Casebook Of Oliver Cyriax - Case 1# The Burning Bush (Part 4)
(It is suggested that the reader reads Part 1,2 and 3 first)
I stepped back slightly in amazement,
and then I smiled to myself.
Originally, the mystery of the ghost fire
had poised several questions in my mind.
Question of how, why and by who.
Normal phenomena was generally erratic,
in that you could not predict
when it when it would happen again.
However, the ghost fires were the opposite.
The first three were attention grabbers for the Burning Bush,
which now could be timed
at what time it would start
and at what time it would finish.
It was a very clever illusion
thought out by a very clever person.
I knew now how it was done,
but the remaining questions
of why and by who still needed to be answered.
Like Martin and others
my first thought were
that is was something paranormal.
Having stumbled by accident the truth,
the remaining two questions
could possibly be answered by the local Constable.
Finally I retired to bed with the satisfaction
I had almost solved the mystery.
The morning awoke
with a slight dropp in the temperature
and dark clouds threatening rain.
After breakfast,
I made my first journey to see the Burning Bush.
It was quite an ordinary bush as bushes go.
I walked round it several times
and looked around at the surrounding area.
I then took several photographs
of the area and the bush.
When I had enough,
I went to the Police Station
to talk to the local Constable.
As he saw me approach, he smiled.
His first question was how my investigation was going.
I assured him that it was nearly completed.
There were just a few questions I need answers for,
and then I should be able to solve the mystery of the Burning Bush.
I need to know how many people
had moved into the area
in the last three years and where they lived.
The Constable stroked his chin
and answered that there were only five people
who had moved to the village during the past three years.
Miss Featherbone the schoolmistress
who lived at the Inn was the last person.
She had only moved to the village about three months ago.
Before her there was Mr and Mrs Palfrey
who had purchased Lansdowne Farm
about two miles away.
Mr Gains a widower who bought Rose Cottage
just near the Inn
and Mr Harwood who lived at Beech Cottage
at the end of the high street.
He asked if I thought any of them were involved.
They might be unknowingly.
In addition, explained that some phenomena
follow certain people from place to place.
You mean like a family ghost. He asked.
Yes, I replied, like a family ghost.
I thanked him for his help, then left.
I decided to leave Miss Featherbone out
as the ghost fires had started long before
she came to the village.
I went along to see Mr Gains at Rose Cottage.
Gains was well into his seventies.
He viewed the Burning Bush as a nuisance.
He had come to the village for peace and quiet
and was most annoyed by what was happening.
I then went to see the Palfreys.
Unfortunately, they could not help me neither.
It was mid afternoon when I arrived at Beech Cottage.
I knocked the door and recognised Harwood
as soon as he answered.
He recognised me as well
and ushered me into the living room,
then made us both some tea.
You know who I am Oliver, he said.
I nodded, yes, the creator of the ghost fires.
It was very clever illusion, James.
The use of holographic images of fire.
I would never have guessed
until I accidentally found this little box
wedged between some loose bark on the tree
where the tramp had slept.
I said placing it on the table.
It was only when I accidentally activated it
before going to bed last night
that I realised the truth.
You have fooled a lot of people, but why?
If the visitors left the village,
it would become,
as the Americans would say a Ghost town.
The village needed an attraction,
hence the Burning Bush.
I hope you will not say that it is all a hoax Oliver.
I smiled and said I wouldn’t
I would let it remain a mystery to all.
Therefore Mr Rogers
that is the story behind The Burning Bush,
the true story,
not the ones that many books will come out with.
You see James Harwood used to be called
The Amazing Santini,
the man who could light his whole body
with fire without being burnt.
Of course, it was an illusion.
It wasn’t until the Burning Bush episode
that I found out how he did it.
Oliver rose from his chair,
moved across to his desk,
and shuffled some papers until he found several photographs.
These are photographs of The Burning Bush,
now I am getting rather tired.
I rose and bid him a goodnight
until we would meet again.
28 November 2007
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Casebook Of Oliver Cyriax - Case 1# The Burning Bush (Part 3)
As the news, spread about the burning bush
visitors began to flock to Little Pebblebury.
They were amazed at the sight that greeted them.
Rumours soon began to spread
that someone had heard a voice
coming from the bush.
This prompted speculation
that Christ was warning of his return.
The locals were by now
used to the sight and paid little
or no attention to it,
except to direct visitors to it.
After my lengthy discussions
with several of the locals,
I returned to my room
and began to plan what I was going to do the next day.
I decided the best course of action
was to start where the phenomena first began.
The next morning after having a good English breakfast,
I started out with my camera to the farm
where the first of the ghost fire was first noticed.
The farmer was a very obliging fellow.
He took time away from his duties
to show me the barn in which the ghost fire was
and explained in detail everything that went on that night.
I took a number of photographs
and thanked him for his time.
My next stop was to see the local Constable.
I explained to him what I was doing
and he was happy to help me
in every way he could.
He said the mystery of the fires
had baffled him
and any assistance in solving their cause
was more than welcome.
He took me out to the field
where the fire he was involved in
and showed me where the tramp had fallen asleep.
I examined the area quite thoroughly
and found a small black box
wedged in the bark of one of the trees.
I slipped it in my pocket to examine it later.
I thanked the Constable for his time
and told him I would let him know if I found out anything.
Getting back to the Inn,
the night clouds were beginning
to start closing in.
I had something to eat at the bar
before retiring to my room.
I no sooner got into it
when there was a knock on the door.
Moving to the door, I answered it.
I opened it and was astounded
at the person who was standing there
It was and old friend Martin West and fellow colleague
from the United States.
We had met about twenty years previous
while I was investigating a mystery
over in his country.
It was through that investigation
that he took up researching the world of phenomena.
He has even written
and published several books on the subject.
He explained that he had heard
about the Burning Bush and had come to investigate
it was just after it had started.
He had taken samples of the soil and the bush.
The tests all came back normal.
There were no abnormalities in the bush or earth
to suggest anything neither.
He told me he was completely stumped too.
We talked until eleven
catching up on what we had both been doing.
Finally, he left and I lifted out the small metal box
I had found earlier.
I examined it thoroughly
and opened it to find a small battery inside.
As luck would have it,
the battery was the same size as the one in my torch.
I inserted my battery in it
and what happened next made me shudder.
To be concluded…
25 November 2007
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Casebook Of Oliver Cyriax - Case 1# The Burning Bush (Part 2)
The smoke from his pipe
rose up like a small cloud.
For a long time afterwards, t
he fire in the barn
was referred to as a ghost fire.
The next ghost fire happened
almost six months later to the day
in the midst of the summer sun.
A passing tramp had rested
for a while in a field
and fell asleep against a tree
as the grass around him suddenly came alive
with flames that burnt close to his feet.
The local Constable was riding passed
saw the flames and dismounted from his bike.
Racing into the field,
he tried to beat out the flames with his jacket.
Still the flames danced around the tramp,
whom was asleep and unaware.
The Constable yelled at him,
but the tramp did not arouse from his slumber.
The Constable looked around
and off to his left noticed a stream.
He ran across to it and filled his helmet with water.
Running back he threw the water over the tramp.
The tramp woke up startled and looked around.
He stood up and asked the Constable,
just what he thought he was doing
throwing water over him.
Watch out for the fire
the Constable shouted back.
The tramp scratched his head
and asked what he was talking about.
The fire, the fire, the Constable replied.
What fire? The tramp asked.
It was only then that the Constable realised
that the fire was no longer there.
He was mystified how it disappeared.
It was about six months after that,
another ghost fire occurred
in the very Inn where I was staying.
The bar was crowded
when suddenly against one of the walls
a fire started and seemed to burn ferociously.
The first thing the customers did
was to start throwing their drinks against the wall
in hope to dampen the flames.
They met with little success
and the fire brigade was called.
The bar was evacuated
and the firemen came in with their hoses,
which like the drinks had no success on the flames.
As with all the other incidents
the fire raged for several hours
before dying away of its own accord.
The investigation that followed
found nothing had been burnt or scorched.
There seemed no earthly reason
for the mysterious fires that engulfed things,
but never harmed any of them.
Then last month the burning bush began.
When it was discovered,
an attempt was made to extinguish it,
but failed like the ones before.
Presently each night ever since
the bush ignites itself and burns for several hours
before disappearing again.
Oliver paused for a few moments,
stroked his chin
and puffed a couple of times on his pipe.
To be continued…
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Casebook Of Oliver Cyriax - Case 1# The Burning Bush (Part 1)
I knocked on his front door
half expecting a weary face
when it opened to greet me.
Instead, Oliver smiled
with a small twinkle in his eyes.
He guided me through to his study,
cluttered in the corners with artefacts
kept as souvenirs from previous cases.
He gestured me to have a seat,
then lifted his briar pipe off the mantle piece,
lit it and then made himself comfortable
in the armchair by the fire.
He looked at me through a cloud of smoke
that billowed from his pipe.
Now Mr Rogers I guess you have read in the newspapers
about the Burning Bush at Little Pebblebury.
Some think it is a religious phenomenon,
while others say it is a warning
and that we should all take heed.
Upon reading the story,
I decided to investigate the Burning Bush myself.
I telephone The Saintly Sovereign Inn at Little Pebblebury
enquiring about a room for the week.
They told me they had one left
because of the interest in their Burning Bush.
I said I would take it
and would travel down that very day.
I arrived at the village
just as the sun was beginning to set.
After settling in my room,
I came down the bar for a meal.
I got to talking to one of the locals
and was quite surprised to learn
that there had been several other ghost fires,
in and around the village the last couple of years.
The first was about two years ago
on a farm about two miles from the village.
It started about dusk as the farmer
was bringing his cattle in from the fields for the night.
As he got closer, he noticed a light
in the barn where he stored his winter hay.
At first, he though his wife
might have left a lamp lit in there,
but as he got closer, he could see the flames.
Leaving the animals in the field,
he ran into the farmhouse
and yelled to his wife to telephone the fire brigade.
He shouted that there was a fire in the barn.
The farmer grabbed a wooden pail
and rushed back out the door.
He dipped it in the animal drinking trough,
scooping out as much water he could get,
then rushed into the barn
and threw the water on the flames.
Back and forward, he ran
with as much water as he could carry.
The more water he threw on it,
the less the fire seemed to go out.
The fire brigade arrived and aimed their hoses
on the flames to douse them out.
Still the fire raged on.
Nothing it seemed could douse the flames.
Deep into the night they battled it,
then just before the dawn a
nd as suddenly as it appeared the fire disappeared.
Everyone by this time was exhausted;
still an investigation had to be made
to ensure there were no smouldering ambers that would start to blaze.
As they entered,
they found that none of the barn interior,
nor any of the hay was burnt or scorched in anyway.
It was as if there was never a fire there at all,
yet dozens of people had seen it and fought it.
Oliver stopped for a moment to rekindle his pipe.
To be continued…
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
That Beating Of The Bush
I'm not into,
The beating of the bush.
That beating of the bush.
I'm not into,
The beating of the bush.
That beating of the bush.
I have this 'thing' about honest and truth.
And those who become offended,
By declaring them too harsh to accept!
There has not been an experience I received,
I regretted with a wish to forget!
And those attempting to live their lives,
In pretense to deceive believing this is not deception...
Will always escape with excuses and alibis to make.
Charading as if...
No one recognizes,
Who is in masquerade.
And who amongst them fakes!
I'm not into,
The beating of the bush.
That beating of the bush.
I'm not into,
The beating of the bush.
That beating of the bush.
An honesty and truth spoken,
From deceivers is rare.
Those who deceive perceive...
Those who are direct and honest,
Are insensitive and do not care!
With a sharing of this mentality...
To those empathetic,
In a keeping of delusions...
Spared from despair!
But I know I'm not the only one...
Who elects to see,
Dishonesty from all people get up and leave.
I can't be!
I'm not into,
The beating of the bush.
That beating of the bush.
I'm not into,
The beating of the bush.
That beating of the bush.
I'm not into,
The beating of the bush.
That beating of the bush.
I'm not into,
The beating of the bush.
That beating of the bush.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Burnin' Bush
What does it take to show an illustration
Of the hurt and the pain of a nation.
One glowing look upon a ragged canvas
Tells the story of our past and present situation
That old bush just keeps on burning
Nobody seems to show they're learning
That old bush just keeps on burning.
I wonder will we ever feel the flame.
Our way of life on total exhibition
Shows the way in which we live of an
I'mperfect nation.
This tree of life so far from perfeciton
Share a little love to improve our situation.
That old bush just keeps on burning
Share the hope for future learning
I wonder will we ever feel the flame
Flow of light could really stand a listen
Bring the dark to the light
song performed by by Earth Wind & Fire
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Ghost Bear, page 1 of 4
Long ago, in a small village
Where the Great River meets the
Limitless Salt Sea, lived Muin Manitu,
An aging shaman.
Ghost Bear had two good wives
Who gave him four fine daughters
And many grand-children.
But now both wives were dead.
Ghost Bear was getting old,
So old that he made his death song
Mumbling it often under his breath
So he would not forget it.
One night, Raven came to Ghost Bear
In a dream, bringing an important message.
“You must leave wigwam and village,
before the sun rises again.”
“This must be my time, ” thought
Ghost Bear, “My time to die.
I am glad. It is a good time
to leave this world.”
And so, taking only his knife and
His Medicine Bag, Ghost Bear pushed
His canoe out into the river while
All the village slept.
“I will go west on the Great River, ”
Thought Ghost Bear to himself, “Then,
When it is my time to go, I will be
pointed in the right direction.”
All morning long, Ghost Bear paddled
Westward on the Great River, and when
Sun was directly above him, he saw
A raven flying high above.
“I am going true, ” he thought, “Raven
Has sent me an unmistakeable sign.”
And Ghost Bear kept paddling with
Neither food nor drink.
As day became night, Ghost Bear
Continued on, for the full moon was bright
And showed him the right path on the
Great River clearly, brightly.
poem by John Bliven Morin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Burnin Bush
Jerry peters
What does it take to show an illustration
Of the hurt and the pain of a nation.
One glowing look upon a ragged canvas
Tells the story of our past and present situation
That old bush just keeps on burning
Nobody seems to show theyre learning
That old bush just keeps on burning.
I wonder will we ever feel the flame.
Our way of life on total exhibition
Shows the way in which we live of an
Imperfect nation.
This tree of life so far from perfeciton
Share a little love to improve our situation.
That old bush just keeps on burning
Share the hope for future learning
I wonder will we ever feel the flame
Flow of light could really stand a listen
Bring the dark to the light, show us
What weve been missing.
Not many men are satisfied
Without no light, there aint no pride
Theres gonna come a time,
Things that are on your mind.
Trust and you will find
Everything in your mind
True love is here to find
Simple as number 9
Multiply you will find
Peace and love all the time.
song performed by by Earth Wind And Fire
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
The Coldness Of Indifference
i watch a bonfire
it spreads upon a bush
into the forest of
dry trees
i watch a conflagration
i am inside it
i am burning and burning
still
i am not consumed
i am fire
i eat the forest of dry trees
i spread in the bush
until all is consumed
and then i stop
i am back to myself
nothing really happened
then we resume the conversation
about fire
you speak about it
your heart is not involved
you never felt any heat
i know because you are cold
there is no heat in you
you, in a few minutes, die.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Rose Bush's Life
have you ever seen a rose bush
grow over a period of time
well it gets bigger and
a lot more complected,
as it grows and expands
it starts as a seed
and with the right care and time
it develops into a bush
but with the wrong amount the bush is not heathy
and may die
that’s the same with a baby
we start as a egg in our mothers tummy
with the right amount of care and 9mounts
we sprout into the world
young, healthy and a able body baby
but if we are not taken care of properly then
we may not live
a rose bush sprouts many different roses
during it’s life time
as if they are sections of there life
generations
of there life time
our lives look and act
like a rose bush
also it starts with one seed
you
then we sprout up and
make our own lives
with a family and
that spouts other things off of us
husband, wife, kids, and grand kids
our lives are like a
rose bushes life
for a rose bushes
are our lives
poem by Mrs. Cynosure
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Inferno (An Analysis Of The Goddess Of Fire)
A big fire
Devoured our house yesterday
And it sounded loud like a bomb
Vulcan the god of fire
Must have been loud and angry at us
A big fire
Devoured our house yesterday
And it sounded like a bomb
The fire we use to cook our food
And then i spoke to the fire
And it said to me
“ I was formed when men were in caves
And i was used to cook their raw meat
In the days of long ago and the dinosaurs”
Thou goddess of fire
You bleached the earth on creation day
Producing the human race
You give light to mankind
You fly high
In the netherworlds of the Universe
Naked humanity in thine sight
Burning like an inferno in the human heart
Now is the time to stand and stare
Every bush bows and burns before your might
Your arms reaches outstretched
Thou purifier of thoughts and metals
Thine incandescent light fascinates and scares me
Thou goddess of fire
Dancing in the midst of charcoals and matchsticks
Lighting upon men anew
You are in my sitting room today
Burning men and me to carbon dust
You came from the bush centuries ago
To set upon the ideas of men
On the dawn of civilization
When we were nothing
But cavemen without learning or thinking
And the men ran helter skelter
For they were afraid of thee
Men thought you will go
But you did stay
Men thought you will go
But you fell from heaven again
Burning every bush fire
I run out of thoughts for thee
Thou goddess of fire.
poem by larry Philosopher
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
When the Bush Begins to Speak
They know us not in England yet, their pens are overbold;
We're seen in fancy pictures that are fifty years too old.
They think we are a careless race - a childish race, and weak;
They'll know us yet in England, when the bush begins to speak;
When the bush begins to speak,
When the bush begins to speak,
When the west by Greed's invaded, and the bush begins to speak.
'The leaders that will be', the men of southern destiny,
Are not all found in cities that are builded by the sea;
They learn to love Australia by many a western creek,
They'll know them yet in England, when the bush begins to speak;
When the bush begins to speak,
When the bush begins to speak,
When the west by Greed's invaded, and the bush begins to speak.
All ready for the struggle, and waiting for the change,
The army of our future lies encamped beyond the range;
Australia, for her patriots, will not have far to seek;
They'll know her yet in England when the bush begins to speak;
When the bush begins to speak,
When the bush begins to speak,
When the west by Greed's invaded, and the bush begins to speak.
We'll find the peace and comfort that our fathers could not find,
Or some shall strike the good old blow that leaves a mark behind.
We'll find the Truth and Liberty our fathers came to seek,
Or let them know in England when the bush begins to speak;
When the bush begins to speak,
When the bush begins to speak,
When the west by Greed's invaded, and the bush begins to speak.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Progress
THEY’VE builded wooden timber tracks,
And a trolly with screaming brakes
Noses into the secret bush,
Into the birdless brooding bush,
And the tall old gums it takes.
And down in the sunny valley,
The snorting saw screams slow;
O bush that nursed my people,
O bush that cursed my people,
That flayed and made my people,
I weep to watch you go
poem by Frank Wilmot
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
S12
a burning heart, he says, he has a burning heart
and i imagine a burning bush, as we wonder how come that
there is also an eternal fire that does not burn
and char anybody
a burning heart and it does not stop to burn
there is still pain in there, but the burning heart is never consumed
it burns love, and pain is always lesser
there may be no joy anymore, but the giving insists
everything, everything take them all away
that is the only meaning of the burning heart
always unconsumed, never charred, a stranger to the ashes.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Past
The Past
I live in a cottage that is 350 years old, wish I could have seen a ghost,
because I believe they exist. When I moved in here part of it had been
a stable and on warm nights I can still smell hey and the mule that lived
in what is now my living room. When I first came here ancient voices
emitted from the walls, people who had lived her before had toiled
the soil and lived in poverty. One cannot erase the history of past
generations where people had lived, even if their physical bodies are
no longer here but their souls remain and speak to us if we care to listen.
The cottage seemed content that someone had moved in, no house likes
to be abandoned. New roof, plastered wall voices subsided and waned
altogether, yet on this hot night I do hear sighs, smell the mules sweat.
Is it my imagination only if I see the contour of the animal and see a man
stroking its head? And talking softly.
poem by Oskar Hansen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Devil Music
They called him 'master'...
When he came.
To take them from the comfort of their homes.
Stripped of treasures,
And their names.
With nothing they could say,
And silent broken hope!
Forced to worship,
Strange deities.
And folks who treated them
Like they were beasts.
Some tried to flee,
The increasing heat.
But many found themselves soon in defeat.
The blazing burned their feet.
And the ones who ran were chased like enemies.
This fire...
It kept on burning!
Burning, burning, burning...
Out of control.
The 'master'...
Desired this fire.
To burn, burn, burn
Out of control!
Morning, noon and night
They'd call him devil.
And sang the music to him that he loved.
They would dance.
And together clap their hands.
This devil music kept them in a hold!
Yes,
The fire...
It kept on burning.
Burning, burning, burning...
Out of control.
The 'master'...
He kept the fire.
Burning, burning, burning
Out of control.
Yes this fire,
It kept on burning!
Burning, burning, burning
Out of control.
I said the fire...
It still keeps burning!
And it's blazing in a rage,
That's out of control!
The spreading flame...
Became higher.
So high it fixed in young minds,
Sold by the old!
Yes,
The fire...
It kept on burning.
Burning, burning, burning...
Out of control.
The 'master'...
He kept the fire.
Burning, burning, burning
Out of control.
Burning, burning, burning
Out of control.
Burning, burning, burrrrrnin...
Out of contrrroooool.
'ssssyesssss...
Children! '
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
To Noel Who Has George Bush Senior As His Hero
He say George Bush his hero but with him I don't agree
For George Bush bombers killed thousands just to set Kuwait free
And Saddam been defeated and two Countries been destroyed
And George Bush and John Major in allied victory take pride.
Noel say that I'm for Saddam but he has got it wrong
For on side of one who kill and maim I don't feel I belong
And Hussein is a killer and all who kill are bad
And George Bush just as bad as him which makes it all more sad.
Two hundred thousand Iraqis in Kuwait desert died
And the sands of Kuwait desert the shame of George Bush hide
And the Kuwait oil wells burning and blood's been shed for oil
And Kuwait now free Country but was it all worth while? .
And the sky o'er Kuwait desert from smoke as black as coal
And George Bush, Noel Johnson's hero, you can have your hero Noel
You applaud the allied bombers and condemn the I.R.A.
But they all throw bombs on people though you don't see it that way.
He say George Bush is his hero, George Bush who felt no shame
In murdering Iraqi people just to earn himself a name,
George Bush who bombed and murdered just to prove his country great
And whose crimes and shame lay covered by the white sands of Kuwait.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
To a Child
When I was a child I saw
a burning bird in a tree.
I see became I am,
I am became I see.
In winter dawns of frost
the lamp swung in my hand.
The battered moon on the slope
lay like a dune of sand;
and in the trap at my feet
the rabbit leapt and prayed,
weeping blood, and crouched
when the light shone on the blade.
The sudden sun lit up
the webs from wire to wire;
the white webs, the white dew,
blazed with a holy fire.
Flame of light in the dew,
flame of blood on the bush
answered the whirling sun
and the voice of the early thrush.
I think of this for you.
I would not have you believe
the world is empty of truth
or that men must grieve,
but hear the song of the martyrs
out of a bush of fire-
'All is consumed with love;
all is renewed with desire.'
poem by Judith Wright
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
27 Years In The Bush
27 years in the bush!
I am still finding my way through to reach to the city;
And i need a teacher on this issue to guid eme through this thick bush.
Life is very hard for me alone in this bush,
But i have to hide to save my name;
For the bombs are everywhere and many of my friends are dead already,
And i need a clever teacher who knows the bush very well to lead me on.
27 years in the bush!
Life in Africa does have many colours;
But my faith will surely lead me on till i reach to the city of love,
And i have to save myself from these bombs.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Annunciation
'The lord appeared in a flame of fire out of the midst of a bush and behold, the bush burned with fire and the bush was not consumed.'-EXODOUS iii.2.
When to your virgin heart, unstirred, ungiven,
Upon the quiet mountainside untrod,
The sudden naked fire came down from heaven,
Burning you with the very breath of God,
Was the sun lost? Were all the sweet stars dim
While God raised round your head those walls of light?
Were you locked dumbly, terribly with Him,
Within that burning temple day and night?
What was it to have God there like a bird-
God like a great, gold flower upon your breast-
While He spake things that only one man heard,
Face down before that glory manifest?
When that strange flame went up the mountain side,
Were your forsaken lips so burned with gold
That the creatures of the wild stood off and cried,
And in your breast no blossom dared unfold?
Did you call back the startled birds to build,
And put forth all your simple buds again,
Forgetting how your branches once were filled,
In sweet embrace of passing sun and rain?
Or were all other birds forbidden sing
After those great, gold plumes had made their nest?
Was, in its strange and awful blossoming,
That great, gold flower the last upon your breast?
poem by Muriel Stuart
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Village Green
Out in the country,
Far from all the soot and noise of the city,
Theres a village green.
Its been a long time
Since I last set eyes on the church with the steeple
Down by the village green.
twas there I met a girl called daisy
And kissed her by the old oak tree.
Although I loved my daisy, I saw fame,
And so I left the village green.
I miss the village green,
And all the simple people.
I miss the village green,
The church, the clock, the steeple.
I miss the morning dew, fresh air and sunday school.
And now all the houses
Are rare antiquities.
American tourists flock to see the village green.
They snap their photographs and say gawd darn it,
Isnt it a pretty scene?
And daisys married tom the grocer boy,
And now he owns a grocery.
I miss the village green,
And all the simple people.
I miss the village green,
The church, the clock, the steeple.
I miss the morning dew, fresh air and sunday school.
And I will return there,
And Ill and daisy,
And well sip tea, laugh,
And talk about the village green.
We will laugh and talk about the village green.
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!