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Grey Evening

When you went, how was it you carried with you
My missal book of fine, flamboyant hours?
My book of turrets and of red-thorn bowers,
And skies of gold, and ladies in bright tissue?

Now underneath a blue-grey twilight, heaped
Beyond the withering snow of the shorn fields
Stands rubble of stunted houses; all is reaped
And garnered that the golden daylight yields.

Dim lamps like yellow poppies glimmer among
The shadowy stubble of the under-dusk,
As farther off the scythe of night is swung,
And little stars come rolling from their husk.

And all the earth is gone into a dust
Of greyness mingled with a fume of gold,
Covered with aged lichens, past with must,
And all the sky has withered and gone cold.

And so I sit and scan the book of grey,
Feeling the shadows like a blind man reading,
All fearful lest I find the last words bleeding
With wounds of sunset and the dying day.

poem by David Herbert Lawrence
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Gods Coloring Book

Today as I was walking
In the fields just down the way
I sat down on a fallen log
To pass the time away
And as I looked around me
The more that I did look
The more I realize that I am viewing
Gods coloring book
I saw a golden ray of sunlight
A silver drop of dew
A soft, white floating cloud
Sailing cross the sky a blue
A yellow dandelion
Pretty evergreen
And some red and orange flowers
Growing wild along the stream
And the more I look around me
And the more that I do look
The more I realize that I am viewing
Gods coloring book
The greyness in an old mans hair
The pink in babys cheeks
The blackness in a stormy sky
The brown in fallen leaves
And the multicolored rainbow
Stretched out across the sky
And the purple haze at sunset
Just before the night
And the more I look around me
And the more that I do look
The more I realize that I am viewing
Gods coloring book
Then I turn my face toward the sky
And say a silent prayer
Though God doesnt speak to me
I see him everywhere
He is all around me
Hes everywhere I look
And each new day is but a new page
In gods coloring book
Tag:
Each new day is but a new page
In gods coloring book
Hmmmmmm

song performed by by Dolly Parton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Calendar of Sonnets: September

O golden month! How high thy gold is heaped!
The yellow birch-leaves shine like bright coins strung
On wands; the chestnut's yellow pennons tongue
To every wind its harvest challenge. Steeped
In yellow, still lie fields where wheat was reaped;
And yellow still the corn sheaves, stacked among
The yellow gourds, which from the earth have wrung
Her utmost gold. To highest boughs have leaped
The purple grape,--last thing to ripen, late
By very reason of its precious cost.
O Heart, remember, vintages are lost
If grapes do not for freezing night-dews wait.
Think, while thou sunnest thyself in Joy's estate,
Mayhap thou canst not ripen without frost!

poem by Helen Hunt Jackson
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Rat Reading

Rat's are

My home

Reading for book's

At night time...!

Each book's

On the book stand

Rat reading

Not very well....! ?

Rat simply

Read some of

Pages only;

Book's are broken

Rat read mean's

Rat bite's

Book's are crying

I am also...

Rat reading

O...sorry

Rat bite's...!

poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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Impression Du Matin

THE Thames nocturne of blue and gold
Changed to a Harmony in grey:
A barge with ochre-coloured hay
Dropt from the wharf: and chill and cold

The yellow fog came creeping down
The bridges, till the houses' walls
Seemed changed to shadows, and S. Paul's
Loomed like a bubble o'er the town.

Then suddenly arose the clang
Of waking life; the streets were stirred
With country waggons: and a bird
Flew to the glistening roofs and sang.

But one pale woman all alone,
The daylight kissing her wan hair,
Loitered beneath the gas lamps' flare,
With lips of flame and heart of stone.

poem by Oscar Wilde
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A gold book, fastened together in the shape of a book by wires of the same metal, had been dug up in the northern part of the state of New York, and along with the book an enormous pair of gold spectacles!

quote by Charles Anthon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Somewhere Beyond

Somewhere beyond these sunset skies above
Is a place where all this suffering ends
Where there are no enemies, only friends
Each day garnered with warm feelings of love

Somewhere beyond the stars sparkling bright
A community of friends are waiting
Those gone before, now anticipating
The moment when you, too, can see the light

Somewhere beyond fading mortal coils
Are pearly gates and streets paved, bright, with gold
Where not one of us will ever grow old
And, finally, we can cease our toils

Somewhere beyond these sunset skies above
Are days garnered with warm feelings of love

((December 7th,2008))

poem by Danny Speicher
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The Best Book In The World

the best book
in the world
the only true book
is the world itself
the Book of Nature

the best book is the silence
the wordless-ness in
the clouds and the sky
and the rivers and the oceans
and the lands
and the grass that breaks through the concrete;
and in the deserts and the volcanoes
and the stars
and the moon
and the creatures of the earth
and in all fellow beings
and the vastness beyond
and the vastness within

the best book
the only true book
(every other book is distortion)
is the world itself
the Book of Nature:
read it

poem by Raj Arumugam
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Going Back To School

The boat ploughed on. Now Alcatraz was past
And all the grey waves flamed to red again
At the dead sun's last glimmer. Far and vast
The Sausalito lights burned suddenly
In little dots and clumps, as if a pen
Had scrawled vague lines of gold across the hills;
The sky was like a cup some rare wine fills,
And stars came as he watched
- and he was free
One splendid instant - back in the great room,
Curled in a chair with all of them beside
And the whole world a rush of happy voices,
With laughter beating in a clamorous tide. . . .
Saw once again the heat of harvest fume
Up to the empty sky in threads like glass,
And ran, and was a part of what rejoices
In thunderous nights of rain; lay in the grass
Sun-baked and tired, looking through a maze
Of tiny stems into a new green world;
Once more knew eves of perfume, days ablaze
With clear, dry heat on the brown, rolling fields;
Shuddered with fearful ecstasy in bed
Over a book of knights and bloody shields . . .
The ship slowed, jarred and stopped. There, straight ahead,
Were dock and fellows. Stumbling, he was whirled
Out and away to meet them - and his back
Slumped to the old half-cringe, his hands fell slack;
A big boy's arm went round him - and a twist
Sent shattering pain along his tortured wrist,
As a voice cried, a bloated voice and fat,
'Why it's Miss Nancy! Come along, you rat!'

poem by Stephen Vincent Benet
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Going Back to School

The boat ploughed on. Now Alcatraz was past
And all the grey waves flamed to red again
At the dead sun's last glimmer. Far and vast
The Sausalito lights burned suddenly
In little dots and clumps, as if a pen
Had scrawled vague lines of gold across the hills;
The sky was like a cup some rare wine fills,
And stars came as he watched
-- and he was free
One splendid instant -- back in the great room,
Curled in a chair with all of them beside
And the whole world a rush of happy voices,
With laughter beating in a clamorous tide. . . .
Saw once again the heat of harvest fume
Up to the empty sky in threads like glass,
And ran, and was a part of what rejoices
In thunderous nights of rain; lay in the grass
Sun-baked and tired, looking through a maze
Of tiny stems into a new green world;
Once more knew eves of perfume, days ablaze
With clear, dry heat on the brown, rolling fields;
Shuddered with fearful ecstasy in bed
Over a book of knights and bloody shields . . .
The ship slowed, jarred and stopped. There, straight ahead,
Were dock and fellows. Stumbling, he was whirled
Out and away to meet them -- and his back
Slumped to the old half-cringe, his hands fell slack;
A big boy's arm went round him -- and a twist
Sent shattering pain along his tortured wrist,
As a voice cried, a bloated voice and fat,
"Why it's Miss Nancy! Come along, you rat!"

poem by Stephen Vincent Benet
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Ballad of Another Ophelia

Oh the green glimmer of apples in the orchard,
Lamps in a wash of rain!
Oh the wet walk of my brown hen through the stackyard,
Oh tears on the window pane!

Nothing now will ripen the bright green apples,
Full of disappointment and of rain,
Brackish they will taste, of tears, when the yellow dapples
Of autumn tell the withered tale again.

All round the yard it is cluck, my brown hen,
Cluck, and the rain-wet wings,
Cluck, my marigold bird, and again
Cluck for your yellow darlings.

For the grey rat found the gold thirteen
Huddled away in the dark,
Flutter for a moment, oh the beast is quick and keen,
Extinct one yellow-fluffy spark.

Once I had a lover bright like running water,
Once his face was laughing like the sky;
Open like the sky looking down in all its laughter
On the buttercups, and the buttercups was I.

What, then, is there hidden in the skirts of all the blossom?
What is peeping from your wings, oh mother hen?
’Tis the sun who asks the question, in a lovely haste for wisdom;
What a lovely haste for wisdom is in men!

Yea, but it is cruel when undressed is all the blossom,
And her shift is lying white upon the floor,
That a grey one, like a shadow, like a rat, a thief, a rain-storm,
Creeps upon her then and gathers in his store.

Oh the grey garner that is full of half-grown apples,
Oh the golden sparkles laid extinct!
And oh, behind the cloud-sheaves, like yellow autumn dapples,
Did you see the wicked sun that winked!

poem by David Herbert Lawrence
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The Young Friar

When leaves broke out on the wild briar,
And bells for matins rung,
Sorrow came to the old friar
– Hundreds of years ago it was! –
And May came to the young.

The old was ripening for the sky,
The young was twenty-four.
The Franklin's daughter passed him by,
Reading a painted missal-book,
Beside the chapel door.

With brown cassock and sandalled feet,
And red Spring wine for blood;
The very next noon he chanced to meet
The Franklin's daughter, in a green May twilight,
Walking through the wood.

Pax vobiscum – to a maid
The crosiered ferns among!
But hers was only the Saxon,
And his the Norman tongue;
And the Latin taught by the old friar
Made music for the young.

And never a better deed was done
By Mother Church below
Than when she made old England one,
– Hundreds of years ago it was! –
Hundreds of years ago.

Rich was the painted page they read
Before that sunset died;
Nut-brown hood by golden head,
Murmuring Rosa Mystica,
While nesting thrushes cried.

A Saxon maid with flaxen hair,
And eyes of Sussex grey;
A young monk out of Normandy: –
'May is our Lady's month,' he said,
'And O, my love, my May!'

Then over the fallen missal-book
The missel-thrushes sung
Till – Domus Aurea – rose the moon
And bells for vespers rung.
It was gold and blue for the old friar,
But hawthorn for the young.

For gown of green and brown hood,
Before that curfew tolled,
Had flown for ever through the wood
– Hundreds of years ago it was! –
But twenty summers old.

And empty stood his chapel stall,
Empty his thin grey cell,
Empty her seat in the Franklin's hall;
And there were swords that searched for them
Before the matin bell.

And, crowders tell, a sword that night
Wrought them an evil turn,
And that the may was not more white
Than those white bones the robin found
Among the roots of fern.

But others tell of stranger things
Half-heard on Whitsun eves,
Of sweet and ghostly whisperings –
Though hundreds of years ago it was –
Among the ghostly leaves: –

Sero te amavi –
Grey eyes of sun-lit dew! –
Tam antiqua, tam nova –
Augustine heard it, too.
Late have I loved that May, Lady,
So ancient, and so new!

And no man knows where they were flown,
For the wind takes the may:
But white and fresh the may was blown
– Though hundreds of years ago it was –
As this that blooms to-day.

And the leaves break out on the wild briar,
And bells must still be rung;
But sorrow comes to the old friar,
For he remembers a May, a May,
When his old heart was young.

poem by Alfred Noyes
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Love Song To The Coming Morning

I'm like night in the sunset
Feeling red clouds in the sky
Wind in the trees full of breeze
Swirling up leaves so they fly

Meadows and hills shades in blue
Flowers in silver and gold
Darkness comes so untrue
Fairies in the moonlight hard to hold

Magical moments in twilight
Breaking off silences with a song
Leaving the day coming to night
Shadows are still though young

I'm like night in the sunset
Touching the moments that go
Into umbrage of absurdities
That lived in the day a while ago

Lilies and fields are in darkness
Moon is behind a blue cloud
Day shall wake up in dawn fresh
When dusky shadows are disallowed

poem by Peter S. Quinn
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Through The Veil for Dave Walker

there's a light
in the window
of the house

forgotten by time;
a book on the table,
unopened.

footprints on the floor
covered with dust.
a cup in the sink

half-empty.
the wind blows
curtains grey with time....

whispering, whispering....
names that cannot
be heard.

voices, echoes,
creaking the floor.
a book of photographs

on the closet floor.
walking through the mist,
the fog and the shadows,

touching small particles
of being left like gifts....
lives unwrapped into mine!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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Blue Sky?

Blue sky yesterday
Grey today
Did the blue sky
Go away?

What is blue
And sunny too?
The blue sky
Hiding behind the grey.

Grey today
But with blue sky
Waiting to come out
And play.

The sun is laughing
At my blueness
Blue sky with its greyness
Never meant for sadness.

Blue sky here today
But with a greyness
Covering all the blueness
This is what I want to say.

poem by David Taylor
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Red book - The Rule Is You Must Say How You Really Feel.

Reading the red book. It tries to explain the rules of life. Never too fast, never too fast, it says it won't last. Burnt by the past. Some new so close to you. You must get to know them. Its a game you can slowly win. Bury your true feelings.

Reading the read book. It tries to explain the rules of life. Never to fast, never too fast. It says it won't last burnt by the past. We are all wearing masks. Time to take them off. Stop hiding behind your walls. It cost us all. It will be your down fall. Just another phone call. Meeting the face behind this stall. It has come to a sudden halt.

Reading the read book. It tries to explain the rules of life. Never too fast, never too fast. It says it won't last. Burnt by the past. Are we trying to hard? Are we faking this march? Are you trying to hide something underneath? Are you look for a little relief? Do you want me, and are afraid to say it? Denying our insides. They can't be alive. They just can't. And go back to the old dance.

Reading the red book. It tries to explain the rules of life. Never too fast, never too fast. It says it won't last. Burnt by the past. Memories ignite, previous passions locked up so tight. Are you willing? Are you giving in to obvious feelings. Let me know. And I won't go. Please stop the fruadlent show. Its faking thats so heart breaking. Is your heart aching? How can I make you understand this is your one and only chance. So please lets dance.

Reading the red book. It tries to explain the rules of the past. Never too fast, never too fast. It says it won't last. Burnt by the past. I have been burnt by the past.

poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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Vision of Death

In a cold frost covered land
at the heights of creation
white sheets yellow gold
faded urine stains

a red marker an unfinished book of poems
a love letter signed forgiveness

ash spilt upon the carpet tar stains upon the lungs
death scratching his head under grey hood

at a post war park bench
playing chess with a graying old man
the old man scratching his beard

together locked in a stale mate

poem by Gregory Allen Uhan
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I read a book

I read a book
Not to enhance my looks

I read a book
Maybe to avoid being a crook

I read a book
Not just to learn how to cook

I read a book
To ascertain how to defend my rights
Not just to acquire knowledge
Reading a book I pledge,
Is one of the roads to the light

I read a book
To understand how a kings territory
Is defended with pieces such as the rook

I read a book
So there will be no questions asked
When I count correctly what you took

I read a book
So that I play not ignorant
Now on life I’ve a different outlook

I read a book
So if I come up with all the right answers
I will know for sure it is not merely a fluke

Copyright 2006 - Sylvia Chidi

poem by Sylvia Chidi
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Firelight and Nightfall

The darkness steals the forms of all the queens,
But oh, the palms of his two black hands are red,
Inflamed with binding up the sheaves of dead
Hours that were once all glory and all queens.

And I remember all the sunny hours
Of queens in hyacinth and skies of gold,
And morning singing where the woods are scrolled
And diapered above the chaunting flowers.

Here lamps are white like snowdrops in the grass;
The town is like a churchyard, all so still
And grey now night is here; nor will
Another torn red sunset come to pass.

poem by David Herbert Lawrence
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The great book for you is the book that has the most to say to you at the moment when you are reading. I do not mean the book that is most instructive, but the book that feeds your spirit. And that depends on your age, your experience, your psychological and spiritual need.

quote by Robertson Davies
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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With a Copy of Shakespeare's Sonnets on Leaving College

As one of some fat tillage dispossessed,
Weighing the yield of these four faded years,
If any ask what fruit seems loveliest,
What lasting gold among the garnered ears, --
Ah, then I'll say what hours I had of thine,
Therein I reaped Time's richest revenue,
Read in thy text the sense of David's line,
Through thee achieved the love that Shakespeare knew.
Take then his book, laden with mine own love
As flowers made sweeter by deep-drunken rain,
That when years sunder and between us move
Wide waters, and less kindly bonds constrain,
Thou may'st turn here, dear boy, and reading see
Some part of what thy friend once felt for thee.

poem by Alan Seeger
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