Spring is...
Pastel blue eggs in robin’s nest
Spring breeze blows softly from the west
Kneading ripples on languid lake
Teasing rain for greening fields to slake
Pregnant buds on Dogwood trees
Future forage for yet unborn bees
More days of warmth, less days of cold
More fields of green, less fields of gold
Frogs emerge from hibernation
Black eyes gaping wide in fascination
At dragonflies with iridescent wings
At fiery colours, incandescent things
Tadpoles, crawdads, Mayflies, midges
Spider eggs, baby bats, neath rusty rural bridges
Stunningly silent explosion of beauty,
Blossoms and fragrances, intoxicatingly fruity
Such an extraordinary, yet ordinary thing
Uncommonly common… season of Spring
poem by David Whalen
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Joy Of Spring
A Spring morning
A warm Breeze
doves cooing softly
Pollen dusted trees
A few brave violets
A red streaked dawn
A very early robin
Earthworms in the lawn
Spring peeper frogs
Smell of dogwood blossoms
Nature’s petroglyphs in muddy bogs
Footprints left by possums
Easter eggs and bonnets
Chocolate rabbits, Missing ears
Jelly beans and sonnets
Spilled easter baskets, children’s tears
Parades,
leafy bowers
Lemonades
Spring showers
Spring mornings
Warm breezes
Deep breaths
Allergic sneezes
Smell of Fresh blossoms
Sound of birds as they sing
Joy of life.. joy of being…
…Joy of Spring
poem by David Whalen
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Fields Of Gold
Youll remember me when the west wind moves
Upon the fields of barley
Youll forget the sun in his jealous sky
As we walk in the fields of gold
So she took her love
For to gaze awhile
Upon the fields of barley
In his arms she fell as her hair came down
Among the fields of gold
Will you stay with me, will you be my love
Among the fields of barley
Well forget the sun in his jealous sky
As we lie in the fields of gold
See the west wind move like a lover so
Upon the fields of barley
Feel her body rise when you kiss her mouth
Among the fields of gold
I never made promises lightly
And there have been some that Ive broken
But I swear in the days still left
Well walk in the fields of gold
Well walk in the fields of gold
Many years have passed since those summer days
Among the fields of barley
See the children run as the sun goes down
Among the fields of gold
Youll remember me when the west wind moves
Upon the fields of barley
You can tell the sun in his jealous sky
When we walked in the fields of gold
When we walked in the fields of gold
When we walked in the fields of gold
song performed by by Sting
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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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 Eggs Of The Blue Bird On The Nest
the blue bird
takes care of its nest
all the white eggs
warm beneath its feathers
all those nights
and even cold days
and then when the eggs hatch
the fledgelings
prematurely spread their wings
fall off from the branch
where the nest hangs
on the following morning
you see the ants feasting on their flesh
ah! the blue bird sings again
readies itself for the rain
it escapes away from its sorrows
and flies away...far, far away
far, far away....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Summer
Winter is cold-hearted
Spring is yea and nay,
Autumn is a weather-cock
Blown every way:
Summer days for me
When every leaf is on its tree;
When Robin's not a beggar,
And Jenny Wren's a bride,
And larks hang singing, singing, singing,
Over the wheat-fields wide,
And anchored lilies ride,
And the pendulum spider
Swings from side to side,
And blue-black beetles transact business,
And gnats fly in a host,
And furry caterpillars hasten
That no time be lost,
And moths grow fat and thrive,
And ladybirds arrive.
Before green apples blush,
Before green nuts embrown,
Why, one day in the country
Is worth a month in town;
Is worth a day and a year
Of the dusty, musty, lag-last fashion
That days drone elsewhere.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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Mother Nature
For seasons of life
Each one different
In its majestic wake
Spring
The beginnings of life
Were flowers come to breath?
On a field full of dreams
Butterfly's flutter
Their brilliance in flight
A cycle of life
That gives meaning to life
Summer
Its gentle breeze
Wave's the fields of corn
Its beauty of nature
Grows its colours of gold
The sun shines down
On children at play
As the days drift by
Colours spring to life
Autumn
Golden rays of sunshine
Moves across the fields
Capturing the colours
Of summers falling leaves
Mystical dew drops
Cling to the leaves
As showers and thunder
Cascade upon dead leaves
Winter
Its barren life no more
But buried underground
Beats a life Mother Nature hordes
Then just when you think
There is no life no more
The cycle of life
Begins again once more
Were Mother Nature welcomes
Springtime once more
poem by Kaila George
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It Is Spring Now In The Northlands
It is Spring now in the Northlands the Northlands far away
And the hawthorns are heavily laden in their white blooms of the May
And the hooded crow is cawing in his cloak of black and gray
And the white breasted dipper singing in the river all the day.
It is Spring now in the Northlands and cock robin all day long
On the trees around his borders sings his territorial song
And the stream from the foothills by the hedgerows babbling down
On it's journey to the river through the old fields by the town.
It is Spring now in the Northlands a delightful time of year
And the voice of the migrant cuckoo is a pleasant thing to hear
When one has the whims of fancy 'tis not hard to visualize
The songs of Nature's feathered minstrels at daybreak before sunrise.
It is Spring now in the Northlands and the fields are looking green
Where the wildering flowers of Nature in abundance can be seen
And primroses, snowdrops and bluebells bloom on ditch of the bohreen
When one talks of Nature's Seasons Spring is surely beauty queen.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Redbud Peeks
Redbud peeks
Beyond the showy white dogwood.
The wet Spring breeze blows soft,
As the thick smoke clouds race low across
The unseen sky.
Rust pink maple seeds
And Spring green leaves,
Shudder among the dark green pines.
The whistling wind and waving tawny grass
Bid the last Winter cold, 'Be gone! '
Let the warmth of Spring day sun arrive. 'Goodbye! '
(4.13.9 Waterfall)
poem by Heather Z. Hanna
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Spring's First Day
The sun shines in the sky of blue and gray
It is a cool and rather breezy day
The magpie lark in the Townpark does sing
Pee wee pee wee on the first day of Spring.
The Goddess of Spring she flew in overnight
And no one see her in her silent flight
She is in the South for her annual three months stay
The warmer weather soon will come our way.
In her stick nest on the blackwood the magpie her eggs incubate
Her territory is guarded by her mate
He warns the other magpies in his flute like song
That this patch of ground to her and him belong.
Were I a poet to read or to recite
A song of welcome to the Spring I'd write
To the Goddess of Spring who spreads around her green
No greater beauty than her's I have seen.
The day is windy, sunny, bright and clear
And Spring is in the Southern Hemisphere
And the wattle trees laden in their blooms of gold
Stirring in the breezes lovely to behold.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Tis Spring
'Tis Spring in the northern woodlands the chaffinch sings at dawn of day
And the hawthorns are heavily laden in their beautiful white flowers of May
And the scenery it is breath-taking when viewed from the higher ground
The green fields and the lush green valleys for acres and for miles around,
In fancy I can hear the old stream it's liquid voice is never still
It babbles along by the hedgerows from it's home at the foot of the hill
'Tis Spring in the northern Countries and in the green fields far away
The birds sing in groves and in woodlands for to greet the dawning of the day,
The fields wear their beautiful wildflowers the hedgerows are leafy and green
And Nature wears her brightest colours her beauty for all to be seen,
The lark carols above the valley and higher and higher he fly
His pleasant notes cannot be mistaken he seems a small speck in the sky
The robin with the sun on his orange breast is singing on the silver birch tree
And miles of beautiful views from the higher ground as far as the eyes can see.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Gather Violets O Narcissus
Rain has come, and fields and fruit trees sing,
Spring has come, and Love, the Lord of Spring,
Dandelions have lifted up their faces,
Cold has gone and every wintry thing!
Forget-me-not the forest graces,
Iris and the lily spring will bring.
Gather violets, O Narcissus,
Winter's ashes from our door I fling!
The water bird the lake embraces,
How can frost upon your petals cling?
[Translated by Nilla Cram Cook]
poem by Habba Khatoon
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The Tendril’s Faith
Under the snow in the dark and the cold,
A pale little sprout was humming;
Sweetly it sang, ‘neath the frozen mold,
Of the beautiful days that were coming.
“How foolish your songs, ” said a lump of clay,
“What is there, I ask, to prove them?
Just look at the walls between you and the day,
Now, have you the strength to move them? ”
But under the ice and under the snow
The pale little sprout kept singing,
“I cannot tell how, but I know, I know,
I know what the days are bringing.”
“Birds, and blossoms, and buzzing bees,
Blue, blue skies above me,
Bloom on the meadows and buds on the trees,
And the great glad sun to love me.”
A pebble spoke next: “You are quite absurd.”
It said, “with your song’s insistence;
For I never saw a tree or a bird,
So of course there are none in existence.”
“But I know, I know, ” the tendril cried,
In beautiful sweet unreason;
Till lo! from its prison, glorified,
It burst in the glad spring season.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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The Hen and the Wren
The lovely, laying hen said to the itsy-bitsy wren.
'Good morning. It's nice to see you now and then.'
The itsy-bitsy wren said, 'Thank you Mrs. Hen.
I haven't seen you for awhile and don't remember when.'
The laying hen said to the itsy-bitsy wren, 'If you recall,
The last time we were together was a bit before last fall.'
The wren smiled and said, 'Oh yes I should have guessed.
It's spring again so I'm back to build another nest.'
The hen said, 'Soon we both will be sitting on our eggs.
Not long after that there'll be babies ‘neath our legs.'
The itsy-bitsy wren said, 'I wish my eggs weren't so small.
Your eggs are so large that your babies will be tall.'
Well the lovely laying hen said, 'Your eggs are just right.
And that song you sing brings everyone delight.'
From spring to fall wherever hens and wrens reside,
There'll be nests, eggs and babies chirping far and wide.
poem by Gregory Huyette
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Bones Marrow
an ode to karma ~
these lessons must be learned,
and taught hard.
as fragile you are
and carrying as a birds bone;
a hallow wish; it is yours to own.
it carries all where their instincts lead,
to the fields shared, our, vast
fields of green.
separate might be the wishes of others days,
yet in the same fields, we all settle to graze.
with such haste,
we eat spitefully,
but when strength is its strongest,
all together
we are natures praise.
our wings aloft will help each other raise,
with the warming winds, into the warmer days.
poem by Andrew Sean H
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Young Zed Next Door
Patrick and Fleur have a baby daughter Arabella a little sister for young Zed next door
And he's so happy with his new born sibling and he himself still so young only four
And when you ask him how's his baby sister with a happy smile he answers she is good
These are the happiest days he will remember the foundation to a good life a happy childhood.
A fair haired boy with a cheerful disposition in years from now doubtless he will recall
His happy days in Watt street in Wonthaggi for good childhood memories are the best of all
His life journey may take him from Wonthaggi and he yet may live in a Land far away
But the miracle of the birth of Arabella through his life span with him destined to stay.
Young Zed next door is learning about Nature how birds and bees take nectar from the flowers
The honeyeaters sing in the back garden and magpie blows his flute in Spring's green hours
In Nature's garden natural growth is vibrant and blossoms bloom after the brief Spring showers
And childhood like Spring is such a time of beauty children's lives so spiritual when compared to ours.
I envy Zed his joy and innocence of childhood his young and happy soul full of sunshine
Long years ago and in a different country such joy and happiness was also mine
In Spring the World around me full of beauty and the lark was carolling in the clear blue sky
And wild brown bees out busy gathering nectar buzzing above the fields of Lisnaboy.
Young Zed next door is full of life and vigour he's such a cheerful and a happy boy
And the miracle of the birth of his young sister Arabella is
a thing he will look back on and enjoy
And in years from now these times he will remember though from Wonthaggi he may live far away
For happy childhood memories are the best of memories and through our life span with us tend to stay.
poem by Francis Duggan
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I fancy I Can See You Old Duhallow
I fancy I can see you old Duhallow
The swallows o'er your fields wing to and fro
And cows from wintering houses out on pasture
And birds are whistling on the green hedgerow.
I lay upon the bracken slopes of Clara
I see the Kerry hills beyond Rathmore
A skylark sing above the silent mountain
His song bring back to me the joys of yore.
You wear your green cloak of the Spring Duhallow
And your beauty from the mountain side I see
From Millstreet to Kanturk on towards Newmarket
Kiskeam to Cullen and up to Knocknagree.
I often think about you green Duhallow
You were the first great love I ever knew
But many others loved you better than I
And they feel quite content to live with you.
I fancy I can see you old Duhallow
In your green groves the wild birds nest and sing
And swallows fly above your fields and meadows
And cuckoo pipes his fanfare of the Spring.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Pessimism
I
WHILE baby Spring sticks daisies in her hair,
Or Summer laughs with flushed triumphant face
We crush our heart rebellious at earth's grace,
And smile 'How, like the season, life is fair!'
But when the last leaf falls in the dull air,
And skies grow pale, and fields lie lost a space,
Ere their first furrow ploughs begin to trace,
And pastures shiver desolate and bare--
Oh, then one breathes; at last free from the sway
Of selfish spring--from summer's insolent reign,
One dares to speak the truth--how all life's way
Is blank as autumn skies made grey with rain,
Most blank when most the glad year bade forbear
To mar her grace with our unveiled despair.
II
NOT Spring--too lavish of her bud and leaf--
But Autumn, with sad eyes and brow austere,
When fields are bare, and woods are brown and sere,
And leaden skies weep their exhaustless grief.
Spring is so much too bright, since Spring is brief.
And in our hearts is autumn all the year,
Least sad when the wide pastures are most drear,
And fields grieve most robbed of the last gold sheaf.
For when the plough goes down the brown wet field,
A delicate doubtful throb of hope is ours--
What if this coming Spring at last should yield
Joy, with her too profuse unasked-for flowers?
Not all our Springs of commonplace and pain
Have taught us now that autumn hope is vain.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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West Of The Fields
Long gone, intuition to assume are gone when we try.
Dream of a living jungle in my way back home when we die.
West of the fields.
West of the fields. west of the fields.
West of the fields.
Long gone. long gone.
Long gone. long gone.
West of the fields.
Dreams of elysian, to assume are gone when we try
Tell now what is dreaming
When we try to listen with your eyes oversimplify
The animals, how strange.
Try, try to stick it in.
The animals, how strange.
Try, try to stick it in.
Dreams of elysian, to assume are gone when we try
Tell now what is dreaming when we try.
Listen through your eyes when we die.
West of the fields.
West of the fields.
West of the fields.
West of the fields.
Long gone.
Long gone.
Long gone.
Long gone.
West of the fields.
song performed by by REM
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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