming this way!
it clambers out in haste, to seize the moment,
and scampers up the nearest hilltop ...

it’s playtime, bring on the music!

the notes scatter
from a picnic blanket shaken clapped and laid open
with the bass climbing on it steady,
and the violin soars across it like the rays of light
falling through the branches
the timpani thump thump when dew drops from above
slap and fade, slap and fade ...
then the flute drifts across, like a bird floating by
with outstretched wings, riding the thermals

and my soul sings



They look like a first date
her eyes big;  hands clasped awkwardly,
tense, in a seemingly casual pose
under her chin.  A spring unsprung.

He squirms a little in his seat,
folds and unfolds the napkin,
both so shy … Oh Lord, have Mercy!
Bestow on them the gift of ease.

Delina Greyling


was at the fair today,
welcomed by joie de vivre
smiling faces,
joyful utterances ...
mud people with naked bottoms
wiggling along to the beat 
of the drums

girls with painted breasts
jiggling to the tune of the flute
each and all so natural,
the smoky drifts of hemp
in the still air

I bought a beautiful mask
of red leather and white feathers
and wore it, prancing along
in a belly dance rhythm
with the feathers bobbing
in sync with my happy feet

Today, I found my youth again
and clapped and skipped
with the joy of living.
All that I missed was you,
so that I may also have
the joy of loving

Delina Greyling

my soul soars
in a giant arc, like a streaking comet, 
from the land of pines, volcanoes and rivers
to where you are ...

and my love leaps
with it,  spun finely into a filament 
that follows the energy surge 
the cosmic mark of my affection 
and caring ... 

some stargazers see it, 
and say Wow ... What was that? 
it streaked from the west 
like a mystic sign ... 

Just you, at the receiving end, 
feel its warmth and know it 
for what it is ... 
atomized love

Delina Greyling


Slaying Demons

Would it strangle me in the night
wrestle me to the ground
throttle the air out of me
would it blaze me with fiery tongue
scorch my carapace
incinerate my flesh

Does it whirl like a dervish
in canyons of the spirit
seen only in swirls of dust
does it rattle its scales
in caves of remembrance
heard in ripples of thunder

Demons of my own making
now to hit with crossed arms
break the grip and breathe deep
dragons to slay visor down
lance ready, leap the moat ...
thrust straight for the heart

Dust devils chase tumbleweeds
lightning crackles on granite hills
reverberate, fade into the canyons
Clear and sharp, the clatter
and clink of iron shackles
hitting the rocks below

Copyright Delina 2012

Trimming Horns

Chasing a poem as it hops dead logs,
its tail just out of reach of my grasping fingers
I lumber through allegory
and alliteration
in a forest of jumbled words

Tangled in the undergrowth
of my intent to capture the elusive beast
I plunge and grab, wrestle
with rhyme and rhythm
too slippery to hold onto

A cave looms ahead, it slips in
as my heart sinks -- capture was so close!
Then, to my delight, in the next chamber
I find it lassoed, corralled, conquered 
by a circle of poets, trimming its horns

Copyright  Delina Greyling

Flying to You                          

sleep invaded,
my heart beating wildly
at the dream

of your arms around me
your fingers on my cheeks
and in my hair ...
of your mouth
kissing my closed eyes
my mouth kissing 
the hollow of your throat

I toss around
with a bird aflutter in my chest
that wants to fly to you

you were calling to me
in dream time
and I had no Wings

Copyright Delina 2008

Ingwenya and Inyoni

In her voluptuous beauty,
Mabalel sways along the dusty path;
her bangles and ankle rings
bouncing sunlight off the burnished copper

At the riverbank she stoops
to fill the gourd she carried on her head
a kwe-bird rasps its warning (a noisy bird)
as Crocodile glides into the water

Startled, she looks up and sees
nothing but what seems like a floating leaf
drifting lazily towards her
so misleadingly tranquil and serene

Mabalel stoops down again
and the kwe-bird screams a noisy alert
as the agile crocodile
suddenly accelerates and lunges

only to miss - she jumped back
just in time, water spilling from the gourd -
saved from a watery grave
in the teeth of the evil Ingwenya (Zulu word for crocodile)

Ngiyabonga, inyoni, she says to the bird (Thank you, bird)
as she leaves him bread and goes safely on her way

Copyright Delina Greyling 2009


Where Are You

Some days the effort of scouting for a soulmate
asks more than she can give.
Singed by her signal fire,
she yearns to just go home and hibernate

But to hibernate alone is stultifying, so Hopeful Moon
goes out on the ridge again
Hand over her eyes,
she scouts the horizon for her Brave

She knows you are out there ...
put on your standing yellow feather!
Let your horse rear up
and go to her, hooves thundering ….
Setting your sights on the wisp
of smoke still hanging in the air ….

       Copyright Delina 2009


Mozart Concerto for Clarinet

As if in the throes of passion

the clarinetist leans backwards,
slender arms holding the clarinet
aloft in its shimmery beauty.
Sinuously weaving and swaying
she charms the notes out of it
with nimble fingers and controlled breath

The notes tumble out, of longing, of jubilance ...

cocking her head birdlike, immersed in the music,
she tilts her face upwards, eyes closed as in a trance;
the clarinetist sensuously making love to her instrument

Copyright Delina Greyling 2008


a thousand kisses

which have been in bondage,
restrained by a silken knotted string
on a wild heart with no safe outlet ...
waiting for the hand able to untie the knot
and have them spill out, one by one,
tumbling from a place of longing
to a place of exuberance ...

june 2011

copyright Delina Greyling 2011


Trail of Bent Blades

a place to pause - a ledge to stand on
and look back, look down ...
at the morasses we slogged through
the islands of clarity inhabited from time to time

surveying the path along which we progressed
from the vantage point of altitude gained
we can spot the forks in the road,
the wrong turns reveal themselves momentarily
but disappear again, and glancing down the road
of the other option, in hindsight labeled the ‘right’
we see that further down the ‘better’ path
another calamity was waiting ...

The bent blades of grass and odd trampled blossom
bear witness to our passing;
we remember how tall the grass seemed,
how we longed for a compass
by which we could steer for true North ...

But we are indeed up here, on the high side of the mountain
which means we did eventually find our way through Grace granted us ...
Now, our measure is taken not by the trampled blossoms,
but by our hands reaching out to others to help them gain the summit

Copyright Delina Greyling 2009