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A Healthier Easter
This is the first Easter
No candy baskets will be here
But we had so many baskets
Each and every year.
The kids are older now
Candy they don’t want anymore
So this Easter the baskets sit empty
Behind the closet door.
Somehow I want the Easter Bunny here
Want those baskets filled with eggs so bright
But my teens want to be healthier
So they make sure that they eat right.
They forfeit sugar and junk
No more Peeps or a big chocolate bunny
But being without Easter Baskets on Easter
Seems to be very odd and funny.
So I am putting the word out
To the Easter Bunny in my town
That I don’t think the teens will mind
If you decide to come around.
Maybe you could leave some health bars
Perhaps some fruit and veggies too
And maybe you could put some books in there
Those things could still say “I love you”.
poem by Connie Webb
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Neither the baskets of the farmer nor the baskets of the abbey.
A War Song Of Tyrol
'WILD eagle of the Tyrol,
Why are thy feathers red?'
'I 've been to greet the morning
On Ortler's crimsoned head!'
'Gray eagle of the Tyrol,
'T is not the morning light
Drips from the soaring pinions
That wing thine airy flight.
'Proud eagle of the Tyrol,
Why are thy claws so red?'
'I 've been where Etschland's maidens
The ruddy vintage tread.'
'Gray eagle of the Tyrol,
Red runs our Tyrol wine;
But redder ran the vintage
That stained those claws of thine.
'Wild eagle of the Tyrol,
Why is thy beak so red?'
'Go ask the gorge of Stilfes,
Where lie the Saxon dead!
'The grapes were ripe in August
Wherewith my beak is red;
The vines that gave that vintage
No other wine will shed:
My beak is red with battle;
I've been among the dead!'
poem by Silas Weir Mitchell
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0097 The vintage of a lifetime
As some sun-ripened vineyard-owner, rich
in slow maturing wisdom gained through time,
before that noble rot of trodden grape
yields untold harvest of a well lived life-
and proud that with his daily-tended skills
he'll win a vintage he will never taste -
so I, who seek to daily tend life's yield,
distil a vintage I shall never taste.
Mayhap some pencilled notes from wisdom's root
shall grow new generation's richer fruit.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Vintage Stuff
sweet
finds it misery
thou looking alluring taste
stopped eyes
poignantly crazy, hail on the
ride seems happy, a
mixed feeling brings another date to
find what is great
mix it up,
with the Vintage stuff in my hand
the future is on
my command shouts the liner
game, sleep tells
another story
yet, when the eyes find its
beauty the beholder resists looking for
another victory, wearing the key of
heart that goes, let all
the sweet story
fell the emptiness of your smile
and settle down that haven
for me
interest determined the truth of every
journey, find the Vintage
high way my friend.....
poem by Antonio Liao
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Basket Dance
Dance!
Dance!
The priest is yellow with sunflower meal,
He is yellow with corn-meal,
He is yellow as the sun.
Dance!
Dance!
His little bells are ringing,
The bells tinkle like sunlight,
The sun is rising.
Dance!
Dance!
Perhaps I will throw you a basket,
Perhaps I will throw you my heart.
Lift the baskets, dancing,
Lower the baskets, dancing,
We have raised fruits,
Now we dance.
Our shadows are long,
The sunlight is bright between our shadows.
Do you want my basket?
Catch it!
Catch it!
But you cannot catch me,
I am more difficult.
poem by Amy Lowell
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Odd Balls
Who needs other people coming to deliver,
Baskets of grief as if fruit to eat.
Respect is what is needed,
To help lift those tensions,
With relief.
Expressing respect,
Should be one's prime delivery.
False sympathies spoken,
From those hearts deep in misery.
Hinders the healing of the ones who leave,
Agonies felt,
Behind them as they mend.
They wish not to hear them over and over again.
Those that are able to reflect from mistakes,
Are free to welcome happiness,
With a shedding of that which has caused heartbreak.
And doing what it takes,
To stand strong and tall to then walk away.
Who needs other people coming to deliver,
Baskets of grief as if fruit to eat.
With a convincing attempted,
To get attention as they speak...
How people who are honest and truth seekers,
Are the 'odd balls' to disbelieve.
People nourishing insecurities,
Love to feed them as if they are welcomed company.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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It's dress in a man, bindings in baskets' edge.
It's dress in?a man, bindings in baskets' edge.
On the Wheels We Go (song)
On the wheels we go
Screeching sounds on the bow
Woofers woofers on the move
With the hips ya shake
My love for the kiss
Vintage cover red in bloom
On the wheels we go
O Lala lala laala lalaa
From the city to the wild
Like boys on horses
Like your eyes wide
To the moon to the moon
On the wheels we go
My love is mine
Her lips so sweet
In the sultry afternoon
On the wheels we go
To the moon to the moon
From the stars we bring
Love sweet luck sweet
Honey come ride with me
On my vintage so smooth
On the wheels we go
To the moon to the moon
On the wheels we go
To the moon to the moon
27/5/2009
poem by Sadiqullah Khan
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(It’s useless to attempt to) carry water in baskets.
A bush that doesn't rotate baskets must not grow mushrooms.
There is no distinction among the common baskets made of palm branches.
All that we know is nothing, we are merely crammed wastepaper baskets, unless we are in touch with that which laughs at all our knowing.
quote by David Herbert Lawrence
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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It is only the early risers who succeed in filling their baskets with white ants.
Everything I buy is vintage and smells funny. Maybe that's why I don't have a boyfriend.
Season of Mists
I thank you for your view of a view of autumn, Keats
who never saw your own autumn with its actual pitfalls.
Yours was the autumn of childhood, of hope, or romance, of belief,
my mother's autumn though not that of her hardworking family,
yours was never my father's autumn, season of mists,
and yours is not mine. My autumn
for all I would like to subscribe to your lavish play,
is like yours only in single ways each year,
perhaps there are swallows making a din,
or plums and apples falling wasp-eaten, unharvestable.
There is no sickle in my vocabulary or shed,
my autumn is based more on dread of the winter
and having had so little time each summer
to tidy or attend to the garden. Last year
early snow fell on flower baskets ditched from the street
and remained both snow and baskets until the spring
leaving me two seasons behind, without strategy
for a fast approaching repeat autumn, little wonder
and no chance to make anything faintly rhyme,
such is our modern poetry and life
poem by Sally Evans
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They're dressing like in the 50's when they come out to the shows, and many of them have vintage cars.
quote by Wanda Jackson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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