My earliest memory is dreamlike: in a small orchard or garden I am carried on the arm, I believe, of my father; there was a group of grown-ups, my mother among them, and the group was slowly walking in the orchard, it seems toward the house.
quote by Immanuel Velikovsky
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Be Or Don't Be (A Song)
I be or don’t be
Would be spreading whiff
As a blossom, As a bud
In the orchard of love
I be or don‘t be
Whatever the weather
I always will be there
To keep the orchard fresh
And in colour of desire
Will be watering it ever
As a blossom as a bud
The orchard of love
I be or don’t be
I will unfurl my shirt
And sway in the breeze
Will glow like flower
On the blossom trees
Would spread fragrance
As a blossom as a bud
In the garden of love
I be or don’t be
When I won’t be there
Her eyes with tears
Would be finding me
She would stop in reverie
Where I will meet her
As a blossom, as a bud
In the orchard of love
I be or don’t be
poem by S.D. Tiwari
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Good-bye, and Keep Cold
This saying good-bye on the edge of the dark
And cold to an orchard so young in the bark
Reminds me of all that can happen to harm
An orchard away at the end of the farm
All winter, cut off by a hill from the house.
I don't want it girdled by rabbit and mouse,
I don't want it dreamily nibbled for browse
By deer, and I don't want it budded by grouse.
(If certain it wouldn't be idle to call
I'd summon grouse, rabbit, and deer to the wall
And warn them away with a stick for a gun.)
I don't want it stirred by the heat of the sun.
(We made it secure against being, I hope,
By setting it out on a northerly slope.)
No orchard's the worse for the wintriest storm;
But one thing about it, it mustn't get warm.
"How often already you've had to be told,
Keep cold, young orchard. Good-bye and keep cold.
Dread fifty above more than fifty below."
I have to be gone for a season or so.
My business awhile is with different trees,
Less carefully nourished, less fruitful than these,
And such as is done to their wood with an axe--
Maples and birches and tamaracks.
I wish I could promise to lie in the night
And think of an orchard's arboreal plight
When slowly (and nobody comes with a light)
Its heart sinks lower under the sod.
But something has to be left to God.
poem by Robert Frost
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Peeping-happiness
PEEPING-HAPPINESS
The happiness,
came to my door,
peeped in the orchard of my life,
and then returned,
how do i call those,
in my desolate orchard,
my orchard has become desert,
the cruel autumn has come,
the laughing flowers have dried,
the pearls of eyes are flowing,
all our friends have become enemies,
what is this irony of fate?
poem by Dr. Ram Sharma
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Story of sparrow and dimple
A group of sparrow
Waft /glide fly on
The yellow padi outspread
Like ronggeng dancer who
Fling her yellows shawl/scarf/muffler
A girl walking
Among the padi tree, her lips
Smile with dimple
On her cheek
She never tired seed
Of her hope
Since her father cultivate the land
With her mother she prepare
Food
Mow plant
Till bear fruit
A group of sparrow
Waft glide on
The yellow padi outspread
While a group of girl
Yell and catchy the field fiend
Frighten away of sparrow group
Who will rip their hope?
A group of sparrow
Fly to find their food
The yellow padi field
On the field had no inmate
In the hectares ocean of ooze
A group of sparrow
Fly with no hope
Is looking the yellow padi field
Who never found it everywhere?
Because there is no life
Just ooze everywhere
The girls muse over
With no hope
In the rice field
That no sparrow flies
On that field
That cannot frighten away
Of her distress
Because there is no life
Only ooze
Ooze
No live
poem by Prasetya Utama
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Yvonne of Brittany
In your mother's apple-orchard,
Just a year ago, last spring:
Do you remember, Yvonne!
The dear trees lavishing
Rain of their starry blossoms
To make you a coronet?
Do you ever remember, Yvonne,
As I remember yet?
In your mother's apple-orchard,
When the world was left behind:
You were shy, so shy, Yvonne!
But your eyes were calm and kind.
We spoke of the apple harvest,
When the cider press is set,
And such-like trifles, Yvonne,
That doubtless you forget.
In the still, soft Breton twilight,
We were silent; words were few,
Till your mother came out chiding,
For the grass was bright with dew:
But I know your heart was beating,
Like a fluttered, frightened dove.
Do you ever remember, Yvonne,
That first faint flush of love?
In the fulness of midsummer,
When the apple-bloom was shed,
Oh, brave was your surrender,
Though shy the words you said.
I was glad, so glad, Yvonne!
To have led you home at last;
Do you ever remember, Yvonne,
How swiftly the days passed?
In your mother's apple-orchard
It is grown too dark to stray,
There is none to chide you, Yvonne!
You are over far away.
There is dew on your grave grass, Yvonne!
But your feet it shall not wet:
No, you never remember, Yvonne!
And I shall soon forget.
poem by Ernest Christopher Dowson
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We've got a low turnover management group and executive group who've grown up in the business.
quote by Fred L. Turner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Orchard Road
Writers: leo sayer & alan tarney
To tell the truth its really such a sad affair
Standing here waiting in the cold night air
But Ive got to make this call
cause my heart is breaking.
I hear the bips drop a coin in the slot
Has it been that long
I thought youd forgotten me
Well I know that its getting late
But I just couldnt wait
Will I have the nerve to say
I just wanna come back
You shouldnt just go away
I just wanna come back
Ive been struck by such a bad luck
I need a place a little happiness and some love
I think I can see it now
Now let me paint the picture
Its twelve oclock and the curtains are drawn
Theyre counting sheep down in orchard road
Youre hanging on the telephone line tonight
And I wish I could be in orchard road
Not much been happening here
I think Ive got a job
Theyre gonna call me next week
And Ill be working out of town
But it sure beats hanging around
Whats that? tomorrow at two
Youre kidding me -- no
Is it allright with you
I dont know what to say
Itll be like a holiday
When you say youre all alone
Makes me wanna come back
And this house is not a home
I just gotta go back
Its twelve ten when I put down the phone
The moons shining down on orchard road
And Im feeling like a schoolboy again and tonight
Ill see you in my dreams of orchard road
Its funny but I thought Id never go back
I think sometimes I might loose track
But I remember you and the things we do
And I want it back.
In orchard road youve got my heart
I left it in your doorway
In orchard road a welcome back
Is waiting there just for me
In orchard road the sun will shine
Again I know I know
In orchard road you keep my love
Just waiting there for me
Its eight oclock and the dawns arrived
In orchard road its breakfast time
I climb in my car and I turn the key and Im gone
I am coming home
To orchard road
Im coming home
song performed by by Leo Sayer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Family by pushkal
Family is a group,
like a coup.
Family contains first a father and a mother.
Both loving only each other then thier children only a little,
Do not remember about others
and can do a crime.
Then the family revolves around
a brother and a sister.
Hitting each other, putting false claims on you,
even then disturbing you.
Putting a nail in u, but u donot notice,
but still it hurts u.
Then there are olds, with lots of experiences,
but no one to listen them.
So which one is left in your family,
no one except family like neighbours an d my maid.
But still they follows elders of my house.
So a family is a group of personalities,
you should never meet.
poem by Pushkal Sharma
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Oppression is something that one group of people commits against another group specifically because of a threatening characteristic shared by the latter group.
quote by Robin Morgan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Iraq war was fought by one-half of one percent of us. And unless we were part of that small group or had a relative who was, we went about our lives as usual most of the time: no draft, no new taxes, no changes. Not so for the small group who fought the war and their families.
quote by Bob Schieffer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Jonathan Houghton
There is the caw of a crow,
And the hesitant song of a thrush.
There is the tinkle of a cowbell far away,
And the voice of a plowman on Shipley's hill.
The forest beyond the orchard is still
With midsummer stillness;
And along the road a wagon chuckles,
Loaded with corn, going to Atterbury.
And an old man sits under a tree asleep,
And an old woman crosses the road,
Coming from the orchard with a bucket of blackberries.
And a boy lies in the grass
Near the feet of the old man,
And looks up at the sailing clouds,
And longs, and longs, and longs
For what, he knows not:
For manhood, for life, for the unknown world!
Then thirty years passed,
And the boy returned worn out by life
And found the orchard vanished,
And the forest gone,
And the house made over,
And the roadway filled with dust from automobiles --
And himself desiring The Hill!
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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The Rambo-Tree
When Autumn shakes the rambo-tree--
It's a long, sweet way across the orchard!--
The bird sings low as the bumble-bee--
It's a long, sweet way across the orchard!--
The poor shote-pig he says, says he:
'When Autumn shakes the rambo-tree
There's enough for you and enough for me.'--
It's a long, sweet way across the orchard.
_For just two truant lads like we_,
_When Autumn shakes the rambo-tree_
_There's enough for you and enough for me_--
_It's a long, sweet way across the orchard_.
When Autumn shakes the rambo-tree--
It's a long, sweet way across the orchard!--
The mole digs out to peep and see--
It's a long, sweet way across the orchard!--
The dusk sags down, and the moon swings free,
There's a far, lorn call, 'Pig-_gee_! 'Pig-_gee_!'
And two boys--glad enough for three.--
It's a long, sweet way across the orchard.
_For just two truant lads like we_,
_When Autumn shakes the rambo-tree_
_There's enough for you and enough for me_--
_It's a long, sweet way across the orchard_.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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The Little Big Man
I am small because I am a little child. I shall be big when I am
as old as my father is.
My teacher will come and say, "It is late, bring your slate
and your books."
I shall tell him, " Do you not know I am as big as father? And
I must not have lessons any more."
My master will wonder and say, "He can leave his books if he
likes, for he is grown up."
I shall dress myself and walk to the fair where the crowd is
thick.
My uncle will come rushing up to me and say, "You will get
lost, my boy; let me carry you."
I shall answer, "Can't you see, uncle, I am as big as father?
I must go to the fair alone."
Uncle will say, "Yes, he can go wherever he likes, for he is
grown up."
Mother will come from her bath when I am giving money to my
nurse, for I shall know how to open the box with my key.
Mother will say, "What are you about, naughty child?"
I shall tell her, "Mother, don't you know, I am as big as
father, and I must give silver to my nurse."
Mother will say to herself, "He can give money to whom he
likes, for he is grown up."
In the holiday time in October father will come home and,
thinking that I am still a baby, will bring for me from the town
little shoes and small silken frocks.
I shall say, "Father, give them to my data, for I am as big
as you are."
Father will think and say, "He can buy his own clothes if he
likes, for he is grown up."
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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Any New York group can come to L.A. and sell out every show, but an L.A. group who goes to New York might not do the same because the audience hasn't been introduced to the group.
The greater the loyalty of a group toward the group, the greater is the motivation among the members to achieve the goals of the group, and the greater the probability that the group will achieve its goals.
quote by Rensis Likert
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Blessings
God bless the little orchard brown
Where the sap stirs these quickening days.
Soon in a white and rosy gown
The trees will give great praise.
God knows I have it in my mind,
The white house with the golden eaves.
God knows since it is left behind
That something grieves and grieves.
God keep the small house in his care,
The garden bordered all in box,
Where primulas and wallflowers are
And crocuses in flocks.
God keep the little rooms that ope
One to another, swathed in green,
Where honeysuckle lifts her cup
With jessamine between.
God bless the quiet old grey head
That dreams beside the fire of me,
And makes home there for me indeed
Over the Irish Sea.
poem by Katharine Tynan
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It was not always easy because I was always an individual and found it difficult to be one of a group. One person who was very supportive was my father. My mother was great but my father really recognised my individuality and supported me in that.
quote by Sharon Stone
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Orchard Lands Of Long Ago
The orchard lands of Long Ago!
O drowsy winds, awake, and blow
The snowy blossoms back to me,
And all the buds that used to be!
Blow back along the grassy ways
Of truant feet, and lift the haze
Of happy summer from the trees
That trail their tresses in the seas
Of grain that float and overflow
The orchard lands of Long Ago!
Blow back the melody that slips
In lazy laughter from the lips
That marvel much if any kiss
Is sweeter than the apple's is.
Blow back the twitter of the birds--
The lisp, the titter, and the words
Of merriment that found the shine
Of summer-time a glorious wine
That drenched the leaves that loved it so,
In orchard lands of Long Ago!
O memory! alight and sing
Where rosy-bellied pippins cling,
And golden russets glint and gleam,
As, in the old Arabian dream,
The fruits of that enchanted tree
The glad Aladdin robbed for me!
And, drowsy winds, awake and fan
My blood as when it overran
A heart ripe as the apples grow
In orchard lands of Long Ago!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Autumn is Coming
The Summer is slowly passing, and the green is dying,
The garden of flowers loses its color,
The white storks, slowly, slowly are being lost in the heights,
Tomorrow's world will be much duller.
The scent of the flower perishes in steam at dusk,
It smells like a dried, baked rusk.
In grandparent's yard, under the beam, a deserted nest,
already misses the cheerful swallow.
Up, on the house's chimney, one stork, almost lost,
looks around melancholy for the last time.
From the mountain's sheepfold to the village,
the longing shepherds descend with their sheep.
Caterpillars wreak havoc on the orchard,
Orderly, the good soldiers set out on their crusade.
A small leaf cries, scared of falling
under the strength of the wind.
The old trees are more and more troubled,
Yesterday they were full of life. Today they are rusty and tired.
The evening is coming earlier, and the sun is getting sadder,
A cricket "guitarist" is grieving.
The rain is getting colder, and the clouds are getting grayer,
The vast plains are dry, burned, withered.
From the hill, The Autumn slowly walks down towards the valley,
It's on the way, for sure. There's no other way!
poem by Marius Alexandru (September 2021)
Submitted by anonym
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As It Was
Ginny loved it
when the time came
For their annual trip
to the seaside
And her father rented
the house with the big garden
that lead onto the sea.
She and her brothers and sister
Looked forward to it
every year and it seemed the sun
shone almost constantly
And the house seemed
as it was the year before
nothing changed nothing new
just the same rooms
and outlook and young Lily the maid
who came each year too
to help their mother
around the house
and watch
the younger children.
Her mother
Was the organiser
the one who seemed most near
to the children who seemed
to know the children’s needs
and wants and tried to keep
her husband happy
and allow him
his space and quiet
which he valued most of all.
Ginny liked it
when the sea was out
and there was plenty of sand
to play on to make a sand castle
with a moat and drawbridge
made from small pieces of driftwood
found on the beach.
But once her mother died
the seaside house
seemed less welcoming
the sea seemed
hardly ever to go out
than it was back again
the sun was less warm
less friendly
and her father
would mope
around the house
moaning and groaning
In his grief and bellowing
at Lily the maid
to do this and do that
making her cry
and only at night
when all were asleep
and Ginny was snuggled
Down in bed did it seem
as it was when her mother
would enter the room
and sit on the bed
and smile and whisper
the words she used to
placing a ghostly hand
on Ginny’s brow
and kiss her cheek.
Ginny remembered the house
By the sea years later
with the yellowy sand
And walking with Lily
the maid
hand in hand.
poem by Terry Collett
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