Pages Of Time
In fields, multi shaded green
lie the bodies that are unseen.
The have laid there before records began.
They died from various causes,
some violent, some peaceful
and were soon forgotten
amongst the pages of time.
The fields are filled with colours
when the flowers start to bloom
so the dead lay quietly in the earth far below.
Their secrets gone with them
as did the struggles in their life.
Their histories remain a mystery
locked within the pages of time.
26 November 2008
poem by David Harris
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When Life Is Gone
When life is gone
No one remains in this place
Till the end of time
When life is gone
The world will be a desolate wasteland
Where only the dead remain
To soil the green fields of love and light
Forever green
When life disappears
The dead remain
The fields run red with blood
Of wars gone past and wars to be
The fields are green all is gone
All is dead
The fields are gone
The world is gone
poem by kelly Martini
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It’s time to seal my father’s book
The one I’ve been given while he was still alive
Sometime before the year 2000
I filled it in last year
After so many years of not writing
Posted some of its contents
It contains
Like so many previously empty pages
Lots of something and bits of half nothing
And I’m sure that this peace of information is totally irrelevant
For the readers
Except for the fact
That there are always pages that need to remain just that
The pages and nothing else
Even though they contain things that should not be forgotten
That will not be forgotten
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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What Is Written In Red
I am written in red,
I am sliding across the page of life.
I am racing across the lines of language.
I am red.
I write words,
I create lines and sentences,
I am kept in solitude
I am red.
I create paragraphs.
I create signatures.
I know what you're thinking before you speak,
I am red.
I cannot breath because I am enclosed in a capsule.
A capsule that covers the knowledge inside.
All I do is stare at pages,
All I know is pages,
I become apart of the pages,
And the pages become apart of me.
I become apart of english,
I become apart of words,
I am RED.
BY: Takisha Fields
poem by Kiesha fields
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Fields Of Gold
There are fields of Gold behind the little house
Filled with the greatest of treasures
Bronze, Gold and Silver
Do you remember?
Remember our childhood, Our life’s
The shinning Silver sparkling in the skies
The brightest Bronze hidden under the ground
The greatest Gold glimmering through the fields
Can you see them?
Picture it in your mind
All the times we danced
Every time we laughed
Where we used to love
Or have you forgotten?
Forgotten the good, Forgotten the bad
Every memory
Every moment
Every word
I wish you’d remember
To turn back time, So you could take me
Take me to the gold
To the fields on a summers day
To our fields, our treasure
The Silver, The Bronze
The Gold
But the treasures gone
The house still remains
The fields just as empty as the day we left
Times have changed
Our life’s have changed
Our Silver gone dull
Our Bronze all rusted
Our Gold long forgotten
It was never there
The winds of time and turns of the earth have seen to that
But I remember
I cry for the children who found the greatest of treasures and those who lost it so soon after
And I dream of dancing and singing and running and laughter, of the treasures that lie in the fields of Gold.
poem by Carrie Halliday
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Diary
Verse 1:
Lay your
Head on my pillow
Here you can be yourself
No one has to know what u are feeling
No one but me and you
Chorus:
I won't tell your secrets
Your secrets
Are safe with me
I will keep your secrets
Just think of me as the pages in your diary
Verse 2:
I feel
Such a connection
Even when your far away
If there is anything that you fear
Call 4.8.9. 46.0.8
And i'll be here
Chorus:
I wont tell your secrets
Your secrets
Are safe with me
I will keep your secrets
Just think of me as the pages in your diary
Bridge:
And only we know what is talked about
Baby boy
I don't know how you can be driving me so crazy
Boy
When you're in town
Why dont you come around
Boy
I'll be the loyalty you need
You can trust me
Boy
oooh
Chorus:
I wont tell your secrets
Your secrets
Are safe with me
I will keep your secrets
Just think of me as the pages in your diary
Adlib:
everybody say
(whooaaaa)
let me hear you say
(whooo)
I won't tell
(I won't tell)
I won't tell
(I won't tell)
I won't tell
Your secrets, your secrets
break it down
(I won't tell)
song performed by by Alicia Keys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Tracks, Trails, Lines and pages
Tracks in forests… of woodland creatures
Trails of shooting stars in summer skies
Tracks of rockets o’er bloody battlefields
Traces of wrinkles round wizened eyes
Lines of wisdom on wrinkled faces
Lines of ants upon the floor
Lines of prose on parchment pages
Lines of carts inside the stores
Pages of life, inside old diarys
Pages dog-eared to mark the places
Pages filled with tales sad and fiery
Pages filled with empty spaces
poem by David Whalen
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Fields Of The Brave
Sometimes I close my eyes
And picture the plains
I see Buffalo Bill and the Iroquois
Riding again
Open skies, fertile ground
This was heaven on earth
That they found
We got what they gave
By their God we were saved
They were humble not depraved
These streets were afraid of
Once were the fields of the brave
The fields of the brave
Where a Chevrolet rusts
By a closed shopping mall
Can you see through the dust
Where the brave ones stood tall
Buried deep where they fell
They live on in the stories we tell
They got what they gave
By their God they were saved
And I say this as I pray
I cant help but dream of
The days these were fields of the brave
The fields of the brave
After all this time
And the struggles in between
We stand next in line
With the chance we can build on their dreams
In the
Fields of the brave
Fields of the brave
We got what they gave
In the fields of the brave
Let their spirits be saved
And I pray this on their graves
Therell be a return of
The days these were fields of the brave
The fields of the brave
song performed by by Styx
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In An Old Diary
Faded pink petals
tween old yellowed pages
In a time worn ol’ diary
Filled with eras and ages
Leaves, red and golden
Pressed between old yellowed pages
Of old diaries beholden
to lives unfolded stages
Still linger on pages
Faint aromas and memories
Of phases and stages
All now, long lost histories
Tarnished brass clasps
Still holds e’er so tight
As did young hands once grasp
To their breast in the night
Fervent feelings writ in faded black ink
Young hopeful yearnings from the past
Love and longing, an enduring link
Diaries, as do lives, grow old e’er so fast
on withered old hands one laid on the other
Lines of blue veins trace out as a map
In repose on a tattered old cover
Of an old diary, in an old lady’s lap
poem by David Whalen
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The Dying Child
He could not die when trees were green,
For he loved the time too well.
His little hands, when flowers were seen,
Were held for the bluebell,
As he was carried o'er the green.
His eye glanced at the white-nosed bee;
He knew those children of the spring:
When he was well and on the lea
He held one in his hands to sing,
Which filled his heart with glee.
Infants, the children of the spring!
How can an infant die
When butterflies are on the wing,
Green grass, and such a sky?
How can they die at spring?
He held his hands for daisies white,
And then for violets blue,
And took them all to bed at night
That in the green fields grew,
As childhood's sweet delight.
And then he shut his little eyes,
And flowers would notice not;
Birds' nests and eggs caused no surprise,
He now no blossoms got;
They met with plaintive sighs.
When winter came and blasts did sigh,
And bare were plain and tree,
As he for ease in bed did lie
His soul seemed with the free,
He died so quietly.
poem by John Clare
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The Book Of My Life
Let me watch by the fire and remember my days
And it may be a trick of the firelight
But the flickering pages that trouble my sight
Is a book I'm afraid to write
It's the book of my days, it's the book of my life
And it's cut like a fruit on the blade of a knife
And it's all there to see as the section reveals
There's some sorrow in every life
If it reads like a puzzle, a wandering maze
Then I won't understand 'til the end of my days
I'm still forced to remember,
Remember the words of my life
There are promises broken and promises kept
Angry words that were spoken, when I should have wept
There's a chapter of secrets, and words to confess
If I lose everything that I possess
There's a chapter on loss and a ghost who won't die
There's a chapter on love where the ink's never dry
There are sentences served in a prison I built out of lies.
Though the pages are numbered
I can't see where they lead
For the end is a mystery no-one can read
In the book of my life
There's a chapter on fathers a chapter on sons
There are pages of conflicts that nobody won
And the battles you lost and your bitter defeat,
There's a page where we fail to meet
There are tales of good fortune that couldn't be planned
There's a chapter on god that I don't understand
There's a promise of Heaven and Hell but I'm damned if I see
Though the pages are numbered
I can't see where they lead
For the end is a mystery no-one can read
In the book of my life
Now the daylight's returning
And if one sentence is true
All these pages are burning
And all that's left is you
Though the pages are number
song performed by by Sting
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Verdun
In the field where flowers grow,
the dead lay buried far below.
The war they fought is over now.
Peace may they find at last,
beneath the fields that once run red,
with the blood of half a million dead.
The land is now peaceful and tranquil there,
no more carnage does it share,
no more thunder of dropping shells,
or the cries and tortured yells.
Just the ghosts of men who fought,
and died before their time.
(22 May 2007)
poem by David Harris
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Destiny Life Leaf Pages
manuscripts we all life write
destiny life leaf pages
some leave empty pages white
others shimmer reflecting light
some smear pages with dirt
record chaos rip rub out hurt
how shall we fill manuscript pages...
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Between the pages
Between the pages
~
between the pages
we line ourselves in verse
where we play out a story
of our own making
the turns and twists
brought through words
etched upon the page
ink flows to its own beat
like a raging heart
pouring out before the eyes
a world becomes forgotten
lost in the celebration
between pages
each line shared
written
in its own breath
creation begins
time lapses
into our verse
poem by Matthew Holloway
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The Sea Deceives Me
The pages of the calendar fall to the ground,
crunch crunch crunch under our feet,
grinding themselves to dust.
Hours and numbers, days and months cover the earth with mosaic colors
as if a tempest had broken open a damn and they flood out into our fields, we rake them up, unspoken we burn them, we stuff them in threadbare and patchy clothing, we make scarecrows up to look like our former selves,
others we stuff in gutters and drains.
There are pages from a hundred years back in some darkening silence in the deepest of woodlands, these leaves mixed with the dirtiest of branches; histories at the foot of precipices slouching on the meanders of rivers flowing into the sunset, they dwell in the pits of caves, and in the nests of baby birds.
We lay our backs down and swim through the pages, we fall asleep and neglect our lazy day, the sounds and the smells, the tastes and the textures of the times we've inherited (we have (and the time ahead.)
New years take shape and more time buds, the seasons pass and we decorate the decaying earth.
new days are piled up: in piles of bills, piles of events, piles of junk mail, invitations torn and abandoned, occasions attended and written about, solidarities and intimacies cherished and worshiped
They are still there in the air- you act as if they're not passing by,
new pages swiftly sway in the winds hand and rest on the earth. In numbers and records.
The pointless statistics of time, taken time and time again.
We waste our time on something like memories and plans
until time our runs out for us
like counting the fallen leaves as a derelict train creeps through the country - how absurdly endless a task
time is not statistics nor even measurable
time is not a standard of options weighable,
time is not a parquet floor where a curtain stretches, that you shoot marbles across, or even throw a rug over then slowly rock yourself to sleep on
time is chiseled in caves and evolves with man
time is all things existing and all things alive
time is being and being is timeless
(time isn't for a spitting audience but for the expression of the mind the body the expansion of the soul; don't sit back and watch life ebb into the dirt; create explore, and experience its glorious spray and the endless internal tributaries to your mind.)
(The motions of our glorious feet sweeping and gliding acting out the moment part in a tenuous spectrum of soapy film and endless possibility that will survive untouched by the stone pillars of sleeping spectators)
poem by Jerome Moore
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The Memory Place
Shelves tower over me; crowed with bound pages
of events, people, places, ideas.
Of memories.
Of captured feelings pressed like flowers between the pages;
for people to be inspired by someone else's words.
My eyes caress the titles printed on bright spines
as I run my fingers across
what holds the memories together.
I pick up a book, turning yellowed pages,
the scent of gentle time traveling to my nose.
I close my eyes and smile:
it brings back memories of my own,
but these pages are not for me.
I put back the soft bundle of pages
and continued to search in the Memory Place
until I find my own belonging among the words.
poem by Zoe Guillory
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Those Green Fields Of Kilmeedy
Those green fields of Kilmeedy I do remember still
They meet the gorse and bracken at the foot of Clara hill
A place of peace and beauty with mountains all around
Scarce touched by man's pollution where Nature's joys abound.
Even in summer in Kilmeedy the dawn comes with a chill
But skylark he is piping above the bracken hill
Through Spring and through the Summer he sings all through the day
And I fancy I can hear him o'er mountains far away.
The robin he is piping on flowering hawthorn tree
Across the miles of distance his music comes to me
And dunnock on the hedgerow and dipper in the stream
And song thrush piping gaily on ash by old bohreen.
All through the Spring and Summer the wildering flowers are seen
But green fields of Kilmeedy not always quite so green
In November and December the winds of Winter blow
And January and February bring frost and sleet and snow.
In mid March in Kilmeedy the first wildflowers appear
And weather still quite chilly though days of bloom are near
But April brings her blossoms and leaves behind her green
And May comes o'er the mountain the summer beauty queen.
Those green fields of kilmeedy I see them every day
And I hear the skylark piping o'er hillsides far away
And dunnock on the hedgerow and the dipper in the stream
And those green fields of Kilmeedy have never looked so green.
poem by Francis Duggan
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You are a point of consciousness within multiple fields of consciousness that interpenetrate each other: A multi-dimentional being within a multi-dimensional Universe. When you realize the unity of all these fields of consciousness you share life with, you partake in conscious communion.
Alexis Karpouzos in Cosmology, philosophy and physics (15 October 2014)
Submitted by Mary karas
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Risk
flowers
bloom
revealing
its inner
beauty
secrets
earth
blooms
shedding
age old secrets
women
bloom
men
bloom
slowly
but surely
everything reveals
what it really is!
risk or no risk!
Risk
And then the day came,
when the risk
to remain tight
in a bud
was more painful
than the risk
it took
to Blossom.
Anaïs Nin
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Returning Home
In the smoke I smell
Dead animals,
Dead neighbors, friends, and family members.
In the mist I see
All those who were once alive.
Behind me
Our town stands
Burned down to ashes;
Only skeletons remain.
This war has taken away so much.
In the rubble on the streets
I see
The way things once were.
Happy homes
Filled with laughter
Children playing
Stickball in the street.
Now
So much has been taken
Away from me.
We find bodies
In the yards, in the wells,
In our fields and on the streets;
Dead animals,
Dead neighbors, friends, and family members.
The war is over
And we are back.
To bury the dead,
To give hope to the young,
To start again.
poem by Rabia Minhas
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Pages
Written by dewey bunnell and gerry beckley, 1998
Found on human nature.
In this bookcase full of stories
You find some of them are true
Tales of love and glory
Many lives of daring-do
There is mystery and adventure
They lie waiting there for you
So step inside and find the other you
Take the high road tomorrow
But the low road today
Reading others sorrow
Might just be the only way
The father hears confession
While the mothers feeling blue
These characters do what you want them to
In these pages we consume
Lives in many colors lovers in full bloom
And through the ages words are born
Speaking to the senses lifting the forlorn
Theres glamour and dementia
A message from the tomb
Staircase to the heavens
And secrets in the room
When you are riding on that dark horse
To the one that got away
Theres no regrets and no dues left to pay
cause in these pages we consume
Lives in many colors lovers in full bloom
And through the ages words are born
Speaking to the senses lifting the forlorn
Drifting down the river of the make believe
We laugh and grieve
Hoping for an ending of our own design
Where all is fine
In these pages we consume
Lives in many colors lovers in full bloom
And through the ages words are born
Speaking to the senses lifting the forlorn
In these pages we consume
Lives in many colors lovers in full bloom
And through the ages words are born... (fade)
song performed by by America
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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