Brook of the Sahara
Through the Sahara a babbling brook flows,
With its announcing sound heard firsthand.
Its inquiring voice the receptive ear knows,
Whether in the days past since God created man,
Has ever such a flourishing sight arose?
This is the renewing of the face of the land,
By which the spirit of man lifts and grows.
Our God has created this by His divine trade,
A master expertise only He can possess.
No other substance existed until this God made,
A creation out of His substance and uniqueness.
This flowing brook can no longer be delayed,
Moving from the east of heaven to the west,
It feeds tree growth giving soothing shade.
Under the trees the smith blows on red hot coals.
He forms an instrument and cools it for human doer,
And heavenward the immediate puff of steam rolls.
And on from man the brook moves for the frontier,
Perfecting in its way the life God so nobly molds.
Continuing on inquiring of every receptive ear,
Has ever been seen this sight man now beholds?
May righteousness dropp down from the sky,
To renew God's divine creation He designed
From His holy throne in heaven on high.
Let this flourishing marvelous sight be refined,
As this babbling brook goes rushing by.
Continuing to inquire of every perceptive mind,
Has ever such a flourishing sight appealed an eye.
poem by Albert Price
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The Forest
(9/5/12)
I walked through the forest of beautiful tall trees
And felt the softness of a gentle breeze
I saw a rabbit running by, as I looked up to the sky
There was a squirrel jumping from tree to tree
Landing on the branches so gracefully.
I heard the crickets making their beautiful sound
But there was none that could be found.
I could hear a woodpecker pecking away
But I knew it was far away.
I heard the shrill of the crows in flight
But the trees covered them from my sight
I heard the sound of a running brook
As I searched to take a look.
The forest with all its sights
Made my heart jump with delight
All the beauties that GOD has given
Is in this forest where his creatures are living.
I found the brook which was clear as glass
And the fish jumping- creating a splash
The suns reflection on the water
like sparkling diamonds in the brook
as I got closer to take a look.
If and when time permits
Go to the forest - take a trip
Look at all that GOD has given
This is what makes life worth living.
poem by Louis Rams
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Mindless Murmur Of A Babbling Brook
The mindless murmur of a babbling brook
Is the telling of it’s story
A story that has no beginning
And flows on without end
It dances…It sparkles
All the while telling it’s tale
E’en when there’s no one to listen
Not family…nor friend
Dabbling and babbling in sprinkles and splashes
Chortling away in mad mischievous delight
Then off to the sea it disdainfully dashes
Spreading rumors and humors into day and night
It gathers in pools, settles in sinks
Yet meanders off distractedly, to left and right
It swells fat and sassy, then as capriciously shrinks
Tinkling musically away into darkness and light
It’s said “there’s method in madness”
The brook knows not…of either one
Not method…not madness…nor glee or sadness
Only capricious, communion with moon and sun
Does the constant, mindless babble
Of it’s unceasing, senseless rant
Give substance to…that it is able
To form cogent thought…or that it can’t?
Could it be that it’s saying, in a moss moistened drawl
In watery discourse, all the while liquid and lazy
“Tis not this brook that is mindless at all
Tis Humanity that’s truly crazy! ! ”
poem by David Whalen
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By a Babbling Brook
This dismal scene inspires me none
Me thinks to sleep for forty winks,
An’ let the brook babble on.
I will close my eyes and
Try to unravel the babble of
A babbling brook.
Maybe it’s a soothing song,
Maybe I’m wrong, but listen
Oh my yes it is indeed it is,
With its dribble and drabble
An’ swirly gurgles
Gurgling and swirling along,
The ducks are quacking
Their peace the frogs are lacking,
An’ by golly I’m singing a babbling song.
Well now me thinks
I’ll have that forty winks.
poem by Ken e Hall
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Poem for Danny and a cliché for JC
The poet sat by the babbling brook
whence all but he had fled;
the poet babbled on; the brook,
dried up and long since dead.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Cicely Bathing
The brook told the dove
And the dove told me
That Cicely's bathing at the pool
With other virgins three.
The brook told the dove
And the dove told me
That Cicely floating on the wave
Woke music in the tree.
The brook told the dove
And the dove told me
That Cicely's drying in the sun,
A snowy sight to see.
poem by Norman Rowland Gale
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Have you got a Brook in your little heart
136
Have you got a Brook in your little heart,
Where bashful flowers blow,
And blushing birds go down to drink,
And shadows tremble so—
And nobody knows, so still it flows,
That any brook is there,
And yet your little draught of life
Is daily drunken there—
Why, look out for the little brook in March,
When the rivers overflow,
And the snows come hurrying from the fills,
And the bridges often go—
And later, in August it may be—
When the meadows parching lie,
Beware, lest this little brook of life,
Some burning noon go dry!
poem by Emily Dickinson
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The brook
I looked in the brook and saw a face -
Heigh-ho, but a child was I!
There were rushes and willows in that place,
And they clutched at the brook as the brook ran by;
And the brook it ran its own sweet way,
As a child doth run in heedless play,
And as it ran I heard it say:
"Hasten with me
To the roistering sea
That is wroth with the flame of the morning sky!"
I look in the brook and see a face -
Heigh-ho, but the years go by!
The rushes are dead in the old-time place,
And the willows I knew when a child was I.
And the brook it seemeth to me to say,
As ever it stealeth on its way -
Solemnly now, and not in play:
"Oh, come with me
To the slumbrous sea
That is gray with the peace of the evening sky!"
Heigh-ho, but the years go by -
I would to God that a child were I!
poem by Eugene Field
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Sonnet XXXVI: Raising My Hopes
Raising my hopes on hills of high desire,
Thinking to scale the heaven of her heart,
My slender means presum'd too high a part;
Her thunder of disdain forc'd me retire,
And threw me down to pain in all this fire
Where, lo, I languish in so heavy smart,
Because th'attempt was far above my art;
Her pride brook'd not poor souls should come so nigh her.
Yet I protest my high aspiring will
Was not to dispossess her of her right;
Her sovereignty should have remained still;
I only sought the bliss to have her sight.
Her sight contented thus to see me spill,
Fram'd my desires fit for her eyes to kill.
poem by Samuel Daniel
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Emma's Dell
A poet roamed by rushing brook
Early springtime morning. The sound
Seemed softer than it should,
Tempered by, tempering,
Eager buds, new greens all around.
Still bare trees, they tempered too.
Contrast breeds content.
Then round a turn mad rushing brook
Maddened beast and bird.
Sound seemed of the air-
Like air, would never cease.
Green seemed of the rocks.
Content is content.
A cottage overlooked the brook.
'My thoughts at least are mine.
I've told them to the shepherds.
How contrast can contain content.
How content is content.
Pondering perhaps my words
Years after we are spent
They'll call the dell not what I call it,
They'll call it WILL'S DELL EMMA.'
poem by Douglas Scotney
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In Age
And art thou he, now 'fallen on evil days,'
And changed indeed! Yet what do this sunk cheek,
These thinner locks, and that calm forehead speak!
A spirit reckless of man's blame or praise,-
A spirit, when thine eyes to the noon's blaze
Their dark orbs roll in vain, in suffering meek,
As in the sight of God intent to seek,
Mid solitude or age, or through the ways
Of hard adversity, the approving look
Of its great Master; whilst the conscious pride
Of wisdom, patient and content to brook
All ills to that sole Master's task applied,
Shall show before high heaven the unaltered mind,
Milton, though thou art poor, and old, and blind!
poem by William Lisle Bowles
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The Water Nymphs
They hide in the brook when I seek to draw nearer,
Laughing amain when I feign to depart;
Often I hear them, now faint and now clearer—
Innocent bold or so sweetly discreet.
Are they Nymphs of the Stream at their playing
Or but the brook I mistook for a voice?
Little care I; for, despite harsh Time’s flaying,
Brook voice or Nymph voice still makes me rejoice.
poem by Ellis Parker Butler
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The Hills Are Alive
The hills are alive in Jesus’ hand
Thriving valleys that understand
God’s creation! Their lives they give
Praising Christ, through whom they live
Praise is heard in a summer breeze
Offered by leaves on rustling trees
Skylark and sparrow join in song
Hear! God’s children all year long
The sun will rise vanquishing haze
The tallest mountains bring forth praise
A babbling brook gurgles in prayer
Listen God’s children all said there
Fox cubs yapping chasing their tails
Red deer frolic deep in the vales
Ripe corn dancing in waves of gold
See God’s children His hand handwork unfold
Trees become naked waiting the snow
Stags in the distance calling the doe
Christ creator of this fair land
Marvel God’s children at Jesus’ hand
Grass white with frost snow on the peak
Rabbits seek cover great eagles shriek
Squirrels seek nuts to store in trees
Wonder God’s children at sight as these
Sheep in the hills birthing their lambs
Beavers busy repairing dams
All were created with loving care
Through the love of Christ to share…….
poem by Michael P. Johnson
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There's A Place
Endless fields
of golden daffodils
swaying to the babbling brook
flowing beneath
the weeping willows
my mind wanders
to another
darker place.
poem by Vince Gullaci
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In Age
And art thou he, now "fallen on evil days,"
And changed indeed! Yet what do this sunk cheek,
These thinner locks, and that calm forehead speak!
A spirit reckless of man's blame or praise,--
A spirit, when thine eyes to the noon's blaze
Their dark orbs roll in vain, in suffering meek,
As in the sight of God intent to seek,
Mid solitude or age, or through the ways
Of hard adversity, the approving look
Of its great Master; whilst the conscious pride
Of wisdom, patient and content to brook
All ills to that sole Master's task applied,
Shall show before high heaven the unaltered mind,
Milton, though thou art poor, and old, and blind!
poem by William Lisle Bowles
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A Brook In The City
The farmhouse lingers, though averse to square
With the new city street it has to wear
A number in. But what about the brook
That held the house as in an elbow-crook?
I ask as one who knew the brook, its strength
And impulse, having dipped a finger length
And made it leap my knuckle, having tossed
A flower to try its currents where they crossed.
The meadow grass could be cemented down
From growing under pavements of a town;
The apple trees be sent to hearth-stone flame.
Is water wood to serve a brook the same?
How else dispose of an immortal force
No longer needed? Staunch it at its source
With cinder loads dumped down? The brook was thrown
Deep in a sewer dungeon under stone
In fetid darkness still to live and run --
And all for nothing it had ever done
Except forget to go in fear perhaps.
No one would know except for ancient maps
That such a brook ran water. But I wonder
If from its being kept forever under,
The thoughts may not have risen that so keep
This new-built city from both work and sleep.
poem by Robert Frost
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Sleepy Hollow
Bill dees
Theres a place I call sleepy hollow
Where I go when youre not around
Theres a brook running clear in the meadow
I lose my blues in its sound
The wind and the trees from the hollow
Whisper secrets of life in my ear
When I lay down in their shadows
I dream that youre still here
The bubbling babbling brook is your laughter
The wind blowing softly,your touch
Ive found the one thing Im after
Your love, your love means so much
Until you say that you love me
And make all my dreams come true
Ill go down to my sleepy hollow
And dream my dreams of you
Ill go down to my sleepy hollow
And dream my dreams of you
song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Cry Never Heard
Oh how this life is draining
From once this babbling brook
Use to to be so free flowing
Now to move it must be shook
Oh how I want to close my eyes
Make this world disappear
For there's nothing here for me
Nobody seems to care
Of this life I once so embraced
I wish for death to be near
poem by David Kush
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The Fickle Breeze
Sighing softly to the river
Comes the loving breeze,
Setting nature all a-quiver,
Rustling through the trees!
And the brook in rippling measure
Laughs for very love,
While the poplars, in their pleasure,
Wave their arms above!
River, river, little river,
May thy loving prosper ever.
Heaven speed thee, poplar tree,
May thy wooing happy be!
Yet, the breeze is but a rover,
When he wings away,
Brook and poplar mourn a lover!
Sighing well-a-day!
Ah, the doing and undoing
That the rogue could tell!
When the breeze is out a-wooing,
Who can woo so well?
Pretty brook, thy dream is over,
For thy love is but a rover!
Sad the lot of poplar trees,
Courted by the fickle breeze!
poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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There Could Have Been A Flourishing
There could have been a flourishing.
With an enriching nourishment that encouraged it.
There could have been a sharing of expertise,
Amongst those mature enough to do it.
And an increase of understanding,
From everyone released.
There could have been growth,
With a beneficial purpose done.
But that road was blocked...
By the ones who joined that bandwagon,
With wishes to have these joint ventures stopped.
There could have been,
A respecting of differences from the beginning...
To everyone's benefit.
There could have been appreciation expressed,
For one person to the next.
There could have been ideals addressed,
With less dissecting as to whose suggestions...
Were better than the rest.
But minds seeking to impress...
Infected all with a lack of interest.
There could have been a flourishing.
With an enriching nourishment that encouraged it.
There could have been a sharing of expertise,
Amongst those mature enough to do it.
But those mature enough to do this,
Could no longer endure those immature!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Going For Water
The well was dry beside the door,
And so we went with pail and can
Across the fields behind the house
To seek the brook if still it ran;
Not loth to have excuse to go,
Because the autumn eve was fair
(Though chill), because the fields were ours,
And by the brook our woods were there.
We ran as if to meet the moon
That slowly dawned behind the trees,
The barren boughs without the leaves,
Without the birds, without the breeze.
But once within the wood, we paused
Like gnomes that hid us from the moon,
Ready to run to hiding new
With laughter when she found us soon.
Each laid on other a staying hand
To listen ere we dared to look,
And in the hush we joined to make
We heard, we knew we heard the brook.
A note as from a single place,
A slender tinkling fall that made
Now drops that floated on the pool
Like pearls, and now a silver blade.
poem by Robert Frost
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