A Niagara Landscape
Heavy with haze that merges and melts free
Into the measureless depth on either hand,
The full day rests upon the luminous land
In one long noon of golden reverie.
Now hath the harvest come and gone with glee.
The shaven fields stretch smooth and clean away,
Purple and green, and yellow, and soft gray,
Chequered with orchards. Farther still I see
Towns and dim villages, whose roof-tops fill
The distant mist, yet scarcely catch the view.
Thorold set sultry on its plateau'd hill,
And far to westward, where yon pointed towers
Rise faint and ruddy from the vaporous blue,
Saint Catharines, city of the host of flowers.
poem by Archibald Lampman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
September
Now hath the summer reached her golden close,
And, lost amid her corn-fields, bright of soul,
Scarcely perceives from her divine repose
How near, how swift, the inevitable goal:
Still, still, she smiles, though from her careless feet
The bounty and the fruitful strength are gone,
And through the soft long wondering days goes on
The silent sere decadence sad and sweet.
The kingbird and the pensive thrush are fled,
Children of light, too fearful of the gloom;
The sun falls low, the secret word is said,
The mouldering woods grow silent as the tomb;
Even the fields have lost their sovereign grace,
The cone-flower and the marguerite; and no more,
Across the river's shadow-haunted floor,
The paths of skimming swallows interlace.
Already in the outland wilderness
The forests echo with unwonted dins;
In clamorous gangs the gathering woodmen press
Northward, and the stern winter's toil begins.
Around the long low shanties, whose rough lines
Break the sealed dreams of many an unnamed lake,
Already in the frost-clear morns awake
The crash and thunder of the falling pines.
Where the tilled earth, with all its fields set free,
Naked and yellow from the harvest lies,
By many a loft and busy granary,
The hum and tumult of the thrashers rise;
There the tanned farmers labor without slack,
Till twilight deepens round the spouting mill,
Feeding the loosened sheaves, or with fierce will,
Pitching waist-deep upon the dusty stack.
Still a brief while, ere the old year quite pass,
Our wandering steps and wistful eyes shall greet
The leaf, the water, the beloved grass;
Still from these haunts and this accustomed seat
I see the wood-wrapt city, swept with light,
The blue long-shadowed distance, and, between,
The dotted farm-lands with their parcelled green,
The dark pine forest and the watchful height.
I see the broad rough meadow stretched away
Into the crystal sunshine, wastes of sod,
Acres of withered vervain, purple-gray,
Branches of aster, groves of goldenrod;
And yonder, toward the sunlit summit, strewn
With shadowy boulders, crowned and swathed with weed,
Stand ranks of silken thistles, blown to seed,
Long silver fleeces shining like the noon.
In far-off russet corn-fields, where the dry
Gray shocks stand peaked and withering, half concealed
In the rough earth, the orange pumpkins lie,
Full-ribbed; and in the windless pasture-field
The sleek red horses o'er the sun-warmed ground
Stand pensively about in companies,
While all around them from the motionless trees
The long clean shadows sleep without a sound.
Under cool elm-trees floats the distant stream,
Moveless as air; and o'er the vast warm earth
The fathomless daylight seems to stand and dream,
A liquid cool elixir-all its girth
Bound with faint haze, a frail transparency,
Whose lucid purple barely veils and fills
The utmost valleys and the thin last hills,
Nor mars one whit their perfect clarity.
Thus without grief the golden days go by,
So soft we scarcely notice how they wend,
And like a smile half happy, or a sigh,
The summer passes to her quiet end;
And soon, too soon, around the cumbered eaves
Sly frosts shall take the creepers by surprise,
And through the wind-touched reddening woods shall rise
October with the rain of ruined leaves.
poem by Archibald Lampman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Namaqualand And The Atlantic 10.2.2008
Sunday 28 September 2008
……………….Namaqualand’s Beautiful Town Springbok
Springbok is the brightest crystal and
sparkling diamonds shining in pristine
beauty, blue skies and green emeralds,
punctuated by dollops of golden-yellow
and orange flowers, framed by dappled
rocks and sun-kissed hillocks; I’ve lost
my heart to Springbok
enclosed within the sweet embrace of
Namaqualand’s brightest flowers, a playful
breeze welcoming us with velvet touches;
driving into fields of green, the beauty of the
scene – brightest purple explosions amongst
sun-coloured flowers, a kaleidoscope of sensual
delight, mountain ridges representing
colours in cymatics, illustrating the melodies
created by colourful harmonies of chromatic
colours – a sapphire sky stretched over lime-
green gorse, rugged mountain edges, a musical
composition of delicious colour themes; then
all becoming a patterned carpet in shades of
green and luminous cream…
A tapestry landscape in purple and yellow, flowers
become a smile and laughter in the landscape,
without flowers the land looks serious, austere,
add the giggles of giddy yellow, the twittering of
miniature pinks, purple splashes of full-throated
laughter, and the land starts smiling, welcoming
us….
Wednesday 1 October 2008
…………….Watching the Atlantic
Watching the white foam of the bridal sea, the
rolling cloak of a magical maid, sparkling with
diamonds afar, the hem of her seawater dress
marked by mocha and cream, framed by wet
rocks glistening in golden sun
I’m sitting here looking upon nature’s mystery,
the bride herself is nowhere to be seen, only
waves of cloth undulating and breaking cease-
lessly, only the voice of the bridegroom is heard
in the low baritone and -
Wooden bass of the rolling and breaking waves,
the bride’s voice is quiet, her laughter is caught
in the giddy giggles of yellow flowers adorning
the land, her shy expectation is depicted in blue
flowers interspersed between
Orange and purple daisies and blossoms in pink,
the guests are all ranged upon white cottonwool
clouds drifting about in a blue, luminous sky, the
preparations for a celestial feast are complete,
I’m dreaming, the feast
Will begin…
poem by Margaret Alice
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The City
Beyond the dusky corn-fields, toward the west,
Dotted with farms, beyond the shallow stream,
Through drifts of elm with quiet peep and gleam,
Curved white and slender as a lady's wrist,
Faint and far off out of the autumn mist,
Even as a pointed jewel softly set
In clouds of colour warmer, deeper yet,
Crimson and gold and rose and amethyst,
Toward dayset, where the journeying sun grown old
Hangs lowly westward darker now than gold,
With the soft sun-touch of the yellowing hours
Made lovelier, I see with dreaming eyes,
Even as a dream out of a dream, arise
The bell-tongued city with its glorious towers.
poem by Archibald Lampman
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New Light New Colour
An old man
welcomes
his four day old
grandson
white stillness pure gold purple wonder gold strength pink joy
pink infinity navy blue now strong indigo blue light blue fountain
the green first reason endless yellow compassionate orange
royal red
single red free orange free yellow
green depth as clear as crystal all attractive light blue
strong indigo blue strong navy blue pink wishes gold compassion
compassionate purple gold of golds of creativity
who is quiet
and naturally very small and delicate
red inspirer orange giver yellow help dazzling green
light blue of the delicate with indigo blue eyes navy blue good
with pink kind eyes golden hair
golden complexion purple complexion
gold warmth of white space
white of whites
gold truth purple mentor funny gold pink friend of children
navy blue of nature indigo blue knowledge light blue song of nature
green creation yellow in senses orange guide red way
white and gold love
of all purple knowledge gold presence pink in thunder and storms
navy blue pleasure indigo blue beauty light blue lines
all attractive green of yellow stirring music of orange red refuge
clear red orange orange yellow yellow with green giving hands
of green light blue truth indigo blue essence navy blue sparkle
pink with gold purple guide gold here here white
His feet are curled
His fingers as small as tiny magic wands
His eyes large
Some skin is peeling off his small face
Everything is perfectly formed
white
is the sun with penetrating vision purple and golden constant winner
gold reach of all pink infinite navy blue indigo blue knowledge
light blue care
deep green in greens dedicated to yellow
orange truth
red peace
This perfect body was in his mother only a week ago
thinks the old man
He places his hand on the boys stomach
red glory orange beauty yellow
of green and light blue evenings handsome indigo blue
intelligent navy blue pink of pinks of gold golds purple purple
gold friend openness formless
white and gold
prevailing purple efficient purple purple origin purple form
gold and permanent pink navy blue belief indigo blue blue
dense green yellow orange red friend red
The boy almost gasps at this touch
He yawns
His eyes remain anxiously focused on the window
eager to understand the Australian light
poem by Bhupen Thakker
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Burgher's Battle
Thick rise the spear-shafts o’er the land
That erst the harvest bore;
The sword is heavy in the hand,
And we return no more.
The light wind waves the Ruddy Fox,
Our banner of the war,
And ripples in the Running Ox,
And we return no more.
Across our stubble acres now
The teams go four and four;
But out-worn elders guide the plough,
And we return no more.
And now the women heavy-eyed
Turn through the open door
From gazing down the highway wide,
Where we return no more.
The shadows of the fruited close
Dapple the feast-hall floor;
There lie our dogs and dream and doze,
And we return no more.
Down from the minster tower to-day
Fall the soft chimes of yore
Amidst the chattering jackdaws’ play:
And we return no more.
But underneath the streets are still;
Noon, and the market’s o’er!
Back go the goodwives o’er the hill;
For we return no more.
What merchant to our gates shall come?
What wise man bring us lore?
What abbot ride away to Rome,
Now we return no more?
What mayor shall rule the hall we built?
Whose scarlet sweep the floor?
What judge shall doom the robber’s guilt,
Now we return no more?
New houses in the streets shall rise
Where builded we before,
Of other stone wrought otherwise;
For we return no more.
And crops shall cover field and hill
Unlike what once they bore,
And all be done without our will,
Now we return no more.
Look up! the arrows streak the sky,
The horns of battle roar;
The long spears lower and draw nigh,
And we return no more.
Remember how beside the wain,
We spoke the word of war,
And sowed this harvest of the plain,
And we return no more.
Lay spears about the Ruddy Fox!
The days of old are o’er;
Heave sword about the Running Ox!
For we return no more.
poem by William Morris
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Among The Orchards
Already in the dew-wrapped vineyards dry
Dense weights of heat press down. The large bright drops
Shrink in the leaves. From dark acacia tops
The nuthatch flings his short reiterate cry;
And ever as the sun mounts hot and high
Thin voices crowd the grass. In soft long strokes
The wind goes murmuring through the mountain oaks.
Faint wefts creep out along the blue and die.
I hear far in among the motionless trees--
Shadows that sleep upon the shaven sod--
The thud of dropping apples. Reach on reach
Stretch plots of perfumed orchard, where the bees
Murmur among the full-fringed golden-rod,
Or cling half-drunken to the rotting peach.
poem by Archibald Lampman
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How to make your wishes come true
She liked white and had not said a word yet
On her tenth birthday
she stood on the red steps
of the red opera house
-the red opera house on the north side of Sydney Harbour
almost opposite the white opera house
She scattered orange petals, yellow petals, green leaves and spoke
in a light blue voice
A bird of navy blue pink and gold feathers stood by her. Was this the grateful bird? Purple gold and white danced
She said
white stillness, pure gold, purple wonder, gold strength, pink joy, pink infinity, navy blue now, strong indigo blue, light blue fountain, the green first reason, compassionate orange, endless yellow,
royal red, single red, free orange, free yellow, green depth as clear as crystal, all attractive light blue, strong indigo blue, strong navy blue, pink wishes, gold compassion, compassionate purple,
gold of golds, of creativity, white of whites, gold truth, purple mentor, funny gold, pink friend of children, navy blue of nature,
indigo blue knowledge, light blue song of nature, green creation, yellow in senses, orange guide, red way, red inspirer, orange giver, yellow help, dazzling green, light blue of the delicate, with indigo blue eyes, navy blue good, with pink kind eyes, golden hair, golden complexion, purple complexion, gold warmth, of white space, white and gold love, of all purple knowledge, gold presence, pink in thunder and storms, navy blue pleasure, indigo blue beauty,
light blue lines, all attractive green, of yellow stirring music, of orange, red refuge, clear red, orange orange, yellow yellow, with green giving hands, of green, light blue truth, indigo blue essence, navy blue sparkle, pink with gold, purple guide, gold here, here white, white is the sun with penetrating vision, purple and golden constant winner, gold reach, of all pink, infinite navy blue, indigo blue knowledge, light blue care, deep green in greens, orange truth, dedicated to yellow, red peace, red glory, orange beauty, yellow, of green and light blue evenings, handsome indigo blue, intelligent navy blue, pink of pinks, of gold golds, purple purple, gold friend,
openness, formless white and gold, prevailing purple, efficient purple, purple origin, purple form, gold and permanent pink, navy blue belief, indigo blue blue, dense green, orange, yellow, red friend, red
and fell silent
Are the colours telling us that reciting the girl's words could make all our wishes come true? What else do red orange yellow green light blue indigo blue navy blue pink gold purple gold white know?
Today is a Monday
poem by Bhupen Thakker
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In The Middle Of The Journey
there is this lag
that one finds in the middle of the journey
you do not quit
but you do not also want to farther go
there is this temptation
to stay where i am
wanting to grab eternity by the hand
and not spill any of
those grains of sand
but as you will know
this is only the temporary plateau
as the sun comes up
on that grassy hill
something in us melts like chocolate
sweetness gone
wasted on the floors of time
solidity spoiled
towers crumple
and then back to basics
sooner we take the walk again
towards that certain
direction.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Vincent
starry starry night
paint your palette blue and gray
look out on a summer's day
with eyes that know the darkness in my soul
shadows on the hill
sketch the trees and daffodils
catch the breeze and the winter chills
in colors on the snowy linen land
now i understand
what you tried to say to me
and how you suffered you sanity
and how you tried to set them free
they would not listen they did not know how
perhaps they'll listen now
starry starry night
flaming flowers that brightly blaze
swirling clouds in violet haze
reflect in vincent's eyes of china blue
colors changing hue
morning fields of amber grain
weathered faces lined in pain
are soothed beneath the artist's loving hand
now i understand
what you tried to say to me
they did not listen they did not know how
perhaps they'll listen now
starry starry night
song performed by by Vonda Shepard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Huskers
IT was late in mild October, and the long autumnal rain
Had left the summer harvest-fields all green with grass again;
The first sharp frosts had fallen, leaving all the woodlands gay
With the hues of summer's rainbow, or the meadow flowers of May.
Through a thin, dry mist, that morning, the sun rose broad and red,
At first a rayless disk of fire, he brightened as he sped;
Yet, even his noontide glory fell chastened and subdued,
On the cornfields and the orchards, and softly pictured wood.
And all that quiet afternoon, slow sloping to the night,
He wove with golden shuttle the haze with yellow light;
Slanting through the painted beeches, he glorified the hill;
And, beneath it, pond and meadow lay brighter, greener still.
And shouting boys in woodland haunts caught glimpses of that sky,
Flecked by the many-tinted leaves, and laughed, they knew not why;
And school-girls, gay with aster-flowers, beside the meadow brooks,
Mingled the glow of autumn with the sunshine of sweet looks.
From spire and barn looked westerly the patient weathercocks;
But even the birches on the hill stood motionless as rocks.
No sound was in the woodlands, save the squirrel's dropping shell,
And the yellow leaves among the boughs, low rustling as they fell.
The summer grains were harvested; the stubblefields lay dry,
Where June winds rolled, in light and shade, the pale green waves of rye;
But still, on gentle hill-slopes, in valleys fringed with wood,
Ungathered, bleaching in the sun, the heavy corn crop stood.
Bent low, by autumn's wind and rain, through husks that, dry and sere,
Unfolded from their ripened charge, shone out the yellow ear;
Beneath, the turnip lay concealed, in many a verdant fold,
And glistened in the slanting light the pumpkin's sphere of gold.
There wrought the busy harvesters; and many a creaking wain
Bore slowly to the long barn-floor is load of husk and grain;
Till broad and red, as when he rose, the sun sank down, at last,
And like a merry guest's farewell, the day in brightness passed.
And lo! as through the western pines, on meadow, stream, and pond,
Flamed the red radiance of a sky, set all afire beyond,
Slowly o'er the eastern sea-bluffs a milder glory shone,
And the sunset and the moonrise were mingled into one!
As thus into the quiet night the twilight lapsed away,
And deeper in the brightening moon the tranquil shadows lay;
From many a brown old farm-house, and hamlet without name,
Their milking and their home-tasks done, the merry huskers came.
Swung o'er the heaped-up harvest, from pitchforks in the mow,
Shone dimly down the lanterns on the pleasant scene below;
The growing pile of husks behind, the golden ears before,
And laughing eyes and busy hands and brown cheeks glimmering o'er.
Half hidden, in a quiet nook, serene of look and heart,
Talking their old times over, the old men sat apart;
While up and down the unhusked pile, or nestling in its shade,
At hide-and-seek, with laugh and shout, the happy children played.
Urged by the good host's daughter, a maiden young and fair,
Lifting to light her sweet blue eyes and pride of soft brown hair,
The master of the village school, sleek of hair and smooth of tongue,
To the quaint tune of some old psalm, a husking-ballad sung.
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Enna
City where the hills recede
land at the horizons' end
what saint or poet did you breed
oh Enna.
Lo, the smiling vales descend
from the bird-enamored walls
that band so many graces in
oh Enna.
Fair and faintly green your hills
fall away, behind them rise
others fairer, fainter still
oh Enna.
O'er the chime-enchanted stair
a doughty brace of butterflies
agitates the drowsy air
oh Enna.
On your steepy mountainsides
light her foot and dry her tear
the new Persephone arrives
oh Enna.
And when the golden sun goes down
from hill to vale to hill ring round
the bells that call your faithful home
oh Enna? .
Then the clouds fill up the vales
and cool the throat and moisten well
the sere recesses of the soul
oh Enna.
City where the hills recede
land at the horizons' end
what saint or poet did you breed
oh Enna?
poem by Morgan Michaels
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Four springtimes lost: and in the fifth we stand
Four springtimes lost: and in the fifth we stand,
here in this quiet hour of glory, still,
while o'er the bridal land
the westering sun dwells in untroubled gold,
a bridegroom proud of his permitted will,
whom grateful rapture suffers not be bold,
but tender now and bland
his amber locks and bended gaze are shed,
brimming, above the couch'd and happy clime:
all is content and ripe delight, full-fed.
And as your fingers brush my hand
so too the winning time
would charm me from regretful reverie
that keeps me somewhat sad, remembering —
not the old woodland days, for thou art near
and hold'st them safely hid
to rise and shine again, when waning skies shall bid —
but later dawns o' the year, away from thee
liv'd thro', even here,
and golden embraces of the light-hearted time
when I was sad at heart, remembering
the clear enchantments of our single year,
our woodland prime of love, its violet-budded vow,
receding ever now
farther and farther down the past, a gleam
that turns to softest pearl the luminous haze
drifting between in from the golden days
when I was sad at inmost heart, remembering
thee and the woodland season of bright laughter: —
so in my perverse and most loitering dream
(O fading, fading days!)
each season claims the homage due, long after
its glory has faded to an outcast thing.
poem by Christopher John Brennan
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Sunset
From this windy bridge at rest,
In some former curious hour,
We have watched the city's hue,
All along the orange west,
Cupola and pointed tower,
Darken into solid blue.
Tho' the biting north wind breaks
Full across this drifted hold,
Let us stand with iced cheeks
Watching westward as of old;
Past the violet mountain-head
To the farthest fringe of pine,
Where far off the purple-red
Narrows to a dusky line,
And the last pale splendours die
Slowly from the olive sky;
Till the thin clouds wear away
Into threads of purple-gray,
And the sudden stars between
Brighten in the pallid green;
Till above the spacious east,
Slow returned one by one,
Like pale prisoners released
From the dungeons of the sun,
Capella and her train appear
In the glittering Charioteer;
Till the rounded moon shall grow
Great above the eastern snow,
Shining into burnished gold;
And the silver earth outrolled,
In the misty yellow light,
Shall take on the width of night.
poem by Archibald Lampman
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The Haze...
A Haze Of Hurt, Had Me Blue
A Deep, Drenching, Melancholy Hue
Cooled Ardor, Still Missing You
As, A Sure-As-Azure, Wind Blew
An Indigo-Downcast, Drifts Into
Memories, Over and Through
Moments, Not Sapphire-True
… Just A Haze Of Misty Blue
Thru A Haze Of Red
Rage Ran Ahead
As Ache Demanded, Anger Be Fed
For Each Scalding Teardrop, Shed
As Each Burning Hearthrob, Bled
Lying Lonely On Crimson Bed
Like Some Scarlett O’Hara, Missing Rhett
... In A Claret Haze, Blood-Red
Then Came, A Haze Of Yellow
Which At First, Was Simply Sallow
Only Because Hindsight, Was Shallow
Then Sunset Glowed, Amber-Mellow
Flowing, Like Honey, Healing Like Aloe
Warm, Like A Long-Lit-Candle Tallow
Golden Flame, Chased Your Shadow …
... Back To Your Haze: A Streak Of Yellow
Look! A Purple Mountain Haze
Now, I Am At Peak-Phase
High Enough, To Admiringly Gaze
At Hills and Ridges Of Life’s Pace
Arms Filled With Violets and Lilacs’ Grace
In An Amethyst-Adorned, Amour-Embrace
Ripe, Purple Grapes, I Pluck and Taste
... In My Purple Horizon Haze
Written & ©: 2/18/10
By: The MoonBee
poem by MoonBee Canady
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Lineson Thorold
McCready the great Irish Tragedian said, the view from Thorold
was the finest in America.
Thorold is famous for its mills,
And the grand view from off its hills-
A view so charming and extended,
Natures beauties sweetly blended.
Poetic thoughts it doth awake
To view Ontario's broad Lake,
And husbandmen have their reward in
Fruits of this provincial garden.
For from the hill you see below
Gardens, where choice fruits do grow,
The landscape all within your reach
Doth both produce the grape and peach.
McCready said, in the New World
The finest view was from Thorold.
You see St. Catharine's charming town
And steamers sailing up and down.
And you can see, on a clear day,
All along Toronto Bay;
And you clearly see the haze
Where Niagara doth amaze.
And glance where Grimsby's gardens yield,
Or view Beamsvill's fruitful field ;
Then this thought yon can advance,
This is Canada's sunny France.
You see Niagara's ancient town *
Though,it has lost its old renown ;
And you have a splendid view
Of boats on old canal and new.
* Niagara, once the capital and business centre of Upper Canada, and also
an important fortress. It is located at the mouth of the Niagara river.
poem by James McIntyre
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The Celebes
DEAR islands of the Orient,
Where Nature's first of love was spent;
Sweet hill-tops of the summered land
Where gods and men went hand in hand
In golden days of sinless earth!
Woe rack the womb of time, that bore
The primal evil to its birth!
It came; the gods were seen no more:
The fields made sacred by their feet,
The flowers they loved, grown all too sweet,
The streams their bright forms mirrored,
The fragrant banks that made their bed,
The human hearts round which they wove
Their threads of superhuman love—
These were too dear and desolate
To sink to fallen man's estate;
The gods who loved them loosed the seas,
Struck free the barriers of the deep,
That rolled in one careering sweep
And filled the land, as 'twere a grave,
And left no beauteous remnant, save
Those hill-tops called the Celebes.
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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Gothic Wuthering Heights In Ghost Nights
Gothic souls roam
eternal moors spirit
passion birth land
beauty etched
in tempest mist
weathered soul banshee land
wind etched
into trees our youth love bent
into passions land
heather hues red
yellow green mist
purple blue moor moves land
skies cloud lit
dying red crimson yellow soul
rainstorm bound
wild places silent
haunting soul
music is centuries echo in ghost land
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Lemnos Visited
Oh Peace! The Peace I knew. I thought thee dead!
And had not hoped again to see thy smile.
I deemed thee dead, but thou hadst only fled,
And his they face within a Grecian isle.
The sun that rises in the early morn
Now gilds these purple hills with golden light.
The land of Lemnos hath not felt the thorn
Of thoughtless war.. It hath a calm delight
In waving fields, a lazy grinding mill,
In winding shores, a drowsy lapping sea;
A humble church upon a dreaming hill;
A sleeping silence and a home for thee.
But let us not molest the bloodless reign,
Lest fields of flowers change to fields of pain.
poem by Leon Gellert
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Robert the Bruce
Meditation you and to it barges are pulled out parades
and mediate your purple reigned will
shrouded too you comes the effervescent rain
and glands alive deep inside
the brain one half or to your it's other
live and let live but to die
far a slice of English pie, curried in favor
the sun when it rises the hill covered top
full with, 'Robert the Bruce she keeps full with snow
when it melts whom but the keeper must know
and i will but a will made of old yellow paper
and roads well known when I changed
and lines drawn out not in sand but in minds
are they kept as the tide moving out can come in
is more land made thus simple with machines
and sea walls of dark stone where none there were
mixed with shell and cypress for color
and purple thick cedar is Caesars a barge
where it rests it is marked, marked naught the sea.
as Sara, her gown how it glows................
poem by Is It Poetry
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Colors Passing Through Us
Purple as tulips in May, mauve
into lush velvet, purple
as the stain blackberries leave
on the lips, on the hands,
the purple of ripe grapes
sunlit and warm as flesh.
Every day I will give you a color,
like a new flower in a bud vase
on your desk. Every day
I will paint you, as women
color each other with henna
on hands and on feet.
Red as henna, as cinnamon,
as coals after the fire is banked,
the cardinal in the feeder,
the roses tumbling on the arbor
their weight bending the wood
the red of the syrup I make from petals.
Orange as the perfumed fruit
hanging their globes on the glossy tree,
orange as pumpkins in the field,
orange as butterflyweed and the monarchs
who come to eat it, orange as my
cat running lithe through the high grass.
Yellow as a goat's wise and wicked eyes,
yellow as a hill of daffodils,
yellow as dandelions by the highway,
yellow as butter and egg yolks,
yellow as a school bus stopping you,
yellow as a slicker in a downpour.
Here is my bouquet, here is a sing
song of all the things you make
me think of, here is oblique
praise for the height and depth
of you and the width too.
Here is my box of new crayons at your feet.
Green as mint jelly, green
as a frog on a lily pad twanging,
the green of cos lettuce upright
about to bolt into opulent towers,
green as Grand Chartreuse in a clear
glass, green as wine bottles.
Blue as cornflowers, delphiniums,
bachelors' buttons. Blue as Roquefort,
blue as Saga. Blue as still water.
Blue as the eyes of a Siamese cat.
Blue as shadows on new snow, as a spring
azure sipping from a puddle on the blacktop.
Cobalt as the midnight sky
when day has gone without a trace
and we lie in each other's arms
eyes shut and fingers open
and all the colors of the world
pass through our bodies like strings of fire.
poem by Marge Piercy
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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