Under The Dark Of The Vine Veranda
Coral dust blows
off the white beach
onto the slatted table.
Overhead, a trellis
of brown wood and green leaves
and, pushing through, dense clusters
of pink and white
Ladies’ Finger Nails,
sweet scented with a trace of lime.
An orchestra of cicadas,
the rustling of a million
tiny silver bells.
A fine sprinkling sound.
Like frost.
poem by Brian Taylor
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Le Panneau
Under the rose-tree's dancing shade
There stands a little ivory girl,
Pulling the leaves of pink and pearl
With pale green nails of polished jade.
The red leaves fall upon the mould,
The white leaves flutter, one by one,
Down to a blue bowl where the sun,
Like a great dragon, writhes in gold.
The white leaves float upon the air,
The red leaves flutter idly down,
Some fall upon her yellow gown,
And some upon her raven hair.
She takes an amber lute and sings,
And as she sings a silver crane
Begins his scarlet neck to strain,
And flap his burnished metal wings.
She takes a lute of amber bright,
And from the thicket where he lies
Her lover, with his almond eyes,
Watches her movements in delight.
And now she gives a cry of fear,
And tiny tears begin to start:
A thorn has wounded with its dart
The pink-veined sea-shell of her ear.
And now she laughs a merry note:
There has fallen a petal of the rose
Just where the yellow satin shows
The blue-veined flower of her throat.
With pale green nails of polished jade,
Pulling the leaves of pink and pearl,
There stands a little ivory girl
Under the rose-tree's dancing shade.
poem by Oscar Wilde
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Key Lime Pie
Ocean breeze, tire swing
Coconut fall if you shake that thing
And my, my, my - my key lime pie
Not too tart, not too sweet
My baby loves to watch me eat
Her key lime pie
Her key lime pie
Tall green tree, yellow bird
Bikini bottom and a tie-dyed shirt
And my, my, my - my key lime pie
Big white sail, red sunset
Lobster tail and don't forget
My, my, my - my key lime pie
A six string, ten shots
Of Cruzan rum, hey, I like it a lot
With my, my, my - my key lime pie
Tortola, a full moon
Shining down on a blue lagoon
And my, my, my - my key lime pie
Not too tart, not too sweet
My baby loves to watch me eat
Her key lime pie
Her key lime pie
We got Ginger and Mary Ann
Cookin' up a real good tan
And my, my, my - my key lime pie
Key lime pie, key lime pie
Key lime pie, my my my
My, my, my key lime pie
Key lime pie, key lime pie
song performed by by Kenny Chesney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Opening Up To You
Opening up to you,
The night before,
red finger nails!
Dark finger nails!
White finger nails!
Blue finger nails!
To utter it out;
The thoughts of man,
The thoughts of woman,
The thoughts of a child! !
But, holding the torch and to touch you.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Summer's Soft Embrace
Roses cascading from a trellis, tumble down
And grace the paving stones beneath my feet.
Early leaves have fallen and crumble, brown,
Rustling when crushed against the hard concrete.
Summer days of sweetness, sun and shade,
Where on a wrought iron table, food one sups
Is, on a crisp white cloth, so carefully laid,
With offerings, and tea in porcelain cups.
A cool breeze enters through an open space,
Between the Eucalyptus and the Yew,
And one is wrapped in Summer's soft embrace,
And canopied by a sky of azure blue.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Pink
Feather light wings that float softly through the air tickled by specks of dust.
Bright white light inflamed with pink and laced with gold.
Raising flowers, changing seasons,
singing in high pitched voices that only children can hear.
Little tiny people in little tiny clothes.
Pink, White and Baby Blue,
Only innocent eyes can see.
Pink nail varnish, Pink lipstick, Pink eye shadow, Pink blusher, Pink clothes that reveal too much Pink skin.
Standing on street corners innocent eyes forgotten.
Long ago were the days when fairies were believed in.
Lost memories and lost dreams,
innocence killed, for a life of nightmares and love ripped at the seams.
poem by Laura Cummings
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Cape Town Days
Streets are full of vivid bougainvilleas
while clouds start to touch Table Mountain,
white horses are running from the sea to the beaches
and the southeaster blows at its full strength.
Later in the afternoon the Table Mountain is stark,
naked and clear, the ocean stretches out tranquil and flat
with it dark blue much deeper in turning to green
and the hot Mediterranean sun basks in the sky
and you long to be on Clifton beach
between a myriad of topless girls
with shiny brown tanned bodies
and in your office you can almost smell
the coconut suntan oil,
can almost hear them talking
and their sweet laughter,
can almost taste the salt of the sea on the wind.
poem by Gert Strydom
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A Highly-Colored Romance
Ben Green was a New-Hampshire boy,
Who stood full six feet two:
A jovial chap this same Ben Green,
Though he had oft been blue.
He loved a girl named Olive Brown,
Who lived near Bixby's pond,
And who, despite her brunette name,
Was a decided blonde.
"A Highly Colored Romance."
A pink of rare perfection she,
The belle of all the town;
Though Ben oft wished her Olive Green,
Instead of Olive Brown.
And she loved Ben, and said that nought
Should mar their joy serene;
And, when she changed from Olive Brown,
'Twould surely be to Green.
She kept her word in-violet,
And vowed, ere she was wed,
Although when Brown she had Be(e)n Green.
When Green she'd be well read.
But, ah! her young affections changed
To Gray, a Southern fellow;
And Green turned white the news to hear,
Though first it made him yell, oh!
Says he, " How can you lilac this,
When you vowed to be true?
I'll take your fine young lover, Gray,
And beat him till he's blue."
Then Olive Brown to crimson turned,
And said, "Do as you say:
The country long has wished to see
'The Blue combined with Gray.'"
Ben Green to purple turned with rage,
And black his brow as night;
While on the cheek of Olive Brown
The crimson changed to white.
"O cruel Olive Brown!" says Ben,
"I've been dun-brown by you:
Let this 'Grayback' his steps retrace,
And take Greenback, — oh, do!"
Poor Olive Brown, what could she say,
To sea-Green look so sad ?
And so she rose, and said to him,
"I'll go and ask my dad."
. . . .
The years rolled by: Ben's raven locks
For silver did not lack;
And Olive, with her hair of gold,
Was glad she took Greenback.
poem by Charles Follen Adams from Yawcob Strauss and Other Poems
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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November Narcissus
Four white fingers break ground
Lime green nails hunger scratch heaven
Each set bulbous...pots silver three
Narcissus blind to looking glass delight
Gold glory comes creeping night
poem by Boink Boink
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Summer Of The Unlocked Door
It is raised up from the dust this earth of the silver maker,
her for me it was higher than the arm could and yet
infused as the rose I scented, starry nights stretch out.
O dresses flowing silver, towards me, therein you reach
and it faces to each of us.
There is the petaled flower of which,
and you open freely as the sun without obstacle.
May the white leaf, the flower did not run off nor divide the silver
from that kind of rare silver; O it is white, it does become you,
your cluster, thickly with the veined branch,
summer of the unlocked door
and it has the fruit which it matures, do.
poem by Is It Poetry
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Kentish Garden
THERE is a grey-walled garden, far away
From noise and smoke of cities, where the hours
Pass with soft wings among the happy flowers,
And lovely leisure blossoms every day.
There, tall and white, the sceptral lily blows;
There grow the pansy, pink, and columbine,
Brave hollyhocks, and star-white jessamine,
And the red glory of the royal rose.
There greeny glow-worms gem the dusky lawn,
The lime-trees breathe their fragrance to the night,
Pink roses sleep, and dream that they are white,
Until they wake to colour with the dawn.
There, in the splendour of the sultry noon,
The sunshine sleeps upon the garden bed
Where the white poppy droops a drowsy head
And dreams of kisses from the white full moon.
And there, some days, all wild with wind and rain,
The tossed trees show the white side of their leaves,
While the great drops drip from the ivied eaves,
And birds are still--till the sun shines again.
And there, all days, my heart goes wandering,
Because there, first, my heart began to know
The glories of the summer and the snow,
The loveliness of harvest and of spring.
There may be fairer gardens; but I know
There is no other garden half so dear;
Because 'tis there, this many, many a year,
The sacred, sweet, white flowers of memory grow!
poem by Edith Nesbit
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Shell-Music
YOU with the shell to your ear,
What do you hear,
Slim and so white
In the moonlight?
'Oh, I hear surging and shouting and singing,
The sea-folk at market — their little bells ringing,
The tall weeds about them, the green world above!
Oh, blithe are the pedlars of ribbons and laces,
Yet blither and sweeter upon the wide spaces
The footfalls of Love!'
You with the shell to your ear,
What do you hear,
Waves at your feet,
White and so sweet?
'Oh, I hear cooing and kissing and cooing,
The sound of sea-folk in their coral groves wooing,
The red branches round them, the green world above!
Oh, sweet are the songs of the witching sea-daughters,
But sweeter, far sweeter, upon the wide waters,
The footfalls of Love!'
You with the shell to your ear,
What do you hear,
Large eyes aglow,
Forehead of snow?
'Oh, I hear shouting and sobbing and sighing,
The sounds of the sea-folk in battle-rage vieing,
The torn weeds about them, the green world above!
The merman may shout as he stumbles and slaughters,
But, ever and ever, I hear on the waters
The footfalls of Love!'
You with the shell to your ear,
What do you hear,
As you stand there,
Pale and so fair?
'Oh, as frost on the seaways the foam-spaces glisten;
My heart is the shell, to its echoes I listen;
Red petals, rose petals around and above!
Oh sweeter, far sweeter, than little bells ringing
Or market-men shouting, or mermaidens singing,
The footfalls of Love!'
poem by Roderic Quinn
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Lime Tree
That lime tree on the distant rising ground
(If it was a lime tree) showed her yellow leaves
Above the renewed green of wet August grass--
First Autumn yellow that on first Autumn eves
Too soon was found.
Comfortless lime tree! Scarce an aspen leaf
Like a green butterfly flitted to the ground;
There was no sign of Autumn in the grass.
Even the long garden beds their beauty brief--
Their mignonette,
Nasturtium and sweet-william and red stocks,
And clover crouching in the border grass,
And blood-like fuschia, eve's primrose and white phlox
And honeysuckle--waved all their smell and hue
Morn and eve anew.
But that far lime tree yellowing by the oak,
Warning oak, elm and poplar and each fresh tree
Shaking in the south wind delightedly,
And clover in the closeness of the grass,
Warns also me.
And now when all the trees are standing still
Beneath the purple and white of the west sky,
And time is standing still--as stand it will--
That early yellowing lime with palsied fingers
Cannot be still.
poem by John Freeman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Colours Of Life
Sunny morning, golden noon, rose pink twilight, silver moon.
Grey black cloud, creamy sea, lightning bright, green brown tree.
Yellow with age, white with fright, red with rage, black as night.
Green with envy, rainbow hue, in the pink, sky of blue.
Countless colours running rife. These are the colours of our life.
poem by Rod Morris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Granny's Angel
In my grand baby world she
Dream of pink butterflies and
Angel with golden wings playing
And singing sweet lullabies
She dream of sweet sugar plums
And lollipops dancing around her
Head
She dream of fairies, white doves
And pink butterflies
With wings tips of gold
Gold and silver dust sprinkling
Down as they open their wings
She dream of little fairies tickling
Little feet
Her joy shows as her laughter cries
Out
Bouncing around with little fairies
Playing and singing sweet lullabies
Her eyes of blue, as deep as the sky
Looking up at the golden half moon
Hanging so high
Stars of silver and golden threads flickers
Durning the night
Unicorns and fairies playing in a
Field of clovers
With pink ribbons and bows
She dreams of pink butterflies as she lay
In her crib sleeping
Dreaming of sweet nothings
Fairies, butterflies and little
Angels with unicorns in her world
As she sleeps in her little world
Where fantasy is true
Her little sisters and brothers
All angels in heavens
Where her world is all but a beautiful
Dream
As she grow and flourish to be a wife
A mother
And tell her stories to her children in
The future
Dedicated To My Grand Baby Miya
poem by Carolyn Sears
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Midwinter's Day in the Botanic Gardens
Hippophae
with clusters of orange berries
on spiky twigs.
Set in this ancient, yellowstone wall,
which separates the formal walks
from the marsh garden to the south,
is the gateway (with gate long gone) .
At its base, nerines – all mauves and reds –
spill over on straight, green stalks.
Topping the pillars sit carved capitals
from which grin down and stare
weathered, lifeless heads,
green-grey
like the day.
The sandstone rockery is winter-bare,
the benches empty, paths sodden with trampled leaves;
the gunmetal surface of the rounded pool
dimpled with bedraggled water lilies.
Squirrels chase, birds chatter amongst the pink viburnum
and the yellow Chinese winter jasmine,
with its tiny six-petalled flowers.
Pink and white prunus
clusters on spindly twigs
just as it does on Chinese porcelain.
Energetic buds of magnolia
press upwards and away
from the old, warped trunk
that shelters by the yellow wall.
A yew tree,
planted during the civil war,
has marked the passage of time in inches
and now stands forty-odd feet high
topped by a first-year magpie.
Time is also tracked by deep bells put forth
by Magdalen’s pinnacled Tower to the north
and answered (out of time)
by Merton’s to the west.
Yet, today, nowhere among man’s handiwork
and mindwork
is man to be seen.
Magdalen Bridge is still and silent.
Punts empty and unmoving.
Blue and green. Dull and wet.
Waiting for summer.
The very images of men, the statues,
have disappeared from recessed arches
behind great terracotta pots
decorated with cornucopia.
To the east the Cherwell’s winter waters pass.
The cricket ground,
with its white and brown pavilion,
its motionless rollers painted bright blue
and green, sodden grass,
is empty under this dull and pewter-coloured sky,
the faintest luminescence shining through.
Over three centuries ago
this medicinal garden was created ‘to cure all ills.’
It has not yet quite accomplished that.
poem by Brian Taylor
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle in My Ground with Romantic Sound!
On doggerel rime dedicated to you, catch my soul in narcotic romance,
In rash I'll be disjointed; in a flash, my spirit gratifies in hypnotic trance;
For in my verse I find joy in my voice as you're my Hobson's choice!
On the paper, I bare my soul to you as you are my vocalizing voice.
Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle in my ground with romantic sound!
Thinking of you, I look at heavens and all I see is blue,
Blue skies, white clouds, but not one trace of you oh baby, baby!
I look deep into the dark night yet of no avail, I'm in love flu;
So I surfed within my heart I saw a star with your smile, oh baby baby.
Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle in my ground with romantic sound!
Let me tell you how I feel: I love you along as galaxies live, oh baby!
Look into my eyes without a blink, an island pink, oh baby,
When the sun goes down, will you be there to walk in lawn? baby!
You can see my dreams, my sorrows, my joys and more, oh baby!
Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle in my ground with romantic sound!
Pass the sugar baby; pass it, don't say maybe, baby, baby!
Kisses come with dawning sugar-sweet in the morning, oh Baby;
I become a waterwheel, turning and tasting you is my new hobby!
There's none for me so set our melody to blast forever, baby.
Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle in my ground with romantic sound!
poem by Harindhar Reddy
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Bells Ringing
bells ringing...
thousands and thousands
of bells.... ringing....
the chorus of crows,
the sound of the whip
cracking on thousands
of backs, , ,
black and white,
brown and red....
the fat-bellied ticket taker
stands with hand outstretched...
cant pay the fare... cant ride....
left standing on the corner
of lost, and nameless.
marching to death, leaving
no trace, no footprints....
the bastard children of freedom,
no home to return to....
look up, look up!
the skies full of wings!
bells are ringing!
thousands and thousands
of bells... and each one
has a name!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Way Of The Wood
WHERE baby oaks play in the breeze
Among wood-sorrel and fringed fern,
Through the green garments of the trees
The quivering shafts of sunlight burn,
And all along the wet green ride
The dripping hazel-boughs between,
The spotted orchis, stiff with pride,
Stands guard before the eglantine.
Sweet chestnuts droop their long, sharp leaves
By knotted tree roots, mossed and brown,
Round which the honeysuckle weaves
Its scented golden wild-wood crown.
O wood, last year you saw us meet,
For her your leaves and buds were gay,
Your moss spread velvet for her feet.
Your flowers upon her bosom lay.
This year you wear your raiment bright,
As fair as ever yet you wore.
And, none the less, the world's delight
Walks in your ways no more, no more.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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The Dying Rose
Once so beautiful, freshly cut, a single rose stands
encompassed by succulent green leaves and proud standing thorns
petite white gypsum surrounds this expression of love
the tall slender rose vase holds the water for life
Words of appreciation are given as eyes drink in the vista before them
scented perfume fills and stimulates heightened senses
colors of red, green and virgin white stimulate the eyes
As all things that live, so all things must die in their turn
rose petals shrivel and loose the lustre if red
succulent green leaves whither, turn brown and die
virgin petite gypsum wilts and becomes a dirty used white.
Water discolors to a slimy foul smelling green
the once beautiful is now the 'Dying Rose.'
When did it start to die?
When it was cut off from its source of life.
poem by Ruth warren
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Child in the Orchard
'He rolls in the orchard: he is stained with moss
And with earth, the solitary old white horse.
Where is his father and where is his mother
Among all the brown horses? Has he a brother?
I know the swallow, the hawk, and the hern;
But there are two million things for me to learn.
'Who was the lady that rode the white horse
With rings and bells to Banbury Cross?
Was there no other lady in England beside
That a nursery rhyme could take for a ride?
The swift, the swallow, the hawk, and the hern.
There are two million things for me to learn.
'Was there a man once who straddled across
The back of the Westbury White Horse
Over there on Salisbury Plain's green wall?
Was he bound for Westbury, or had he a fall?
The swift, the swallow, the hawk, and the hern.
There are two million things for me to learn.
'Out of all the white horses I know three,
At the age of six; and it seems to me
There is so much to learn, for men,
That I dare not go to bed again.
The swift, the swallow, the hawk, and the hern.
There are millions things for me to learn.'
poem by Edward Thomas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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