Break Of Dawn
A trio of warblers jargon
a madrigal in harmony.
Their polyphony awakens
a slumbering dawn from darkness
while white dewy daffodils, like
saintly daughters of charity,
bow before the paragon sun.
A gentle zephyr diffuses
its collection of fragrances
from the myriad wildflowers
it encountered on its journey
eastward; sojourning, perfuming,
impregnating the morning air
with its sweet, volatile essence.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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Blossoms Of May
May bloomed brilliant...
Wide eyed in blue skies
Dancing in daffodils and tulips
It's breeze-a gentle fragrance of mixtures
Embroidered in a colourful brocade of Spring sonnets
And embellished by the sweet warblers and their most melodious Psalms
poem by Theodora Onken
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Springs Splendor
The nighttime air baptized the earth
with a fresh, clean renewing dew
admitting the seasons rebirth
bidding ‘old man winter' adieu.
The sun emerges warm and immense
casting a golden illumine
adorning springtime's resplendence:
yellow daffodils flowering
in meadows and dandelions'
their tiny sunburst dewy globes
drizzled about in disunion;
each claiming its own abode
amidst ground ivy and clover
nurtured by a gentle zephyr.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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Renunciation
ROSE of the desert of my heart,
Moon of the night that is my soul,
Thou can'st not know how sweet thou art,
Nor what wild tides thy beams control.
For all thy heart a garden is,
Thy soul is like a dawn of May.
And garden and dawn might both be his,
Who from them both must turn away.
Oh, garden of the Spring's delight!
Oh, dewy dawn of perfect noon!
I will not pluck thy roses white
Or warm thy May-time into June.
I can but bless thee, moon and rose,
And journey far and very far
To where the night no moonbeam shows,
To where no happy roses are!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Footsteps Of Dawn
The morning Sun 'tis tip-toeing...
With its gentle orange rays...
Beaming steps from this tangerine orb...
Opens up a brand new day;
Gentle steps they come so softly...
'Cross the horizons of the East-
A colour kalidescope as it rises...
A sky of brillant colours-a morning feast;
Yes, the footsteps of Dawn-
They just came tip-toeing on in...
Rising ever bright- thus closing the night...
Aurora 'tis Dawning-a new day begins;
June 4,2010
The Essence
poem by Theodora Onken
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Daughters (Anabella and Brittany)
She is my light
Both wave and particle
Though a rainbow betrays
Her myriad colors
No prism exists to
Penetrate her sun
Clouds part
As she awakens
Dawn
poem by Guillermo Veloso
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She Is Beauty's Soul
She is the lovely princess of all beauty there,
She is the reigning queen of all charms there;
Bright she looks, as fragrant white jasmine,
Of everlasting fragrance of gentle sweet smile.
Like sunshine of dawn of rising Sun she is,
Calm and pleasant, and stirs grand hopes;
She is godly spell of divine benevolence,
Goddess on throne, she radiates reverence.
She is dazzling halo of beauty's lasting spell,
Of its cosmic depth and its celestial scale;
Shock of contentment, she spills and fills around,
And subtle joy pervades in her sweet presence,
Elegant are her moves, soothing, her words,
Like the fullmoon light, she flows thro' hearts;
It's soothing love desires, uncanny sweet dreams
She inspires in soul by her lovely radiant look.
Bright are her eyes like the Sun in twain,
Profulgent of sunshine in lily-like white,
Or is it jasmine white liquesced as her eyes,
Spotless and clear, but gentle to look at.
What is true beauty, you know by her look;
She is beauty's soul, liquesced and instilled;
Her curves and shapes, gestalt and tones
Perfect in bearing, and perfect proportions.
Fluid is her beauty, deeply imbrued in nectar,
Spills divine spells wherever you look at her;
Lighted lamp, her beauty, sacred, low, slow,
Spreading pleasant light, ceaseless for aeons.
Peace in elegance is infused in her face,
Warm smile is her mark, like shine in eyes;
Silence is her front, humility is her wealth,
Gentle at her core, she mingles with all.
She is unclouded beauty, bright always,
Blossoming like flower, full of fragrance;
Pure like morning dew, she is spotless,
She is beauty's essence, extracted, instilled.
Her smile is honey milk flowing all the way,
Her smile is rose blossoming with nectar;
Twinkles in her eyes is full of dreams,
That spur her worlds to drench in colours.
She is live orchestra of rhymes and rhythms,
She is godly melody from the finest chords,
Those lines and curves in concinnity with soul
That ring live harmony and hatch that beauty.
Like fragrant flame of camphor and sandal paste,
Pleasantly mild and gentle and soothing she is;
Like milk and honey, and the nature's grand rhythms,
She is the innate harmony of beauty and charm.
She is gentle passions wrapped in concinnity,
She is selfless love liquesced in her soul,
She is sacred light that scatters darkness,
She bestows true peace and contentment on me.
She is beauty's beauty for all shapes and forms,
She makes beauty, beauty, and lights joy from it;
She is beauty's soul, its sanctum sanctorum,
Its essence, its light, spring of my happiness.
Priya is my spell of divine happiness,
Priya is my fount of beauty in the world,
And beauty is the fount that springs happiness,
Happiness is the root that sprouts all beauty.
poem by Praveen Kumar
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Wildflowers
The fragrances of wildflowers
are now a pleasant memory.
I close my eyes and picture them
still swaying in a gentle breeze;
but when I open them they’re gone
and where they once had smiled at me
there’s barely evidence to see
their beauty once had flourished there
in kaleidoscopic colors.
Their absence only bears to mind
that beauty last the briefest time
and one day when they reappear
my aging self will not be there
to sniff their bouquets from the air.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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Darkness Awakens Into Spring
Dreary cold Days are gone
Awesome how the trees begin budding
Ravishing is the beauty the
Easter lilies along the fences
Caddy dids and crickets begin
There Sweet Song as the
Darkness awakens into Spring
Now the birds are beginning to
build there nest high in the trees
Preparing for there young
Every now and then you can hear a
Frogs Croak and a big ribit
From time to time sweet smell of
spring is in the air as the
Darkness awakens into Spring
Angelic is the spring air
Wonderful how the tree and flowers
Awaken to the suns beautiful light
As I am sitting here in my window
I watch as a little family of Cardinals
begin to make the trees in my
Back yard there home every year
They return here to build their
nest for their young
As the Darkness Awakens Into Spring
By Melissia Ann Senter
poem by Melissia Ann Senter
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Catfish John (studio Outtake)
Mama said, "Don't go near that river,
Don't be hanging around old Catfish John."
Come in the morning I'd always be there,
Walking in his footsteps in the sweet Delta dawn.
Take me back to another morning, to a time so long ago,
When the sweet magnolia blossomed, cotton fields as white as snow.
Catfish John was a river hobo who lived and died by the river's bed,
Looking back I still remember I was proud to be his friend.
Mama said, "Don't go near that river,
Don't be hanging around old Catfish John."
Come in the morning I'd always be there,
Walking in his footsteps in the sweet Delta dawn.
Born a slave in the town of Vicksburg, traded for a chestnut mare,
Lord her never spoke in anger though his load was hard to bear.
Mama said, "Don't go near that river,
Come in the morning I'd always be there,
Walking in his footsteps in the sweet Delta dawn.
Walking in his footsteps in the sweet Delta dawn
song performed by by Grateful Dead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Enter Jazz
In the past few weeks
(1995, I think)
A whole field of music
Has knocked on my door.
Jazz has made my acquaintance.
Jazz who has always before
Seemed so stale, so staid,
So stuck in a groove
Sometime back in the thirties,
Jazz now emerges
As the most delightful companion.
I first noticed
My new friend
On the Voice of America,
A sudden lightness of spirit
Lighting up my room
Through the transistor radio.
Then Nancy, Carolyn's mum in Ferny Creek,
Turned out to be a jazz fan
With a collection of cassettes,
And I abandoned myself
To jazz's invitation
To dance,
Easy, free-flowing steps
Up and down
The lounge-room carpet.
Last night
The friendship firmed further:
In the E.G. Guide
Was listed a jazz trio
Which they claimed could be heard
At the Albert Park Hotel
Not far away.
The trio swelled to seven or eight musicians
As the evening unfolded
And I drank in the rhythms
Of what a chat with their apparent leader, Bill,
Revealed was traditional jazz
In the Chicago style,
So sweet, so gentle, so softly swinging.
Jazz took my arm
And smiled.
I have a new friend.
poem by Peter Elliott
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The Morning Star
IN the black pool of the midnight Lu has slung the morning star,
And its foam in rippling silver whitens into day afar
Falling on the mountain rampart piled with pearl above our glen,
Only you and I, beloved, moving in the fields of men.
In the dark tarn of my spirit, love, the morning star, is lit;
And its halo, ever brightening, lightens into dawn in it.
Love, a pearl-grey dawn in darkness, breathing peace without desire;
But I fain would shun the burning terrors of the mid-day fire.
Through the faint and tender airs of twilight star on star may gaze,
But the eyes of light are blinded in the white flame of the days,
From the heat that melts together oft a rarer essence slips,
And our hearts may still be parted in the meeting of the lips.
What a darkness would I gaze on when the day had passed the west,
If my eyes were dazed and blinded by the whiteness of a breast?
Never through the diamond darkness could I hope to see afar
Where beyond the pearly rampart burned the purer evening star.
poem by George William Russell
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Harmony With Darkness
It is extremely clear,
You travel with discomfort.
And sip on agonies that leave you drained.
The dripping of them from your lips...
Disappoint with those expectations,
You neither receive nor get!
From the exposure of it!
It is clearly known you want this shown.
While secluding your delusions.
Although standards you maintain...
Have strained relationships,
You once had gained.
There is an unhappiness kept self inflicted.
Your treasure chest of gifts,
You have allowed restricted!
They've become diminished like heirlooms replaced.
With a pawning done...
And etched upon your saddened face!
You are in harmony with darkness!
A tune sung and kept reminisced.
You are in harmony with darkness!
And plugged you are...
Right into it!
It is extremely clear,
You travel with discomfort.
That you alone have invited into your home.
And it is kept pampered like a loyal devoted pet.
One you expect to shower you with misery.
From Sunrise to Sunset!
You are in harmony with darkness.
And you've name it 'Eminent'.
Isn't it...
Eminent?
You are in harmony with darkness.
And it is permanently,
Un-resisted.
There is an unhappiness kept self inflicted.
Your treasure chest of gifts,
You have allowed restricted!
They've become diminished like heirlooms replaced.
With a pawning done...
And etched upon your saddened face!
You are in harmony with darkness.
Eminent.
Isn't it?
Your harmony with darkness,
Is permanently un-resisted.
Harmony with darkness.
Eminent.
Isn't it?
Your harmony with darkness.
Permanently,
Un-resisted!
Harmony with darkness.
Eminent.
Isn't it?
Your harmony with darkness.
Permanently,
Un-resisted!
Oh oh oh oooh!
In harmony with darkness.
Eminent,
Isn't it!
Your harmony with darkness...
Is allowed to sit un-resisted.
Harmony with darkness...
Is allowed to sit un-resisted.
Harmony with darkness...
Is allowed to sit un-resisted.
Harmony with darkness...
Is allowed to sit un-resisted.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A Rose-Bud By My Early Walk
A Rose-Bud By My Early Walk
A rose-bud, by my early walk
Adown a corn-enclosèd bawk,
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk,
All on a dewy morning.
Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled,
In a' its crimson glory spread,
And drooping rich the dewy head,
It scents the early morning.
Within the bush her covert nest
A little linnet fondly prest;
The dew sat chilly on her breast,
Sae early in the morning.
She soon shall see her tender brood,
The pride, the pleasure o' the wood,
Amang the fresh green leaves bedew'd,
Awauk the early morning.
So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair,
On trembling string or vocal air,
Shall sweetly pay the tender care
That tents thy early morning!
So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay,
Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day,
And bless the parent's evening ray
That watch'd thy early morning!
poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Springtime In New England
The pleasant, subtle sounds of Spring, awaken you;
The madrigal of birds, the unmistakeable sway of a slight zephyr,
May combine, to ensure that you are taken to
Thought of a brand-new start, as answer
To ponderance for need of a glorious renewal;
You need look no further, the change is done.
It is evidence in the resplendent vernal jewel,
As we bask in the glory that is the early morning Sun!
The splendiferous scent of fresh-cut grass, fills the air;
Long-dormant golf swings, seek slight repair;
What was once stark and white, is now lush and green;
Flowers, in a range of bloom, set the scene;
This is springtime in New England, so beautiful, so true-
That is, in my eyes anyway-how about you! ?
poem by Maurice Harris
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Morning After
When morning comes with its dewy light
And the first shafts peak through the window.
I see you gently slumbering your lips slightly apart
You lie passive and gentle.
Unlike the passion of the night before
When wrapped in the velvet night
We ate hungrily at each other, insatiable,
To gobble up each tender morsel.
We savoured the taste of each other
You smelled of roses, a deep musk,
I drank you in like a fine wine.
We coiled in the serpent act.
Then we lay sated, replete,
To gently drift into sleep
P H Brookes Copyrithg 2011
poem by Paul Brookes
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The Secret Door
The Mystery
Nadia, gentle zephyr of remembrance, where are you now?
In my mother’s flat there were three doors, the first door,
with an old fashion copper handle, often slammed in anger.
The second door into mother’s bed room was never closed,
but covered with a dark curtain. A small flat I slept on a sofa
in the living room.
There was a third door, from her bedroom into the kitchen.
Sometimes when mother was out, I tried to open it but it was
always locked. There were nights when I wasn’t sure if awake
or not, the locked door opened as a sigh of ancient dreams.
Dawn, I heard the faint sound again, but I was too terrified to
know the truth of what I wasn’t sure of
Morning, mother got up boiled water poured it into a bowl so
I could wash my face. Breakfast, slices of yesterday’s loaf with
strawberry jam and milky coffee. I wanted to know of the sighs
in the night, but sensed it was forbidden to ask.
Time has many doors some will be forever locked, so I ask?
Nadia, gentle zephyr of remembrance, where are you now?
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Soloist
Our existence,
the one of he and I,
is only but a vocal aneurysm-
a harmony in discord.
Have you allowed your observance to grow cold upon me?
The embedded scratches on wallpaper
consume the sound of decadence,
but I am unabashed,
because it is growing!
Within me,
this gentle ballad is echoing!
How I long for you,
Sweet Madrigal,
to steady your thaws
across my pursed lips-
to sharpen the broken rhythms,
and repair the punctured notes,
until I am fully rooted- the gypsy within me
claimed.
and I can't help that i come apart,
feeling the shiver's vibration
before he learns of its creation-
but you know, as I know,
that I am no one's only bride.
The music stops...
Have you abandoned me?
For I can no longer hear the tentativeness of your cry.
poem by April Michelle Wolverton
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~ Éclat Trio de l'Amour ~
~ Éclat Trio de l'Amour ~
Ms. Nivedita
UK
28 March 27,2010
Love:
Melting next
Merging then
Emerging as
Éclat Trio de l'Amour.
====
Glossary: Trio de l'Amour ~Trio of Love
======
Copyright reserved by author
poem by Ms. Nivedita Bagchi Spc. Uk.
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Sounding Borewell Signals
Good morning
On bicycles and 'bikes run
With kudams and buckets
On first-chore-water-hunting
Provoking heartfelt empathy
Yet water-hunting isn't much
Empathetic but feasting
Warblers squad signalled
Of sounding borewell motor..
Overflowing overhead tank pouring..
Birds many round screeching
In gentle drinking harmony
Empathetic humans jostle..
Water-pumps and metro-water cabs
All by road-side screeching humanly
Sympathy or empathy is humans'
Yet apathy is...?
poem by Indira Renganathan
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Rain at Night
North of Solitary Mountain Temple
and west of Chia Pavilion
the water's surface is flattened
by the wet feet of clouds.
Early warblers dart and flutter,
squabbling amid warm trees;
around someone's house new swallows
peck mud for their nests.
Wildflowers will soon flourish
enough to overwhelm one's eyes,
but now the shallow grass
barely submerges a horse's hooves.
I love the east lake most--
I don't come this way often enough;
in the shade of green willows
lies White Sand Embankment.