When the sappy boughs Attire themselves with blooms, sweet rudiments Of future harvest.
quote by John Philips
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Harvest For The World
All babies together
Evry one a seed
Half of us are satisfied
The other half of us in need
Loves bountiful in us
Tarnished by our greed
Oh, when will there be a harvest.. for the world?
(harvest for the world)
A nations planted
So concerned with gain
As the seasons come and go, we wont wait in vain
Far too many, feelin the strain
(chorus)
(a harvest.. a harvest)
(a harvest.. a harvest)
(a harvest.. a harvest)
(a harvest.. a harvest)
(a harvest for the world)
Dress me up for battle
When all I want is peace
Those of us who pay the price
Come home with the least
And nation after nation, tuning into beasts
(chorus)
When will there be.. a harvest
When will there be.. a harvest
When will there be.. a harvest
When will there be.. a harvest
When will there be.. a harvest
When will there be.. a harvest
When will there be.. a harvest..
song performed by by Duran Duran
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sonnet LIX: Love's Last Gift
Love to his singer held a glistening leaf,
And said: “The rose-tree and the apple-tree
Have fruits to vaunt or flowers to lure the bee;
And golden shafts are in the feathered sheaf
Of the great harvest-marshal, the year's chief,
Victorious Summer; aye, and 'neath warm sea
Strange secret grasses lurk inviolably
Between the filtering channels of sunk reef.
“All are my blooms; and all sweet blooms of love
To thee I gave while Spring and Summer sang;
But Autumn stops to listen, with some pang
From those worse things the wind is moaning of.
Only this laurel dreads no winter days:
Take my last gift; thy heart hath sung my praise.”
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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Harvest and Autumn
Harvest, harvest
all you need,
is food and drink
and fruit indeed.
Harvest friend is harvest moon,
of course.
Autumn, Autumn
Harvest is in Autumn,
oh, what a great time to celebrate! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
poem by Karolina Gosztyla
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Coldness Of The Melon
melon farm
nipping the blooms
for a real harvest
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Another Hope..
When the first hope breathes its last
Another one begins to crawl.
A future stares at it though.
When the crawling ends for once
It sits and looks around
And then reaches out to objects far.
It studies at the school of optimism
But the hands of pessimism grip it next
And it wears an attire of illusion.
The hope blooms in a withering smile
As the images of illusion snare at it for long
And there goes the home bell - it should leave.
It returns to a home deserted
By the lone guardian the bold ego -once a strong friend too
And finds no solace in the vacant chambers of the mind.
The second hope lives alone -how hard!
But no terror enters its domains - ah!
For it should live for a race in dismay...
poem by M.d Dinesh Nair
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What The Heart Of The Poet Said To The 'Bulletin
Tell me not in future numbers
That our thought becomes inane,
That our metre halts and lumbers,
When the Wattle blooms again.
Lies of great men all remind us
We can challenge and restrain
Such attempts to bluff and blind us,
When the Wattle blooms again.
Therefore take our gage of battle!
Freedom reasserts her reign:
We are not dumb, driven, cattle
When the Wattle blooms again.
Doubtless ANSWERS, weekly, daily,
Adding to his heap of slain,
Feels a jar, when Nature gaily
Bids the Wattle bloom again.
Nocent censor! time thou learnest
All this contract may contain —
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
But the Wattle blooms again.
Time may change this loyal journal
From religious to profane,
But a rhythmic law eternal
Makes the Wattle bloom again.
Trust no Flossie, howe'er pleasant,
Sweeps are treacherous, totes are vain;
Banks and scrip are evanescent,
But the Wattle blooms again.
Cultivate no fair ideal;
Own no country-seat in Spain;
All these things must go to Sheol,
Whil'st the Wattle blooms again.
Czar, and Pope, and Dei Gratia
Pass like phantoms of the brain
Never so our bright acacia,
For the Wattle blooms again.
Thus you see, austere and lonely,
Sailing o'er Life's solemn main,
One great fact is certain only —
That the Wattle blooms again.
poem by Joseph Furphy
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Harvest Time
O! beautiful black queen…
You are as sweet as sugar cane….
I can’t control my craving of you…
Sweetness!
Right from the harvest to me…
You, you sweet sugar cane…
My fever has reach an all time high…
Inside I cry and cry…
Why do I let you down?
My sweet, sweet brown sugar…
Are you to sweet for me?
Or am I to weak for you?
Ahhhhh! I’ve love on my mind…
I reach inside my soul…
And feel your sugar…
Stuck to my bones…
That says…
I am not alone…
O! beautiful black and sweet …
Sugar cane…
It’s harvest time…Wake up!
I’m coming for you…
My brown sugar…
poem by whisperkwane Lamb
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There Is A Rose...
There Is A Rose...
There is a rose that blooms for me
Tucked away so quietly
Hidden for only my eye to see
And holding on to my heart's key
There is a rose that blooms for me
There is a rose that blooms for you
Just beyond your loving view
Waiting to be born anew
Waking to your heart's cue
There is a rose that blooms for you
13 Jan 2008
Inspired by Issa - Harvest Moonn
harvest moon -
the field flying
with broken stalks
harvest moon -
no more loud sighs
from the windy fields
harvest moon
thanksgiving incense
trails over fields
harvest moon
the garden echoes with plan
for the next season
inspired by
harvest moon-
some are stretched out
some praying
-Issa,1821
http: //cat.xula.edu/issa/
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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A Calendar of Sonnets: May
O Month when they who love must love and wed!
Were one to go to worlds where May is naught,
And seek to tell the memories he had brought
From earth of thee, what were most fitly said?
I know not if the rosy showers shed
From apple-boughs, or if the soft green wrought
In fields, or if the robin's call be fraught
The most with thy delight. Perhaps they read
Thee best who in the ancient time did say
Thou wert the sacred month unto the old:
No blossom blooms upon thy brightest day
So subtly sweet as memories which unfold
In aged hearts which in thy sunshine lie,
To sun themselves once more before they die.
poem by Helen Hunt Jackson
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First Encounter - RabindranathTagore's paintings
Tagore's Last Harvest
a child putting wings
to his imagination
Tagore's Last Harvest
behind the colours and lines
a child
Tagore's Last Harvest
the nobel laureate dances
with ink and pen
Tagore's Last Harvest
the colourful images
of a colourful life
Last Harvest an exhibition of 49 of Tagore's paintings
are exhibited in Kuala Lumpur Visual Arts Museum for three months
April to July.
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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For each friend, a different dance
our thoughts are the blooms
and the wind our admirers
in so many ways it blows
and each time it does
the petals put on a different dance
into the world we dance
with friends
for each friend a different attire
i put on to show my appreciation
for every friend a different step
in my dance to show my love
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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The Shadowy Waters: The Harp of Aengus
Edain came out of Midhir's hill, and lay
Beside young Aengus in his tower of glass,
Where time is drowned in odour-laden winds
And Druid moons, and murmuring of boughs,
And sleepy boughs, and boughs where apples made
Of opal and ruhy and pale chrysolite
Awake unsleeping fires; and wove seven strings,
Sweet with all music, out of his long hair,
Because her hands had been made wild by love.
When Midhir's wife had changed her to a fly,
He made a harp with Druid apple-wood
That she among her winds might know he wept;
And from that hour he has watched over none
But faithful lovers.
poem by William Butler Yeats
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The Harp Of Aengus
Edain came out of Midhir's hill, and lay
Beside young Aengus in his tower of glass,
Where time is drowned in odour-laden winds
And Druid moons, and murmuring of boughs,
And sleepy boughs, and boughs where apples made
Of opal and ruhy and pale chrysolite
Awake unsleeping fires; and wove seven strings,
Sweet with all music, out of his long hair,
Because her hands had been made wild by love.
When Midhir's wife had changed her to a fly,
He made a harp with Druid apple-wood
That she among her winds might know he wept;
And from that hour he has watched over none
But faithful lovers.
poem by William Butler Yeats
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His Land
Yes it is his land, all of it his
He stepped it off and marked it there,...stepped it off and marked it there
To be his ugly thoroughfare,...to be his ugly thoroughfare
And he blessed it with his hand,...yes its a great land, all of it is
And as it blooms before our eyes,...as it blooms before our eyes
Just like an eden paradise,...like an eden paradise
The world will understand,...world will understand...this is his land
Slowly from hiding but surely they come
Back to the homeland their fathers will front
Israel their citadel, israel their home
Now they are here at last never to roam
Here they will stay and bring life to the land
Its a new day and with boldness they walk, tall and so straight
See them stand
Yes it is his land, all of it his
He stepped it off and marked it there...stepped it off and marked it there
To be his ugly thoroughfare,...to be his ugly thoroughfare
And then he blessed it with his land,...yes its a great land, all of it is
And as blooms before our eyes,...as it blooms before our eyes
Like an eden paradise,...like an eden paradise
The world will understand,...world will understand...this is his land
Rich fertile valleys of russet and gold, carpets of green over mountains
Unfold
Harvest of plenty so joyous and bright, her fields her treasures
Magnificent sight
This is the israel promised of old, this is the miracle happening now
As ages in prophets fortold
Yes it is his land......
song performed by by Cliff Richard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To Alfred Tennyson
Poet! in other lands, when Spring no more
Gleams o'er the grass, nor in the thicket-side
Plays at being lost and laughs to be descried,
And blooms lie wilted on the orchard floor,
Then the sweet birds that from Ægean shore
Across Ausonian breakers thither hied,
Own April's music in their breast hath died,
And croft and copse resound not as before.
But, in this privileged Isle, this brave, this blest,
This deathless England, it seems always Spring.
Though graver wax the days, Song takes not wing.
In Autumn boughs it builds another nest:
Even from the snow we lift our hearts and sing,
And still your voice is heard above the rest.
poem by Alfred Austin
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September
Lo! a ripe sheaf of many golden days
Gleaned by the year in autumn's harvest ways,
With here and there, blood-tinted as an ember,
Some crimson poppy of a late delight
Atoning in its splendor for the flight
Of summer blooms and joys
This is September.
poem by Lucy Maud Montgomery
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Caliban Upon Rudiments Or Autoschediastic Theology In A Hole
Rudiments, Rudiments, and Rudiments!
'Thinketh one made them i' the fit o' the blues.
'Thinketh one made them with the 'tips' to match,
But not the answers; 'doubteth there be none,
Only Guides, Helps, Analyses, such as that:
Also this Beast, that groweth sleek thereon,
And snow-white bands that round the neck o' the same.
'Thinketh, it came of being ill at ease.
'Hath heard that Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands, and the rest o 't. That's the case.
Also 'hath heard they pop the names i' the hat,
Toss out a brace, a dozen stick inside;
Let forty through and plough the sorry rest.
'Thinketh, such shows nor right nor wrong in them,
Only their strength, being made o' sloth i' the main—
'Am strong myself compared to yonder names
O' Jewish towns i' the paper. Watch th' event—
'Let twenty pass, 'have a shot at twenty-first,
'Miss Ramoth-Gilead, 'take Jehoiakim,
'Let Abner by and spot Melchizedek,
Knowing not, caring not, just choosing so,
As it likes me each time, I do: so they.
'Saith they be terrible: watch their feats i' the Viva!
One question plays the deuce with six months' toil.
Aha, if they would tell me! No, not they!
There is the sport: 'come read me right or die!'
All at their mercy,—why they like it most
When—when—well, never try the same shot twice!
'Hath fled himself and only got up a tree.
'Will say a plain word if he gets a plough.
poem by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch
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Wood The Flower Flails
Wood the flower flails,
So sad is now that vase,
None else to ever know,
That flower has joined the breeze,
Never to harvest new blooms.
Flower failed the wood a well,
A mothers dreary tail again to see,
To mix two hearts of one must she,
There beds now like the rest unmade.
poem by Is It Poetry
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Future Babies
A flower stands erect upon the stem.
Odd:
It bears the naked flesh of many men –
Pulsing, writhing, arteries humming;
Androgenic fluids chase their channels
To the ground, caking at a mound
Of naked girls, who pout in doubt and
Hurl their rabid glares from eyes
That catch the light of want
And desperation.
Sighs:
They know the separation
Stays their open legs
From bursting cocks.
Masturbation of the mind
Is all they need –
They’re in the docks of
Fate:
The evil Overpopulation’s out to feed
Their thund’rous urge to procreate!
Forget the conjugation, just for once?
Bag the bulbous tits in bras.
I know they want the tongue on c*nts;
But focus! Where’s the room to live?
And think about the future babies.
THINK:
You know they won’t forgive
Your selfish drive to suck, to shag.
The Dying Age of Man will drag
Him down to disappear.
So keep the girls away from sperm –
Don’t let the men up there!
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2011
Future future future future future future, where's the future?
Future future future future future future, where?
Future future future future future future,
Future future future future future future, where's the future?
Future future future future future future, HERE!
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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