On The Plains
ALONE with the silence, the sun and sky,
Full length on the tussocky plain I lie:
An ocean of yellow from east to west
Still rolling and sweeping, far crest on crest;
And billow on billow the tussocks bend
Until in one shimmering haze they blend;
Where, under the distance, the heat and noon,
The plains in an ecstasy thrilling, swoon
And melt in the yellow-tinged, sombre air,
Like perfume from roses on evenings rare.
Where the sky and the misty horizon meet
The flax-bushes float, like a far-off fleet;
As slowly they swim, with no spray nor splash,
Their green sails swell, and their brown oars flash;
So, lost in two oceans—of plain and sky—
Full length on the tussocks alone I lie.
poem by Arthur Henry Adams
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Related quotes
Sometimes I imagine
Sometimes I imagine
that my D Jacobs painting
of a red brown earth road
that in winter
runs through the yellow green veldt
past a few oak and blue gum trees
to the purple blue mountains
in the distance
is a Pierneef,
but what draws it nearer to me,
is that I almost feel
the sand beneath me feet,
can smell the tussocks of grass,
try to catch the shades of the trees
one by one,
see a graveyard
in the distance next to
a few bushes,
look at the bright blue sky
and get emotionally involved
with this painting
as it brings my childhood days
back to me
and it jumps right
into my heart.
[Reference: Painting by D Jacobs that belongs to me.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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The never-ending road
I saw the landscape passing by,
while the car swept
on with a never-ending road.
Buildings rose up into the air
and everywhere people were
packed square by square
in offices, flats and apartments.
White yellow mine dumps
and huge cranes glided by
and I felt small as a fly,
against the immensity of it all
Acres of corn surrounded me
and all the way to the horizon,
I saw no tree.
The green was all around me
and a mechanical spray point,
where showering water in an arc.
The land flattened
while I drove South
and grey thorn bushes flashed by.
Here and there
some rocky outcrops
stood red brown against the flat plain,
but everything begged for a dropp of rain.
In the far distance up in the sky
a lightning bolt twisted to the ground
and when the rain came gushing down,
life sprouted from the sand.
The road stretched on
and in the distance
the black of the tar
met with the sky
and except for the windmills I passed by,
that road could have been
anywhere on this good great earth.
poem by Gert Strydom
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At the Cementary
Rotten stone towers sultrily warmed.
Yellow haze of incense hovers.
Bees hum chaotically swarmed
And the flower trellises shake.
Slowly a breath stirs there
By the sun-still walls,
Dwindles glimmering, like a deceit -
Songs for the dead deeply shiver away.
Long it listens after in the green,
Lets the bushes shine brighter;
Brown swarms of mosquitoes spray
Over old tombstones
poem by Georg Trakl
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Benevolent Tears
Dark clouds scattered everywhere
Dried ponds, rivers, oceans
Par unquenched thirst of million birds, beasts, humans
Cannot bear the agony of nature
Thus a tribute to its melancholy pours down in torrents
Overfills everywhere
Green grass greets the grasshoppers
On green stalks fire red roses brightly dance
Green leaves attached to ripe yellow fruits
Hearts gladden, souls solace
The Descend of ecstasy, gaiety, charm
In the golden farms
The yellow light scattered everywhere
The air of fulfilment, solemnity, tranquility that's rare.
poem by Green Peace
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A Noon Song
There are songs for the morning and songs for the night,
For sunrise and sunset, the stars and the moon;
But who will give praise to the fulness of light,
And sing us a song of the glory of noon?
Oh, the high noon, the clear noon,
The noon with golden crest;
When the blue sky burns, and the great sun turns
With his face to the way of the west!
How swiftly he rose in the dawn of his strength;
How slowly he crept as the morning wore by;
Ah, steep was the climbing that led him at length
To the height of his throne in the wide summer sky.
Oh, the long toil, the slow toil,
The toil that may not rest,
Till the sun looks down from his journey's crown,
To the wonderful way of the west!
Then a quietness falls over meadow and hill,
The wings of the wind in the forest are furled,
The river runs softly, the birds are all still,
The workers are resting all over the world.
Oh, the good hour, the kind hour,
The hour that calms the breast!
Little inn half-way on the road of the day,
Where it follows the turn to the west!
There's a plentiful feast in the maple-tree shade,
The lilt of a song to an old-fashioned tune,
The talk of a friend, or the kiss of a maid,
To sweeten the cup that we drink to the noon.
Oh, the deep noon, the full noon,
Of all the day the best!
When the blue sky burns, and the great sun turns
To his home by the way of the west.
poem by Henry Van Dyke
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The Ports of the Open Sea
Down here where the ships loom large in
The gloom when the sea-storms veer,
Down here on the south-west margin
Of the western hemisphere,
Where the might of a world-wide ocean
Round the youngest land rolls free—
Storm-bound from the world’s commotion,
Lie the Ports of the Open Sea.
By the bluff where the grey sand reaches
To the kerb of the spray-swept street,
By the sweep of the black sand beaches
From the main-road travellers’ feet,
By the heights like a work Titanic,
By a bluff lined coast volcanic
Lie the Ports of the wild South-east.
By the steeps of the snow-capped range,
By the scarped and terraced hills—
Far away from the swift life-changes,
From the wear of the strife that kills—
Where the land in the Spring seems younger
Than a land of the Earth might be—
Oh! the hearts of the rovers hunger
For the Ports of the Open Sea.
But the captains watch and hearken
For a sign of the South Sea wrath—
Let the face of the South-east darken,
And they turn to the ocean path.
Ay, the sea-boats dare not linger,
Whatever the cargo be;
When the South-east lifts a finger
By the Ports of the Open Sea.
South by the bleak Bluff faring,
North where the Three Kings wait,
South-east the tempest daring—
Flight through the storm-tossed strait;
Yonder a white-winged roamer
Struck where the rollers roar—
Where the great green froth-flaked comber
Breaks down on a black-ribbed shore.
For the South-east lands are dread lands
To the sailor in the shrouds,
Where the low clouds loom like headlands,
And the black bluffs blur like clouds.
When the breakers rage to windward
And the lights are masked a-lee,
And the sunken rocks run inward
To a Port of the Open Sea.
But oh! for the South-east weather—
The sweep of the three-days’ gale—
When, far through the flax and heather,
The spindrift drives like hail.
Glory to man’s creations
That drive where the gale grows gruff,
When the homes of the sea-coast stations
Flash white from the dark’ning bluff!
When the swell of the South-east rouses
The wrath of the Maori sprite,
And the brown folk flee their houses
And crouch in the flax by night,
And wait as they long have waited—
In fear as the brown folk be—
The wave of destruction fated
For the Ports of the Open Sea.
Grey cloud to the mountain bases,
Wild boughs that rush and sweep;
On the rounded hills the tussocks
Like flocks of flying sheep;
A lonely storm-bird soaring
O’er tussock, fern and tree;
And the boulder beaches roaring
The Hymn of the Open Sea.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Winds bend the brown green grass of fall
Winds bend the brown green grass of fall
Whether in current age or decades past
Landscape gazers catch creatures storing seeds
Scattering yellow and white capped weeds
Preparing for winter their pattern unhindered
Winds bend the brown green grass of fall
Constant marker as mankind races
Ploughs terrain staking claim
Highways vanquish sod and plain
Yet tuffs of the brown green grass remain
Winds bend the brown green grass of fall
Off roadways geese settle and call
Despite cluttered asphalt the landscape recalls
Natures evolving, preparing and readying
For ice glistening cold when life sleeps through all
poem by Stephanie Eve Kane Arado
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Fall Leaves Dance
Look up and they're green,
Look up and they're yellow and green.
Then they're yellow, orange, red and green.
And then most are yellow, green, orange, brown,
Masses of moving colors, dancing up and down.
Slow, colorful dances bemuse the morning breeze,
The pace quickens with the evening wind.
It's right, it's left, it's up and down,
It's east, to west, to north, to south,
Warmed and energized by the setting sun.
Squirrels race among the leaves
Doing their dance routines,
Skimming and swaying the branches,
Weighting the limbs and twigs
With buoyant starts, stops and turns.
The new season is appearing: Fall is here!
Quietly and slowly birds hop from branch to branch
Camouflaged among the leaves
That silently fall, to carpet the ground and invite
New crushing, musical rolls from children at play.
poem by Hildred Marjorie Schloss
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The Sailor's Return
This morn I lay a-dreaming,
This morn, this merry morn,
When the cock crew shrill from over the hill,
I heard a bugle horn.
And thro' the dream I was dreaming,
There sighed the sigh of the sea,
And thro' the dream I was dreaming,
This voice came singing to me.
'High over the breakers,
Low under the lee,
Sing ho
The billow,
And the lash of the rolling sea!
'Boat, boat, to the billow,
Boat, boat, to the lee!
Love on thy pillow,
Art thou dreaming of me?
'Billow, billow, breaking,
Land us low on the lee!
For sleeping or waking,
Sweet love, I am coming to thee!
'High, high, o'er the breakers,
Low, low, on the lee,
Sing ho!
The billow
That brings me back to thee!'
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
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The White Seal
Oh! hush thee, my baby, the night is behind us,
And black are the waters that sparkled so green.
The moon, o'er the combers, looks downward to find us
At rest in the hollows that rustle between.
Where billow meets billow, there soft be thy pillow;
Ah, weary wee flipperling, curl at thy ease!
The storm shall not wake thee, nor shark overtake thee,
Asleep in the arms of the slow-swinging seas.
You mustn't swim till you're six weeks old,
Or your head will be sunk by your heels;
And summer gales and Killer Whales
Are bad for baby seals.
Are bad for baby seals, dear rat,
As bad as bad can be.
But splash and grow strong,
And you can't be wrong,
Child of the Open Sea!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Yellow
The sun gazes from afar;
An hour to a picture-perfect horizon;
As the rays scatter to the humid spheres;
Stuttering and pacing, to accommodate the evaporating droplets.
The sunbeams know their ultimate destiny,
Like a fortuneteller in front of a decorated palm;
To land on her mustard yellow sundress, her mystical yellow peau;
As she plays among the yellow tulips;
A vivacious lass in a breathtaking landscape;
As the sunbeams bathe her eager visage.
Then the winds gather speed;
As the sundress blows in the wind;
She sans a care in the world, letting the hemlines rise to the heavens;
As her gauzy embroidery catches the gaze of the passing orioles;
As they rock and float in the gathering wind;
Delicate creatures competing with the fluttering butterflies;
For the nectar of the buttercups.
As the marigolds and sunflowers bloom in full,
Magnetized to the passing Ra;
Then her prince joins her, as they land a passionate lip lock;
As the rouge in the lips blend against the yellow bonanza;
In the middle of nowhere, in a wilderness sprinkled with yellow bamboo;
As their bodies slither against each other and as the knee raises effortlessly;
A heavenly kiss, that awakes the passion of two longing souls;
As they slowly stroll towards the yellow quilt on the terrain
To welcome the setting sun even the rising moon
To welcome a beginning, one bathed in yellow.
poem by Dilantha Gunawardana
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Splash
[intro]
Welcome into ecstasy baby
Oh yes, I got to know, can i
Splash, splash, splash
Baby I wanna jump and dive and splash in your love, yes
Can I splash in your love baby?
I used to be afraid of water till I got a lifejacket
Now I always seem to find myself
Laughing and splashing, oh yeah
Theres no waters that fall quite like yours
How I love to swim your sticky shores
Can I splash?
Can I take a dip, can I take a dip
Inside your love, I just wanna swim, baby let me swim
Let me come, I just wanna splash in your lake of love
Can I take a dip, can I take a dip
Inside your love, I just wanna swim, baby let me swim
Let me come, I just wanna splash in your lake of love
Can I splash?
As I used to play across you chocolate beaches
I would always vision your love canal
Dreaming I could reach it, oh yeah yeah
And as I wade in your waters of passionate cream
I realized, its not a dream
I can finally splash, I dont have ask, no
Can I take a dip, can I take a dip
Inside your love, I just wanna swim, baby let me swim
Let me come, I just wanna splash in your lake of love
Can I take a dip, can I take a dip
Inside your love, I just wanna swim, baby let me swim
Let me come, I just wanna splash in your lake of love
Ooh, let me dive inside your love
Can I splash inside just once
Let me go Ill make you come
Oh, let me just feel it
S is for sexual
P is for pleasure
L is for love me, cause baby you better
A is for anytime
S is for special
H is for happiness
Whenever were together
I splash, well baby give me the chance
To get in your pants
To make sure that you feel good
I wanna know, can I feel your love?
Splash, thinking I wanna sneak
That Im a sexual freak, you gotta meet
Come and see me baby
If you let me toss youll get it proper I know
When it comes to the sexual
You know how next flow, its like incredible
R. l., tweety and t-low wanna know can we
For the moment to last, just let me splash
Can I take a dip inside your love
Youve got to let me
Can I take a dip, can I take a dip
Inside your love, I just wanna swim, baby let me swim
Let me come, I just wanna splash in your lake of love
Can I take a dip, can I take a dip
Inside your love, I just wanna swim, baby let me swim
Let me come, I just wanna splash in your lake of love
song performed by by Next
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Blend, Do Not End
Blend. Sip your coffee.You blend to the colors
Of this room. Smell like a morning perfume of
Small red roses. Open palms. No collarbones.
Blend. Take your time. Familiar faces and freckled
Dreams. Blend, bend.
For God's sake, do not end.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Great Grey Plain
Out West, where the stars are brightest,
Where the scorching north wind blows,
And the bones of the dead gleam whitest,
And the sun on a desert glows --
Yet within the selfish kingdom
Where man starves man for gain,
Where white men tramp for existence --
Wide lies the Great Grey Plain.
No break in its awful horizon,
No blur in the dazzling haze,
Save where by the bordering timber
The fierce, white heat-waves blaze,
And out where the tank-heap rises
Or looms when the sunlights wane,
Till it seems like a distant mountain
Low down on the Great Grey Plain.
No sign of a stream or fountain,
No spring on its dry, hot breast,
No shade from the blazing noontide
Where a weary man might rest.
Whole years go by when the glowing
Sky never clouds for rain --
Only the shrubs of the desert
Grow on the Great Grey Plain.
From the camp, while the rich man's dreaming,
Come the `traveller' and his mate,
In the ghastly dawnlight seeming
Like a swagman's ghost out late;
And the horseman blurs in the distance,
While still the stars remain,
A low, faint dust-cloud haunting
His track on the Great Grey Plain.
And all day long from before them
The mirage smokes away --
That daylight ghost of an ocean
Creeps close behind all day
With an evil, snake-like motion,
As the waves of a madman's brain:
'Tis a phantom NOT like water
Out there on the Great Grey Plain.
There's a run on the Western limit
Where a man lives like a beast,
And a shanty in the mulga
That stretches to the East;
And the hopeless men who carry
Their swags and tramp in pain --
The footmen must not tarry
Out there on the Great Grey Plain.
Out West, where the stars are brightest,
Where the scorching north wind blows,
And the bones of the dead seem whitest,
And the sun on a desert glows --
Out back in the hungry distance
That brave hearts dare in vain --
Where beggars tramp for existence --
There lies the Great Grey Plain.
'Tis a desert not more barren
Than the Great Grey Plain of years,
Where a fierce fire burns the hearts of men --
Dries up the fount of tears:
Where the victims of a greed insane
Are crushed in a hell-born strife --
Where the souls of a race are murdered
On the Great Grey Plain of Life!
poem by Henry Lawson
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In the Moonlight
The moon is bright, and the winds are laid, and the river is roaring by;
Orion swings, with his belted lights low down in the western sky;
North and south from the mountain gorge to the heart of the silver plain
There’s many an eye will see no sleep till the east grows bright again;
There’s many a hand will toil to-night, from the centre down to the sea;
And I’m far from the men I used to know—and my love is far from me.
Where the broad flood eddies the dredge is moored to the beach of shingle white,
And the straining cable whips the stream in a spray of silver light;
The groaning buckets bear their load, and the engine throbs away,
And the wash pours red on the turning screen that knows not night or day;
For there’s many an ounce of gold to save, from the gorge to the shining sea—
And there’s many a league of the bare brown hills between my love and me.
Where the lines of gorse are parched and dry, and the sheaves are small and thin,
The engine beats and the combine sings to the drays that are leading in,
For they’re thrashing out of the stook to-night, and the plain is as bright as day,
And the fork-tines flash as the sheaves are turned on the frame of the one-horse dray;
For many a hand will toil to-night, from the mountains down to the sea;—
But I’m far from the lips of the girl I love, and the heart that beats for me.
The trappers are out on the hills to-night, and the sickly lantern-shine
Is mocking the gleam of the silver moon in the scrub on the long trap-line;
The tallies are big on the rock-strewn spur, and the rattling clink of the chain
Comes weirdly mixed from the moon-bright hill with the whistling shriek of pain;
For many a hand will toil to-night where the tussocks are waving free;—
But it’s over the hills and over the plain to the heart that beats for me.
The stars are bright, and the night is still, and the river is singing by,
And many a face is upward turned to gaze at the moon’s bright eye.
North and south, from the forest deeps to the heart of the silver plain,
There’s many an eye will see no sleep till the east grows bright again;
There’s many a hand will toil to-night by shining land and sea.
O moonlight, bear my message of love to the heart that beats for me.
poem by David McKee Wright
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Her Hair
O fleece, that down the neck waves to the nape!
O curls! O perfume nonchalant and rare!
O ecstasy! To fill this alcove shape
With memories that in these tresses sleep,
I would shake them like penions in the air!
Languorous Asia, burning Africa,
And a far world, defunct almost, absent,
Within your aromatic forest stay!
As other souls on music drift away,
Mine, O my love! still floats upon your scent.
I shall go there where, full of sap, both tree
And man swoon in the heat of the southern climates;
Strong tresses be the swell that carries me!
I dream upon your sea of amber
Of dazzling sails, of oarsmen, masts, and flames:
A sun-drenched and reverberating port,
Where I imbibe colour and sound and scent;
Where vessels, gliding through the gold and moiré,
Open their vast arms as they leave the shore
To clasp the pure and shimmering firmament.
I'll plunge my head, enamored of its pleasure,
In this black ocean where the other hides;
My subtle spirit then will know a measure
Of fertile idleness and fragrant leisure,
Lulled by the infinite rhythm of its tides!
Pavilion, of autumn-shadowed tresses spun,
You give me back the azure from afar;
And where the twisted locks are fringed with down
Lurk mingled odors I grow drunk upon
Of oil of coconut, of musk, and tar.
A long time! always! my hand in your hair
Will sow the stars of sapphire, pearl, ruby,
That you be never deaf to my desire,
My oasis and my gourd whence I aspire
To drink deep of the wine of memory.
poem by Charles Baudelaire
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Broken Fragments Of Water
Cool earthenware pot
holding water as if it were
love that slopped & lapped
over its top
full to the brim
wearing with pride
the touch of your fingerprints
still visible
from its making
one lost windy night
the fierceness of its blue glaze
and now it contains
summer
and this blessed coolness
of water
on this the hottest
day
green grass
becoming yellow
under the heat's gaze
and the angry voices
drifting out of an open
upstairs window
becoming lost amongst
thorns and their roses
bleeding into noon
our anger knocking over
all the things we made
seeing our earthenware pot
cool to the touch
& full to the lip with love
like water
fall through the air
becoming only shattered shards
an emptiness
that cannot be
contained no longer
for one moment in its falling
the water held
containerless
between Heaven & earth
before dashing itself
upon the floor
broken fragments
of water
(a voice screaming: 'It's
over...it's over! ')
broken fragments
of water
scattered here and there
splashes of lost love
love lost
lost love.
poem by Dónall Dempsey
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The Yellow Ribbon On The Old Oak Tree
who can forget the yellow ribbon
on that old oak tree? tell me.
tomorrow, i shall wear my yellow cap
my yellow shirt, my yellow brief,
my yellow pants.
my jaundiced eye, my golden yellow ring.
tomorrow, in my country, the sky is yellow.
all steps lead to the yellow brick road.
all fruits are ripe and mellow and yellow.
Tomorrow, the country is yellow.
Yellow for integrity, Yellow for change.
Yellow for justice. Yellow for truth.
One day more, and the sun shall rise
Yellow as ever.Yellow forever.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Midsummer
After the May time and after the June time
Rare with blossoms and perfume sweet,
Cometh the round world's royal noon time,
The red midsummer of blazing heat,
When the sun, like an eye that never closes,
Bends on the earth its fervid gaze,
And the winds are still, and the crimson roses
Droop and wither and die in its rays.
Unto my heart has come this season,
O, my lady, my worshiped one,
When, over the stars of Pride and Reason,
Sails Love's cloudless, noonday sun.
Like a great red ball in my bosom burning
With fires that nothing can quench or tame,
It glows till my heart itself seems turning
Into a liquid lake of flame.
The hopes half shy and the sighs all tender,
The dreams and fears of an earlier day,
Under the noontide's royal splendor,
Droop like roses, and wither away.
From the hills of Doubt no winds are blowing,
From the isles of Pain no breeze is sent, -
Only the sun in a white heat glowing
Over an ocean of great content.
Sink, O my soul, in this golden glory!
Die, O my heart, in thy rapture-swoon!
For the Autumn must come with its mournful story.
And Love's midsummer will fade too soon.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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The Famine and The Feast
THE FAMINE
Cackle and lay, cackle and lay!
How many eggs did you get to-day?
None in the manger, and none in the shed,
None in the box where the chickens are fed,
None in the tussocks and none in the tub,
And only a little one out in the scrub.
Oh, I say! Dumplings to-day.
I fear that the hens must be laying away.
THE FEAST
Cackle and lay, cackle and lay!
How many eggs did you get to-day?
Two in the manger, and four in the shed,
Six in the box where the chickens are fed,
Two in the tussocks and ten in the tub,
And nearly two dozen right out in the scrub.
Hip, hooray! Pudding to-day!
I think that the hens are beginning to lay.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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