En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Winter and Hope

First snow atop the hill
sends a chill to the spine
it melts down all hopes
for the morning sunshine
men, women, pets and cattle
bit dismayed, amidst lull and calm
iced winds, blades cutting through
yet into a storm it has not brewed
hordes of men hurry and store
piles of extra wood and grass
time for them to hibernate
talking and singing to hour-glass
each one must tell a story
sitting by fire, under lock n bolt
happy women, busy with stove
lots of tea, meat and broiled poult
father and sons, one by one
climb the roof of their muddy abode
with shovels, spades and iron blades
they brush aside the unwanted load
every winter passes thus
with such fervour and desire
for a sunny and brighter morning
so as to smother the burning fire

(It is about how my hometown/village was until a few decades ago, where there was no electricity, and therefore, no television, computers or other gadgets to keep the family members unnecessarily busy and occupied) .

poem by Ata Khan
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Hearts On Fire

We saw the writings on the wall
When heathens ruled above us all
Tormented, we still heard the call
You come to bring us down
Wield the scepter, steal the crown
Time on the throne is running out
Cause seasons change but we are still the same
Event though the cold winds blow were burning like a flame
Hearts On Fire, Hearts On Fire
Burning, burning with desire
Hearts On Fire, Hearts On Fire
Burning, burning with desire
Hearts On Fire, Hearts On Fire
Burning, burning with desire
Burning for the steel
Hearts On Fire
For years shunned by society
Outcasts, condemned for our beliefs
Our legions grew in secrecy
And now, the time is here
I see the Templars everywhere
The Freedom Call is drawing near
We hold our rebel banners up with pride
The colours crimson and the Hammer is the sign
Hearts On Fire, Hearts On Fire
Burning, burning with desire
Hearts On Fire, Hearts On Fire
Burning, burning with desire
Hearts On Fire, Hearts On Fire
Burning, burning with desire
Burning for the steel
Solo: Stefan
Hearts On Fire, Hearts On Fire
Hearts On Fire, Hearts On Fire
Burning, burning with desire
Hearts On Fire

song performed by by Hammerfall
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Pet and Gadget

My grandpa spent his leisure with pets
I don’t get time from my gadgets.
Busy in my gadgets till I can endure
leaving dear pets fully ignored.

poem by S.D. Tiwari
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Father

Father, blessed father,
Its morning again.
I give you, father, myself, father,
Continue your plan.
I know together we can climb mountains in the sky.
No one can stop us when Im standing by your side.
Troubles knocking here again;
Ill tell him jesus has me by his hand.
Hell walk me through.
Father, loving father,
Create in me
A pure love, father, your love, father,
Instill it in me.
I remember the nights Ive cried for you;
Now I only have to die for you;
Thank you, lord, youve made it clear just for me.
I see the light;
Its burning out the night.
Oh, father,
Its morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.

song performed by by Amy Grant
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sometimes We Are Too Busy Despite The Free Time

along the white sands
on a sunny morning by the sea
i collect shells and
pebbles

there are too many of them
but only few are chosen
the only standard is that
'i like this' and there is no other more

and then you put all those few ones
in my pocket
and when i arrive at the cottage
i view them all atop the table

it is the viewing that keeps the mind busy
and so busy that it cannot listen
to each story that the pebble wants to tell
that the mouth of the shell wants
to say beautifully in a song

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Di Vinci Airport, Roma July 1996

Sitting in a leather seat,
It is two in the morning
The television is blaring
Entertaining those who wait.

The Carbinieri have already checked passports
Perhaps there is a problem
Perhaps this is normal procedure.
The hour bends the head
And I sleep amidst the luggage
My belongings holding me
Like the Arab women, to my left
With two small sons.

Awakened by music
The television has Leonard Bernstein
Giving a lecture in a tight black suit,
Aaron Copeland is conducting, Appalachian Spring,
Both men are now dead.
In Rome, they are still on the television.

poem by K. Carlton Johnson
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Song Of The Evergreens

Listen to the briskly whistling winter evergreen
Whispering through the frozen morning light
And tell me whats to come
Saying my time is near
Never fear
I close each year
Im winter
Reminding me to trade my t-shirts for my woven wools
Trade my sandals for my skis
Whispered warnings in the wind
Saying soon come the dancing snowflakes
Theyre kissing every tree
Theyre kissing you and me
Please hurry
Falling
Dazzling dancing diamonds from the sky
Prisms
Rainbow sparkled flurries in our eyes
Whipping across the frozen crystal meadow
Pond of ice
Race the snow
Well build a warming fire there
And cuddle close and wine and dine
The setting sun
The morning light will find us high
Shooting down the glistening mountain side
Screaming through the whispering pines
The freedom of each day
Will cleanse our minds
I can hardly wait for winter
I can hardly wait for the snow
I can hardly hardly wait for winter
I can hardly wait for the snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow

song performed by by Chicago
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I see them dancing around fires

I see them dancing around fires
with panga-blades in place of spears
while they are holding a séance.

More wood is thrown on the fire
while a wizard throws out his knuckle-bones
and the fire flares up with a bright ardour.

More brewed beer is poured and downed
and some more are being brewed
and the old spirits are called to appear.

Under the glowing of the golden moon
they later stand in rank and file
and pangas are put into the fire

to get magical power
as the white man has to bleed
and must be exterminated.

Who can still stand on his knees,
with eyes lifted to the Creator
while they sing Nkosi Sikelel iAfrika
asking for His blessing?

poem by Gert Strydom
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The Fall Of The Leaf

Earnest and sad the solemn tale
That the sighing winds give back,
Scatt’ring the leaves with mournful wail
O’er the forest’s faded track;
Gay summer birds have left us now
For a warmer, brighter clime,
Where no leaden sky or leafless bough
Tell of change and winter-time.

Reapers have gathered golden store
Of maize and ripened grain,
And they’ll seek the lonely fields no more
Till the springtide comes again.
But around the homestead’s blazing hearth
Will they find sweet rest from toil,
And many an hour of harmless mirth
While the snow-storm piles the soil.

Then, why should we grieve for summer skies—
For its shady trees—its flowers,
Or the thousand light and pleasant ties
That endeared the sunny hours?
A few short months of snow and storm,
Of winter’s chilling reign,
And summer, with smiles and glances warm,
Will gladden our earth again.

poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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Winter Fox Wakes Not The Flowers

As dawns winter breeze raps her damp chill around the still trees,
The morning sun peeks and sends meagre warmth to grasp,
Black clouds unwanted hurry by, leaves rustle to please
That turns from green to sunshine silver not to last.

A solitary fox stands out crossing a snow clad field
Silent stealth, as if not to wake sleeping spring flowers,
Knows natures shopping cart as not much to yield
Then changes tracks into the cover of the forest wooden towers.

Nothing is growing all conserving for the burst of spring,
Then the fox appears prey in mouth he caught as he leapt,
His family snug in his den knowing sustenance he will bring.
Life goes on living to natures rule for the adept

poem by Ken e Hall
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Ages Flicker in the Hot Fire

Ages flicker in the hot fire
where I sit in the bar
time passes slowly hour-by-hour,

my face reflects in the glass, somewhat confused
the flames jump bright orange, blue and white,
ages flicker in the hot fire

with shades playing on the wall of the fireplace
and deeper something fries like on a spit,
time passes slowly hour-by-hour

someone complains about his wife, wants to hire prostitutes
while a couple sit down at a table with a candle,
ages flicker in the hot fire,

outside the thunder bashes down, my whisky is very expensive,
the candle in front of me burns down to its end,
time passes slowly hour-by-hour

then I see you, pretty and my match
I cannot avoid your eyes,
ages flicker in the hot fire
time passes slowly hour-by-hour.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Woods and Hills at Ponmudi

Seclusion under the foliage
Enchants me amidst wild melody.
Bowing blossoms give me homage
In the afternoon breezy.
Wood is fresh as virgin of village;
It’s chill puts out all embers softly.

Woods and hills are lovely so;
Spend a week there I wish I could.
Farms in woods are pensive so;
Scatter my seeds I wish I could.
In the darkness, fire-worms flash and out go;
Return with thought fruits I wish I could.

Soon all my wishes are milled,
While all clutched the mind under.
Again, down the hill I am pulled
By some gravitation power.
I am always thus pulled
To the same busy corner.

poem by Fabiyas M V
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Brimstone... ' (or A Cryptic-Cremation)

Ashes to Ashes
Dust to Dust
Flesh and Blood
Wood and Mud

Sun and Moon
Craters and Crust
Flames to Ashes
Smoke to Dust

Ape and Man
Heart and Brain
Glass and Sand
Abel and Cain

Spend this Space
On this Earth
Cutting Down
Another’s Worth

So Much Hate
On World and Planet
Trying to Paint
And Stain Pearls and Granite

‘Til, Ashes to Ashes
Dust to Dust
Stop Thinking, ’ Iron Them ’
Start Thinking, ‘ Wash Us ’

Fire On Mountain
Flows Volcanic Ash
Fire and Sand
Equals House of Glass

Dirt On Fire
Smother ‘Fore Long
And Fire and Rock
Equals Brimstone

poem by MoonBee Canady
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Busy

I am busy
you are busy
we are busy
but the old woman needs help
to find her way home.

I am busy
you are busy
we are busy
but the dove is too slow
to fly out of the way.

I am busy
you are busy
we are busy
but the children crossing the street
are too many.

I am busy
you are busy
we are busy....

I am busy
you are busy
we are...
busy.

poem by Marites C. Cayetano
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Suicide Snowman

If I had time to kill the world I'd try
Oh no, but I'm busy
Killing me
I don't have time to build a suicide
Because the snowman melts in spring
The striper girls will not be coming back
In the summer...for me
I don't have time to even say goodbye
We are dying as winter lives
Spring
Snow melts in my lawn and I am free
Corn cob pipe and a button nose
Bottled in the ground too long
Snow melts in my lawn and I am....
If I had time to kill the world I'd try
But I'm busy
Kill is ever me
I don't have time to even say goodbye
We are dying as winter lives
Spring
Snow melts in my lawn and I am free
Corn cob pipe and a button nose
Spring

song performed by by Marilyn Manson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Searching

GRASS Blades
on the marsh
like swords
pointing to the
skies,

empty open hands
like twigs
at winter time
asking for nothing

come spring
a bud gives hope
another one speaks
of a promise

from a glass window
upon a frost
the eyes are gazing
waiting for a sunny
day, looking for light.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Earth-Child in the Grass

In the very early morning
Long before Dawn time
I lay down in the paddock
And listened to the cold song of the grass.
Between my fingers the green blades,
And the green blades pressed against my body.
"Who is she leaning so heavily upon me?"
Sang the grass.
"Why does she weep on my bosom,
Mingling her tears with the tears of my mystic lover?
Foolish little earth-child!
It is not yet time.
One day I shall open my bosom
And you shall slip in--but not weeping.
Then in the early morning
Long before Dawn time
Your lover will lie in the paddock.
Between his fingers the green blades
And the green blades pressed against his body...
My song shall not sound cold to him
In my deep wave he will find the wave of your hair
In my strong sweet perfume, the perfume of your kisses.
Long and long he will lie there...
Laughing--not weeping."

poem by Katherine Mansfield
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After A Rainy Night

morning sun
shines ahead of me

too much mud
below my feet

between us
the freshest air
in the village

blades of grass
holding glowing dew like
pearls and
diamonds

i keep the walk
without any talk

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Old Town Types No 20 - Mr Blades the Butcher

Mr Blades, the butcher, was a large and beefy man,
'Best him at a cattle deal,' 'twas said, 'no other can.'
He ate a lot and drank a lot and had a lot to say,
And he jollied all the ladies in his large and airy way.
His family was numerous, and helped him in 'the trade,'
And townsfolk had a deal to say of money what they made.
But Mr Blades just went his way, and had his bit of fun;
And joked about his appetite, his girth, or else his 'run.'

His 'run' - a stretch of scrubland at the back of Connor's place -
Was a joke about the district; for it did not bear a trace
Of building or improvement. Yet some said Mr Blades
Had ambitions as a squatter, and a secret scorn for 'trades' . . .
Then the cattle duffers started in the district. Connors raved,
But folk said it was wonderful how Mr Blades behaved.
Tho' he lost a hundred stores one night. But soon began the rows
When people in the town began to lose domestic cows.

Police surprised the gang one night out in the mulga shades,
And took the lot, red-handed, with their leader - Mr Blades.
Of course, the trial stirred our town, as nothing's stirred it since;
But when bad Blades got 'three years hard,' he did not even wince.
His family still strove to carry on the butcher's shop,
For folk refused to pay them, and demanded with some heat:
'Think you can charge for selling us our milkers back as meat?'

When Mr Blades came out of goal, he did not seem ashamed;
A little thinner now, perhaps, but not the least bit tamed.
He told the folk he'd paid his debts, and so, by gum, should they.
So he summoned all his debtors, and his debtors had to pay.
'For our own thieved and slaughtered cows!' wailed these bewildered folk.
But Mr Blades, the butcher, had his last and richest joke,
And, on the day he left the town, people who saw him said
He looked the picture of content - so beefy, large, and red.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Five Quibblings....

i

i have to write this matter in a rush
it is seven twenty two in the morning,
it is a bright day like a
sunny side up fried egg,

and i haven't had breakfast yet
it is not a holiday for me
i don't smile, there is no cheering up
pocketed smile, restrained yet trembling hands,

there is work in the office this whole day
busy, busy, busy,

i am on trial, (what i mean is i conduct trials,
slip of the tongue thing, eh)
and tonight i have to teach criminal law
at the law school
with more gaping mouths to feed
knowledge, skill, the capacity to evade the law
later after mastery,
that is it.

ii

i remember the star apple tree at the center of the school
it is shedding off its leaves and one car got hit
by its rotting falling branch: by mere pull of gravity
it has no life force at all to resist
a fall,
there is no desistance here, everything is accepted,
like this freedom too to destroy oneself
or another
negligent being, creature, thing.

iii

the place is muddy and the waters rise
and there is flood everywhere
and what appears before me is a lake
less the swans,

iv

the grasses here die of so much water and
there is no electricity, it follows, it is logical to expect some
short circuits during floods, and the storms
necessarily, strong winds, destroyed electrical poles,
fire,

the rooms are dark and the students are
leaving
i am as usual left alone with some questions
to be back home or have
a drink somewhere else where there is not
much crowd to know me and my
usual quibbling about
loneliness....i am not joking.

v

meanwhile, time runs that fast, like a bullet train,
i fall short of time, but here i am rushing to the
last word of this
poem.

if you agree.i think, it is none of my business.
i agree.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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On Hearing A White Backed Magpie Singing In The Rain

The white backed magpie singing and skies so gloomy gray
And magpie does sound happy on such a gloomy day
But why is magpie happy what reason for his joy
All in the depths of Winter this morning in July? .

The rain come down in torrents and dark clouds o'er the hill
And freshening winds blow colder the breath of winter chill
The raindrops freely running adown the window pane
And still the magpie singing and whistling in the rain.

Why is the magpie singing what reason for his cheer
On this cold day in winter the wettest of the year?
The wettest day of Winter the wind blow cold and strong
And merry magpie singing his distinct happy song.

The white backed magpie piping his happy melody
On wettest day in Winter on rain soaked blackwood tree
And I ponder the question the simple question why?
The magpie feel so happy on wet day in July.

poem by Francis Duggan
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