A Tulip Garden
Guarded within the old red wall's embrace,
Marshalled like soldiers in gay company,
The tulips stand arrayed. Here infantry
Wheels out into the sunlight. What bold grace
Sets off their tunics, white with crimson lace!
Here are platoons of gold-frocked cavalry,
With scarlet sabres tossing in the eye
Of purple batteries, every gun in place.
Forward they come, with flaunting colours spread,
With torches burning, stepping out in time
To some quick, unheard march. Our ears are dead,
We cannot catch the tune. In pantomime
Parades that army. With our utmost powers
We hear the wind stream through a bed of flowers.
poem by Amy Lowell
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Related quotes
Lead Soldiers
The nursery fire burns brightly, crackling in cheerful little explosions
and trails of sparks up the back of the chimney. Miniature rockets
peppering the black bricks with golden stars, as though a gala
flamed a night of victorious wars.
The nodding mandarin on the bookcase moves his head forward and back, slowly,
and looks into the air with his blue-green eyes. He stares into the air
and nods - forward and back. The red rose in his hand is a crimson splash
on his yellow coat. Forward and back, and his blue-green eyes stare
into the air, and he nods - nods.
Tommy's soldiers march to battle,
Trumpets flare and snare-drums rattle.
Bayonets flash, and sabres glance -
How the horses snort and prance!
Cannon drawn up in a line
Glitter in the dizzy shine
Of the morning sunlight. Flags
Ripple colours in great jags.
Red blows out, then blue, then green,
Then all three - a weaving sheen
Of prismed patriotism. March
Tommy's soldiers, stiff and starch,
Boldly stepping to the rattle
Of the drums, they go to battle.
Tommy lies on his stomach on the floor and directs his columns.
He puts his infantry in front, and before them ambles a mounted band.
Their instruments make a strand of gold before the scarlet-tunicked soldiers,
and they take very long steps on their little green platforms,
and from the ranks bursts the song of Tommy's soldiers marching to battle.
The song jolts a little as the green platforms stick on the thick carpet.
Tommy wheels his guns round the edge of a box of blocks, and places
a squad of cavalry on the commanding eminence of a footstool.
The fire snaps pleasantly, and the old Chinaman nods - nods. The fire makes
the red rose in his hand glow and twist. Hist! That is a bold song
Tommy's soldiers sing as they march along to battle.
Crack! Rattle! The sparks fly up the chimney.
Tommy's army's off to war -
Not a soldier knows what for.
But he knows about his rifle,
How to shoot it, and a trifle
Of the proper thing to do
When it's he who is shot through.
Like a cleverly trained flea,
He can follow instantly
Orders, and some quick commands
Really make severe demands
On a mind that's none too rapid,
Leaden brains tend to the vapid.
But how beautifully dressed
Is this army! How impressed
Tommy is when at his heel
All his baggage wagons wheel
About the patterned carpet, and
Moving up his heavy guns
He sees them glow with diamond suns
Flashing all along each barrel.
And the gold and blue apparel
Of his gunners is a joy.
Tommy is a lucky boy.
Boom! Boom! Ta-ra!
The old mandarin nods under his purple umbrella. The rose in his hand
shoots its petals up in thin quills of crimson. Then they collapse
and shrivel like red embers. The fire sizzles.
Tommy is galloping his cavalry, two by two, over the floor. They must pass
the open terror of the door and gain the enemy encamped under the wash-stand.
The mounted band is very grand, playing allegro and leading the infantry on
at the double quick. The tassel of the hearth-rug has flung down
the bass-drum, and he and his dapple-grey horse lie overtripped,
slipped out of line, with the little lead drumsticks glistening
to the fire's shine.
The fire burns and crackles, and tickles the tripped bass-drum
with its sparkles.
The marching army hitches its little green platforms valiantly, and steadily
approaches the door. The overturned bass-drummer, lying on the hearth-rug,
melting in the heat, softens and sheds tears. The song jeers
at his impotence, and flaunts the glory of the martial and still upstanding,
vaunting the deeds it will do. For are not Tommy's soldiers
all bright and new?
Tommy's leaden soldiers we,
Glittering with efficiency.
Not a button's out of place,
Tons and tons of golden lace
Wind about our officers.
Every manly bosom stirs
At the thought of killing - killing!
Tommy's dearest wish fulfilling.
We are gaudy, savage, strong,
And our loins so ripe we long
First to kill, then procreate,
Doubling so the laws of Fate.
On their women we have sworn
To graft our sons. And overborne
They'll rear us younger soldiers, so
Shall our race endure and grow,
Waxing greater in the wombs
Borrowed of them, while damp tombs
Rot their men. O Glorious War!
Goad us with your points, Great Star!
The china mandarin on the bookcase nods slowly, forward and back -
forward and back - and the red rose writhes and wriggles,
thrusting its flaming petals under and over one another like tortured snakes.
The fire strokes them with its dartles, and purrs at them,
and the old man nods.
Tommy does not hear the song. He only sees the beautiful, new,
gaily-coloured lead soldiers. They belong to him, and he is very proud
and happy. He shouts his orders aloud, and gallops his cavalry past the door
to the wash-stand. He creeps over the floor on his hands and knees
to one battalion and another, but he sees only the bright colours
of his soldiers and the beautiful precision of their gestures.
He is a lucky boy to have such fine lead soldiers to enjoy.
Tommy catches his toe in the leg of the wash-stand, and jars the pitcher.
He snatches at it with his hands, but it is too late. The pitcher falls,
and as it goes, he sees the white water flow over its lip. It slips
between his fingers and crashes to the floor. But it is not water which oozes
to the door. The stain is glutinous and dark, a spark from the firelight
heads it to red. In and out, between the fine, new soldiers,
licking over the carpet, squirms the stream of blood, lapping at
the little green platforms, and flapping itself against the painted uniforms.
The nodding mandarin moves his head slowly, forward and back.
The rose is broken, and where it fell is black blood. The old mandarin leers
under his purple umbrella, and nods - forward and back, staring into the air
with blue-green eyes. Every time his head comes forward a rosebud pushes
between his lips, rushes into full bloom, and drips to the ground
with a splashing sound. The pool of black blood grows and grows,
with each dropped rose, and spreads out to join the stream from
the wash-stand. The beautiful army of lead soldiers steps boldly forward,
but the little green platforms are covered in the rising stream of blood.
The nursery fire burns brightly and flings fan-bursts of stars up the chimney,
as though a gala flamed a night of victorious wars.
poem by Amy Lowell
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Untitled #1
You say you're like a tree or a bus stop
With your hands by your side
Lets say you're like a field of tulips
Cheap gold flowers in the sky
If the cavalry comes, is it really no surprise
Count the calory cops, I'm allowing alibis
Drag the shine off your stool and leave me, its raining outside
Catch your life through some strange indifference, I don't want lullabies
Paralysed on parade and ready to drop you know
Amazed and a mess, you may just stop me and go
(well he said he was a vegetarian, well there's animals in water)
Here come the calory cops, is it really no surprise?
And if the cavalry comes I'm allowing alibis
Count your life like some strange and different
Go one word at a time
Can't you hear the bells ringing
Get your hands off my sky
In a place where the words all just fall apart
With the sound of a stutter
A mutter in your heart
Clock the spokes off your wheels, its safer just to ride
Put your heart in the back, I've not once seen you smile
song performed by by I Am Kloot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Decked With Gold
The woman was arrayed in purple and scarlet colours,
Decked with gold, pearls and precious stones!
But she was worried about the things to come.
Like she who sits on the seven mountains in Rome,
She is desolate and naked after war!
And her desire is with many to make a difference.
Of the wine of her fornications,
Of the beer of her adulteries,
It was very pleasant to the eyes and desirable as food;
But like the work and the care of her lover,
She is always decked with gold.
Of the peace that eludes her,
At the same time of war with mankind;
But when she is dead and gone,
Others will still hope and dream of her.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Rosemary
Boots were of leather, a breath of cologne
The mirror was a window she sat by alone.
All around the garden grew scarlet and purple and crimson and blue.
She came dead and she went, and at last went away, the garden was sealed when the
Flowers decayed.
On the wall of the garden a legend did say, no one may come here since no one may
Stay.
song performed by by Grateful Dead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Heaven as spectrum
Bold March sunlight bounces
off the yellow-grey-brown London claybricks
of the house across the gardens;
the next-door neighbour’s cut the dead ivy
and the reflected light hits the artificial flowers
and their strong delicate colours, glowing
in their various cobalt vases; blooming joyful
where living flowers find that corner sad;
the flowers as if washed today with brighter water-colours;
as if grace itself, wishing to send a message
to this room today, had chosen the spectrum
of the flowers’ purples, yellows, blues and reds
as its medium and message; and its smile;
today, the spectrum is for me
metaphor enough – its rainbow limits
playing now-you-see-me… with the retina,
hinting at the formless always beckoning
there, beyond the form..
metaphor enough
for heaven’s mind itself; and heaven’s smile.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Carnations in the garden
There are carnations in the garden
in colours of ruby red,
pure white and blossom pink
and some pink with deep purple inside
and others purple-blue.
I smell the sweet fresh flowers
and look at colours
hue as if by magic
into each other.
Some grow in flowering pots,
some are planted in flowerbeds,
others even in the rock garden
and the flowers at places are mixed
to catch the eye
and everywhere there’s care
and a lot of love
that went into the tending of it.
poem by Gert Strydom
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In Barracks
The barrack-square, washed clean with rain,
Shines wet and wintry-grey and cold.
Young Fusiliers, strong-legged and bold,
March and wheel and march again.
The sun looks over the barrack gate,
Warm and white with glaring shine,
To watch the soldiers of the Line
That life has hired to fight with fate.
Fall out: the long parades are done.
Up comes the dark; down goes the sun.
The square is walled with windowed light.
Sleep well, you lusty Fusiliers;
Shut your brave eyes on sense and sight,
And banish from your dreamless ears
The bugle’s dying notes that say,
‘Another night; another day.’
poem by Siegfried Sassoon
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Spring Day
Bath
The day is fresh-washed and fair, and there is a smell of tulips and narcissus
in the air.
The sunshine pours in at the bath-room window and bores through the water
in the bath-tub in lathes and planes of greenish-white. It cleaves the water
into flaws like a jewel, and cracks it to bright light.
Little spots of sunshine lie on the surface of the water and dance, dance,
and their reflections wobble deliciously over the ceiling; a stir of my finger
sets them whirring, reeling. I move a foot, and the planes of light
in the water jar. I lie back and laugh, and let the green-white water,
the sun-flawed beryl water, flow over me. The day is almost
too bright to bear, the green water covers me from the too bright day.
I will lie here awhile and play with the water and the sun spots.
The sky is blue and high. A crow flaps by the window, and there is
a whiff of tulips and narcissus in the air.
Breakfast Table
In the fresh-washed sunlight, the breakfast table is decked and white.
It offers itself in flat surrender, tendering tastes, and smells,
and colours, and metals, and grains, and the white cloth falls over its side,
draped and wide. Wheels of white glitter in the silver coffee-pot,
hot and spinning like catherine-wheels, they whirl, and twirl - and my eyes
begin to smart, the little white, dazzling wheels prick them like darts.
Placid and peaceful, the rolls of bread spread themselves in the sun to bask.
A stack of butter-pats, pyramidal, shout orange through the white, scream,
flutter, call: 'Yellow! Yellow! Yellow!' Coffee steam rises in a stream,
clouds the silver tea-service with mist, and twists up into the sunlight,
revolved, involuted, suspiring higher and higher, fluting in a thin spiral
up the high blue sky. A crow flies by and croaks at the coffee steam.
The day is new and fair with good smells in the air.
Walk
Over the street the white clouds meet, and sheer away without touching.
On the sidewalks, boys are playing marbles. Glass marbles,
with amber and blue hearts, roll together and part with a sweet
clashing noise. The boys strike them with black and red striped agates.
The glass marbles spit crimson when they are hit, and slip into the gutters
under rushing brown water. I smell tulips and narcissus in the air,
but there are no flowers anywhere, only white dust whipping up the street,
and a girl with a gay Spring hat and blowing skirts. The dust and the wind
flirt at her ankles and her neat, high-heeled patent leather shoes. Tap, tap,
the little heels pat the pavement, and the wind rustles among the flowers
on her hat.
A water-cart crawls slowly on the other side of the way. It is green and gay
with new paint, and rumbles contentedly, sprinkling clear water over
the white dust. Clear zigzagging water, which smells of tulips and narcissus.
The thickening branches make a pink `grisaille' against the blue sky.
Whoop! The clouds go dashing at each other and sheer away just in time.
Whoop! And a man's hat careers down the street in front of the white dust,
leaps into the branches of a tree, veers away and trundles ahead of the wind,
jarring the sunlight into spokes of rose-colour and green.
A motor-car cuts a swathe through the bright air, sharp-beaked, irresistible,
shouting to the wind to make way. A glare of dust and sunshine
tosses together behind it, and settles down. The sky is quiet and high,
and the morning is fair with fresh-washed air.
Midday and Afternoon
Swirl of crowded streets. Shock and recoil of traffic. The stock-still
brick facade of an old church, against which the waves of people
lurch and withdraw. Flare of sunshine down side-streets. Eddies of light
in the windows of chemists' shops, with their blue, gold, purple jars,
darting colours far into the crowd. Loud bangs and tremors,
murmurings out of high windows, whirring of machine belts,
blurring of horses and motors. A quick spin and shudder of brakes
on an electric car, and the jar of a church-bell knocking against
the metal blue of the sky. I am a piece of the town, a bit of blown dust,
thrust along with the crowd. Proud to feel the pavement under me,
reeling with feet. Feet tripping, skipping, lagging, dragging,
plodding doggedly, or springing up and advancing on firm elastic insteps.
A boy is selling papers, I smell them clean and new from the press.
They are fresh like the air, and pungent as tulips and narcissus.
The blue sky pales to lemon, and great tongues of gold blind the shop-windows,
putting out their contents in a flood of flame.
Night and Sleep
The day takes her ease in slippered yellow. Electric signs gleam out
along the shop fronts, following each other. They grow, and grow,
and blow into patterns of fire-flowers as the sky fades. Trades scream
in spots of light at the unruffled night. Twinkle, jab, snap, that means
a new play; and over the way: plop, drop, quiver, is the sidelong
sliver of a watchmaker's sign with its length on another street.
A gigantic mug of beer effervesces to the atmosphere over a tall building,
but the sky is high and has her own stars, why should she heed ours?
I leave the city with speed. Wheels whirl to take me back to my trees
and my quietness. The breeze which blows with me is fresh-washed and clean,
it has come but recently from the high sky. There are no flowers
in bloom yet, but the earth of my garden smells of tulips and narcissus.
My room is tranquil and friendly. Out of the window I can see
the distant city, a band of twinkling gems, little flower-heads with no stems.
I cannot see the beer-glass, nor the letters of the restaurants and shops
I passed, now the signs blur and all together make the city,
glowing on a night of fine weather, like a garden stirring and blowing
for the Spring.
The night is fresh-washed and fair and there is a whiff of flowers in the air.
Wrap me close, sheets of lavender. Pour your blue and purple dreams
into my ears. The breeze whispers at the shutters and mutters
queer tales of old days, and cobbled streets, and youths leaping their horses
down marble stairways. Pale blue lavender, you are the colour of the sky
when it is fresh-washed and fair . . . I smell the stars . . . they are like
tulips and narcissus . . . I smell them in the air.
poem by Amy Lowell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Artilleryman's Vision
WHILE my wife at my side lies slumbering, and the wars are over long,
And my head on the pillow rests at home, and the vacant midnight
passes,
And through the stillness, through the dark, I hear, just hear, the
breath of my infant,
There in the room, as I wake from sleep, this vision presses upon me:
The engagement opens there and then, in fantasy unreal;
The skirmishers begin--they crawl cautiously ahead--I hear the
irregular snap! snap!
I hear the sounds of the different missiles--the short t-h-t! t-h-t!
of the rifle balls;
I see the shells exploding, leaving small white clouds--I hear the
great shells shrieking as they pass;
The grape, like the hum and whirr of wind through the trees, (quick,
tumultuous, now the contest rages!)
All the scenes at the batteries themselves rise in detail before me
again; 10
The crashing and smoking--the pride of the men in their pieces;
The chief gunner ranges and sights his piece, and selects a fuse of
the right time;
After firing, I see him lean aside, and look eagerly off to note the
effect;
--Elsewhere I hear the cry of a regiment charging--(the young colonel
leads himself this time, with brandish'd sword;)
I see the gaps cut by the enemy's volleys, (quickly fill'd up, no
delay;)
I breathe the suffocating smoke--then the flat clouds hover low,
concealing all;
Now a strange lull comes for a few seconds, not a shot fired on
either side;
Then resumed, the chaos louder than ever, with eager calls, and
orders of officers;
While from some distant part of the field the wind wafts to my ears a
shout of applause, (some special success;)
And ever the sound of the cannon, far or near, (rousing, even in
dreams, a devilish exultation, and all the old mad joy, in the
depths of my soul;) 20
And ever the hastening of infantry shifting positions--batteries,
cavalry, moving hither and thither;
(The falling, dying, I heed not--the wounded, dripping and red, I
heed not--some to the rear are hobbling;)
Grime, heat, rush--aid-de-camps galloping by, or on a full run;
With the patter of small arms, the warning s-s-t of the rifles,
(these in my vision I hear or see,)
And bombs busting in air, and at night the vari-color'd rockets.
poem by Walt Whitman
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Under the Purple Flowers
In the purple flowers’ shade
You kissed me the first kiss.
The moon lit its light of jade;
The cicadas sang their song of bliss.
Then, time passed fast and blind;
You went to your studies above
Leaving the purple flowers behind
With such a dreamlike love.
In each letter sent to the old place
You said you still missed this start
With the purple flowers of grace
And this young and true heart.
I have come back each day alone
To see the old flowers obsess
And hear the cicadas groan;
I feel such a vague distress.
I have nurtured my pastoral love
Now that summer is back to see
With the purple flowers above
I am an amorous banyan tree.
poem by ThanhThanh NhuanLe
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Snarleyow
This 'appened in a battle to a batt'ry of the corps
Which is first among the women an' amazin' first in war;
An' what the bloomin' battle was I don't remember now,
But Two's off-lead 'e answered to the name o' ~Snarleyow~.
Down in the Infantry, nobody cares;
Down in the Cavalry, Colonel 'e swears;
But down in the lead with the wheel at the flog
Turns the bold Bombardier to a little whipped dog!
They was movin' into action, they was needed very sore,
To learn a little schoolin' to a native army corps,
They 'ad nipped against an uphill, they was tuckin' down the brow,
When a tricky, trundlin' roundshot give the knock to ~Snarleyow~.
They cut 'im loose an' left 'im -- 'e was almost tore in two --
But he tried to follow after as a well-trained 'orse should do;
'E went an' fouled the limber, an' the Driver's Brother squeals:
'Pull up, pull up for ~Snarleyow~ -- 'is head's between 'is 'eels!'
The Driver 'umped 'is shoulder, for the wheels was goin' round,
An' there ain't no 'Stop, conductor!' when a batt'ry's changin' ground;
Sez 'e: 'I broke the beggar in, an' very sad I feels,
But I couldn't pull up, not for ~you~ -- your 'ead between your 'eels!'
'E 'adn't 'ardly spoke the word, before a droppin' shell
A little right the batt'ry an' between the sections fell;
An' when the smoke 'ad cleared away, before the limber wheels,
There lay the Driver's Brother with 'is 'ead between 'is 'eels.
Then sez the Driver's Brother, an' 'is words was very plain,
'For Gawd's own sake get over me, an' put me out o' pain.'
They saw 'is wounds was mortial, an' they judged that it was best,
So they took an' drove the limber straight across 'is back an' chest.
The Driver 'e give nothin' 'cept a little coughin' grunt,
But 'e swung 'is 'orses 'andsome when it came to 'Action Front!'
An' if one wheel was juicy, you may lay your Monday head
'Twas juicier for the niggers when the case begun to spread.
The moril of this story, it is plainly to be seen:
You 'avn't got no families when servin' of the Queen --
You 'avn't got no brothers, fathers, sisters, wives, or sons --
If you want to win your battles take an' work your bloomin' guns!
Down in the Infantry, nobody cares;
Down in the Cavalry, Colonel 'e swears;
But down in the lead with the wheel at the flog
Turns the bold Bombardier to a little whipped dog!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Dirty Dancing
Videotaping,
Sexual escapades,
Fornication,
Dirty dancing,
Emerging from dark bedrooms!
And like the wine of her fornication,
But i saw the woman sitting on scarlet coloured beast full of names of blasphemy.
She has seven heads and ten horns,
With sodomites in the land and of male prostitutes as well;
But the woman was arrayed in purple and scarlet colours!
Also decked with gold, pearls and precious stones;
And having a cup in her hand full of abomination! !
But the filthiness of her fornication was enjoyed by many who were dancing around her.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Roses On White Lace
I saw you in your wedding gown
The prettiest dress
I came into the room that night
And made such a mess
In my own way, I lovingly kiss the bride
With your ring in your hand
Your eyes and your mouth open wide
In my eyes
Blood drops look like roses on white lace
They won't wash away
In my mind they're roses on white lace
Straight from the heart
So dead upon the bed
You hurt me in the deepest way
I'm crippled inside
I took your evil skin away
It's all cut and dried
I saw you tonight and carefully took your hand
With some smears on my cheeks
I knew that you would understand
In my eyes
Blood drops look like roses on white lace
They won't wash away
In my mind they're roses on white lace
Straight from the heart
So dead upon the bed, still searching for your head
They're never gonna find your face
It's hidden away
I found a very special place where you used to play
In my own way, I lovingly kiss the bride
With your ring in your hand
Your eyes and your mouth open wide
In my eyes
Blood drops look like roses on white lace
They won't wash away
In my mind they're roses on white lace
Straight from the heart
Blood drops look like roses on white lace
Crimson and sweet, stained on the sheet
Roses on white lace, pretty in red, dripping and wet
Roses on white lace, spilled on the walls, dark in the hall
song performed by by Alice Cooper
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Colours Fly & Catherine Wheel
''belle
Never turn your back
Great times attack
Inexpensive thrills
And I said belle
Of all the friends who care
Some should be seen
But never heard
Colours fly and catherine wheels
Poor girls cry
In the beauty of both worlds
Catch a boy fell falling
Fall in love fell falling
Catch a boy fell falling
Fall in love fell falling
Catch a boy fell falling
Out of the sky
''belle
When the pulses rise
Love will tranquilize
Just before it kills
And I said belle
You turn them on
With your reflection
I know so well
Colours fly and catherine wheels
Poor girls cry
In the beauty of both worlds
Catch a boy fell falling
Fall in love fell falling
Catch a boy fell falling
Fall in love fell falling
Catch a boy fell falling
Out of the sky
Catch a boy fell falling
Fall in love fell falling
Catch a boy fell falling
Fall in love fell falling
Catch a boy fell falling
Out of the sky
Out of the sky
Colours fly and catherine wheels
Some girl cry
Over her boyfriend
When colours fly and catherine wheels
So when the colours fly
And when the catherine wheels...
Words & music : simple minds (c) emi publishing ltd reproduced without permission
song performed by by Simple Minds
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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What Have the Cavalry Done?
What have the cavalry done?
Cantered and trotted about,
Routin' the enemy out,
Causin' the beggars to run!
And we tramped along in the blazin' heat,
Over the veldt on our weary feet.
Tramp, tramp, tramp
Under the blazin' sun,
With never the sight of a bloomin' Boer,
'Cause they'd hunted 'em long before --
That's what the cavalry done!
What have the gunners done
Battlin' every day,
Battlin' any way.
Boers outranged 'em, but what cared they?
"Shoot and be damned," said the R.H.A.!
See! when the fight grows hot,
Under the rifles or not,
Always the order runs,
"Fetch up the bloomin' guns!"
And you'd see them great gun horses spring
To the "action front" -- and around they'd swing.
Find the range with some queer machine
"At four thousand with fuse fourteen.
Ready! Fire number one!"
Handled the battery neat and quick!
Stick to it, too! How did they stick!
Never a gunner was seen to run!
Never a gunner would leave his gun!
Not though his mates dropped all around!
Always a gunner would stand his ground.
Take the army -- the infantry,
Mounted rifles, and cavalry,
Twice the numbers I'd give away,
And I'd fight the lot with the R.H.A.,
For they showed us how a corps should be run,
That's what the gunners done!
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Tears Dried
Upon the grass of the wind I lay
Blue wind and violet dreams
Streams of light in golden clouds
Time has a fathers voice
I long for a mellow garden
Pallor of peace like the sea
Fire is in your world
Fire that will burn the city
What is in your heart?
Torches of soldiers
Will you go with the dead?
Burning emblems on their bellies
Fear is cast out
Beauty has no helmets
Some must love in catacombs
Some share prisons with saints
Hear the wind cry
Slaughter of the lambs
Gates with no lies
Senates steaming rivers
No badges or banners
You are their like stars
Everyone caressing humility
Tears dried with peace and joy
poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Joy Of Spring
The sky above is shinning blue today,
And sun beams are playfully kissing the earth,
Flowers rise proud its stalks and tell us their stories,
A sleeping nature getting back to life in its glorious way.
The peace of grass rustling in the wind,
Is melting with the twitter of happy birds in trees,
Spring time has come to us again,
A spectacular view my eyes enjoy today.
Trees turn green are budding as life rebirth,
The exuberance of orange, blue, purple, yellow came,
And warm my heart in misterious ways,
With such variety of colours this spring make bold my soul in grace.
New beginnings in our lives have start,
Brought by the refreshment of a sunny march day,
I will never forget what spring time means,
Joy of spring took my breath away again.
poem by Cristina Teodor
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Northumberland Strait
Thursday, May 15,2008
Northumberland Strait
So emperors hear that glory fleets
In no way do memories sleep
Without my stream of youth, my smile, its play
Can I now find complete
No man would stay alone with sleep
Then dreamy vision will still creep
No place, no river, no bounds will say
That ever could ours have been a better play
Without our smiles our love our place
That moons moments less our embrace
Without that turn, that look of grace
Our lives, without goal stand in place
So its said that travel must abide
To, beyond new places, to find astride boundless skies
So no place, no newness will be new
Without that love, that travel, that you
Can not we be in a pleasant place?
Embrace, so herons and waves complain to me
That sea! Its place so stricken by a shore, a boundary,
So my passion must endure
Without that smile about without
That gloss of past glory be
But no is the word so says the tune
A place under the seaside moon
Eternal lends but a moment too-
So must I say, I truly love you
All our eternities are the present
The moment is all true eternity
poem by Joseph Manduke
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Purple of twilight
Gold of setting sun embrace
Silhouettes in lace
haiku by Dorothy Holmes (23 May 2008)
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Beyond the Stream
Beyond the stream, I can behold the sun dancing on the horizon,
Where I walk every morning
I am alone with my thoughts and I carry my dreams in my pocket.
I carry my dreams in my pocket and nobody would ever surmise
How close to my heart and how close to my mind
This plethora of dreams has become.
Beyond the stream, beyond the horizon
Exists a land of my fantasies-
A place where lilacs and marigolds grow plentifully,
When the rain does fall, the raindrops are silver in their hue,
Reflecting the sunlight, as it shines through the mackerel clouds-
Here in this place where rain may fall, while still -sunlight is plentiful but
The air is never humid or stagnant, and
Each and every raindropp possesses a promise that
Those who dwell in this land shall never perish.
Those who dwell in this land shall never perish,
Those in this land shall never know pain or misfortune and
Each and every one of those raindrops which are silver in hue,
Reflecting eternal sunshine, also hold within
An image of peace, amity and unbroken promises-
This image of peace, amity and unbroken promises
Is reflected in each raindropp as would a magical pond in its utmost clarity-
But alas, there exists a granite stone wall
Which has been erected between this land and the forward steps that I take-
To break down this granite stone wall barring me from
Living out these fondest dreams that I carry
Would be my utmost desire, and I weep tears of frustration
Because I cannot find my place in this world here, so vast and so cruel.
Beyond the stream and beyond my tears I know exists
The dreams I carry inside of my pocket every single moment of every day.
I continue my journey searching for a way out of my demise, and as
My tears are like those raindrops silver in their hue-
I can see these dreams inside the reflection of that majestic land beyond the stream,
Beyond the horizon and I dream and dream on as if I were really there- This being
A land of unbroken promises I- know that my dreams shall come true someday-so
To these dreams- I shall hold inside my pocket, close to my heart, for always.
poem by Claudia Krizay
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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