En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Settling

I was welcomed here—clear gold
of late summer, of opening autumn,
the dawn eagle sunning himself on the highest tree,
the mountain revealing herself unclouded, her snow
tinted apricot as she looked west,
Tolerant, in her steadfastness, of the restless sun
forever rising and setting.
Now I am given
a taste of the grey foretold by all and sundry,
a grey both heavy and chill. I've boasted I would not care,
I'm London-born. And I won't. I'll dig in,
into my days, having come here to live, not to visit.
Grey is the price
of neighboring with eagles, of knowing
a mountain's vast presence, seen or unseen.

poem by Denise Levertov
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Grey World

Grey nights in the wind,
And the grey-faced dead.
Grey hairs in my head,
And grey eyes in my mind.

Grey mists in the morn,
And grey waves that rave,
Grey mould on my grave,
And grey eyes forlorn.

Grey clouds in the sky,
And the grey world asleep,
Grey ghosts that sigh,
And grey eyes that weep.

poem by Leon Gellert
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Desolate Field

Vast and grey, the sky
is a simulacrum
to all but him whose days
are vast and grey and --
In the tall, dried grasses
a goat stirs
with nozzle searching the ground.
My head is in the air
but who am I . . . ?
-- and my heart stops amazed
at the thought of love
vast and grey
yearning silently over me.

poem by William Carlos Williams
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Grey Sweater

did I mention how I love grey woolen sweaters
but not on me
I always picture them on you
in the autumn, streets wet from rain
yet sunny
you smile dazzlingly, opening your arms
and pulling me near
in the cool fall air
always, I imagine us in London
where it is always raining
but at that moment, it is shining
because you are there
hugging me close, to your grey sweatered chest

poem by Elizabeth Shield
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Grey, Grey Sky

Someday I will ride the great bird
Into the sky, into the grey
And will take a bright secret of mine
Into the grey, grey sky.

And the light will come, piercing my eyes
Out of the sky, out of the grey
Come blinding and searing these eyes
Out of the grey, grey sky.

And I will find comfort in this
In the wide sky, in the wide grey
In the painful dark brightness of light
Light of the grey, grey sky.

My secret will fly away home
Into the sky, into the grey
And the great bird will follow it there
Into the grey, grey sky.

And I will be riding that bird
Bird of the sky, bird of the grey
And I will come home once again
Home to the grey, grey sky.

But for now I am weighted, earthbound
One of the mud, one of the ground
And I write this sad song to sad sound
Girl of the pavement sighs.

poem by Grace Hutton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Ten Grey hairs and a silver one

I discovered my first grey hair
when I was Seventeen years old
It had to do with broken up my first relationship

I discovered my second grey hair
when I was Twenty years old
It had to do with the quarrels at home

I discovered my third grey hair
when I was Twenty-one years old
It had to do with searching for work

I discovered my fourth grey hair
when I was Twenty-three years old
It had to do with loosing my job

I discovered my fifth grey hair
when I was Twenty-five years old
It had to do with giving up my unborn child

I discovered my sixth grey hair
When I was Twenty-eight years old
It had to do with opening my pub

I discovered my seventh grey hair
When I was thirty years old
It had to do with giving birth to my daughter

I discovered my eight grey hair
When I was thirty –two years old
It had to do with the first day at the kinder garden school

I discovered my ninth grey hair
When I was thirty-four years old
It had to do with to find out that some thing was missing

I discovered my tenth grey hair
When I was thirty-five years old
It had to do with the fights between my sisters and mum

My one Silver hair I discovered lately
Has to do with you
Because I miss you so hard …

poem by Pascale Ost
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Grey Mountain River.

Grey Mountain River
Chasing high Alps of verdant pasture
Left flower bright by migrating snows
That tarried for a wile in the hallow shadows
Of sharp stone scars that perch falcon
Before flurrying to rejoin the ever wondering winter

Grey Mountain River
Rejoicing over the ruminations of reticent boulders
Who grumble as they split the race
For white crest waves that fold apart
As underneath lesser stones give way with ill grace
And wild banks look on with slow curiosity

Grey Mountain River
Leaping young from stern walls and glowering faces
Before falling in light carved mists
Overlooked by those that weal above the high places
All to escape the machinations of ancient ice
Their thoughts old and grim as they ponder their mountain

poem by William Reed O'Connor
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Colours of Autumn

Coppery red leaves,
Falling from trees,
That soon will be bare.

The colours of Autumn.

Piles of reddish brown,
Lying scattered on the ground.
And a chill in the air.

The colours of Autumn.

The sky is grey,
Shorter days,
And darker nights.

The colours of Autumn.

Evenings bathed in gold,
Thunderclouds so bold,
And weaker sun, not as bright.

The colours of Autumn.

poem by Amy Darnbrook
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Sunrise, Sunset

O Sun, When you rise,
It’s morning dawn.
When you set,
It’s evening dusk.

O Sun, Seeing your beauty lighting
Shining on landscape from dawn
Shining on seascape from dusk
It comes from dawn to dusk.

O Sun, rise from East
O Sun, set to West
From East to West,
Celestial light comes and go,
Seasons come and go.

Here come four seasons
North to South, East to West
From Spring comes Autumn,
From Summer comes Winter.

O Sun, From rising East
To setting West
O Moon, Come rising East
To setting West

Cycle never end,
It’s endless cycle,
Seeing sunset every dusk,
Seeing sunrise every dawn.

Making us pondering..
Make us wondering
Where, When will be next..
Sunrise, sunset..

poem by Lawrence Hiung
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

November

With every cloud that wanders late,
And grey grace of hazy weather,
Remember the fierce November,
And all the freeze in chill that waits.

From dawn to dusk through time of day,
The howling wind and how they blew,
To steal from days, their golden hue,
And mock the lights that frets away.

A new yuletide in frenzy haze,
In frigid fog and dusty gleam,
To send Christmas a merry beam,
And patch with chill our sundered maze.

The coast, the fields of broken freeze,
The brand of grey and sunlight lack,
And sweetened whiz of windy spark,
We pray November will ne'er cease.

poem by Mbanaso Samuel
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Almost Alone On Planet London

-where the windows on the train cry
just as i
did they witness the same?
abandoned cranes and merciless rain?
my eyes won't dry that easy
you need to hold me
please
i'm nothing but a baby
grey, grey, grey
it's not even cold
and i like the rain
no weeping this time
it's darker then my soul
almost alone on planet london
almost alone

poem by Dali Luptak
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Signs Of Fall

It was a ceremony of Sparrows
Their Psalms sung on bare branches
Of Fall
Breaking, 'tis the dawn, through my frosty window
Opening to their crisp
Musical Call

The orange and gold, fallen leaves
Blow their way towards God
And The Aristocrat
Of the Robin-Red-Breast
Leaves his remanents
Upon, The New Fall Sod

The Pumpkins, they are ever ripening...
The Gourds and maze, adorn
Waving it's goodbye in the breeze
The End of Summer
With open arms, welcomed in
Autumns New Morn

The once, moist, glistening of dew
Counted on, during late summer days
Has become crystal-like
To Frosty
With each day, That Autumn Makes her way

The Equinox has now, come and gone
...When hours of light and dark equate
Making it ever
SO Official
That Autumn 'Tis Never Late

poem by Theodora Onken
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Grey Wolves Grey

The Russian march is soft and slow,
Through dust and heat, or slush and snow,
When the Russian skies hang grey and low
To the frontiers far where the Russians go;
And they march to-night and they march to-day
Like the grey wolves grey, like the grey wolves grey.
Nor song nor sound their track reveals,
Save the ceaseless “clock” of the waggon wheels;
But a rift in the mist shows a glint of sun
On the long, dark shape of a toiling gun;
And they strain by night and they drag by day
To a distant goal, like the grey wolves grey.

As the horses toil at the ends of trains,
And the ends of roads on the Blacksoil Plains.
And Ivan digs in the frozen clay,
And he rolls the logs a bed to lay
For a gun that’s five hundred miles away,
But as sure to come as the grey wolves grey.

He is marching on with a purpose grand,
For brother Slav in another land;
Whose tongue, perchance, he cannot understand.—
But he knows the cry from the far-away,
And he smells the blood like the grey wolves grey.

And Ivan’s wife in her den at home,
While hunger looms and his lean wolves come—
With her grey-black bread like the Darling mud,
And her tea-bricks bound with the bullock’s blood—
She shields her cubs by night and day
Like the crouching sluts of the grey wolves grey.

And I march with Ivan where’er he be,
With the foreign blood that is strong in me,
And the love and the hate that is fantasy,
Like the ghosts of a father’s memory.
With the blood that is strange to us to-day
As the strange wild blood of the grey wolves grey.
Grey wolves,
Grey wolves—
The strange wild blood of the grey wolves grey.

poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Glamorous, Sophisticated

What a mess - what a terrible mess - trial and
error is awful, I should have guessed; grey - I
HATE grey, unless tinted blue, black and grey
in bed linen are insupportable - to combat the
effect I constructed a bulwarks of pink-purple
covered notebooks on my side of the bed

I shall hide the black and grey pillowcase tonight,
already covered my favourite pillow with something
else, grey sucks colour out of everything - I wear
black to disappear but my bed should be HERE;
this is awful, one of my biggest mistakes - still,
we were constrained, nothing else in the shop

I hate shopping in any case, my new T-shirt too large,
the glamorous, sophisticated black and grey without
symbolical meaning, I fight it with the pink and green
of my paper doll - how did I ever acquiesce to some-
thing as bleak and menacing as this - oh yes, there
was nothing else, I should hang myself!

poem by Margaret Alice Second
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Grey Ocean

While walking on her beach
I met an Ocean
This event will stay with me forever
This is why

While looking very closely at the Ocean,
I noticed that it was Grey
This startled me
I had thought that all Oceans were blue
Not Grey

I looked at the Ocean and said
'Why on earth are you Grey? '

It let out a cry which stated
'Well, because I'm made of stones! '

I asked it why it was stone
It then told me long tale
About how children use to throw rocks at the Ocean
It said that the rocks slowly filled up the Ocean
This anger me greatly

So now
Everytime I see a child throwing rocks at oceans
I tell them the story of the Grey Ocean

They never believe me.

poem by David Corman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

A Commonplace Day (after Thomas Hardy's poem of that name)

All day from dawn to dusk, the drizzling rain;
everything today is painted grey;
and as for me - I shut my heart, alas;
and took that paint and washed my mind with grey…

Outside the window, just a pane away:
the eager soil, the leaves of plant and tree
bathe and sing and grow and shine with praise;
yet why do I not hear that song, in me?

more feeble I than plant or soil or tree;
I cannot even sing their humble praise;
why build a house against the water’s grace,
and leave my wizened heart dry, graceless, mean?

Better today would it have useful been
to be a raincloud; humble; generous;
free of grey thought that idly renders me
less than the least of servants of my God;

so make me grey as generous raincloud; clod
of saturated, grateful earth; write, rain;
shout, whisper, words of flowing gratitude;
on greying days, paint grey as purest joy;
and be again, that drenched and laughing boy..

poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Come September

Come September,
when two of nature's seasons live as one,
where days of summer shed their final afterglow
'ere falling gently 'neath an autumn's rising sun,
and every hanging bough and turning leaf will know ~

the green meets gold,
within the murmurings and turnings of trees
that flutter their branches in a restless dance
of impending change. Their limbs akimbo, as arms,
waving goodbye...watching autumn advance,

yet, summer pleads,
to share the days of changeling September
and clings to every breath of autumn's eve ~
spreading warmth and sultry breeze with waning movement
while knowing time grows short, and it must leave,

as beauty stays,
though, not for long, for gold becomes gold
after summer's sung her final song,
and lustrous are the days and nights made bold
with autumn's breath blowing chilly and cold ~

O'grieve September,
though, not for long, as gold turns into winter white,
then into green with 'springing' guile,
and summer's sight brings back September,
to share a season's remembered smile.

poem by Hazelmarie Elliott
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Sestina: Here in Katmandu

We have climbed the mountain.
There's nothing more to do.
It is terrible to come down
To the valley
Where, amidst many flowers,
One thinks of snow,

As formerly, amidst snow,
Climbing the mountain,
One thought of flowers,
Tremulous, ruddy with dew,
In the valley.
One caught their scent coming down.

It is difficult to adjust, once down,
To the absense of snow.
Clear days, from the valley,
One looks up at the mountain.
What else is there to do?
Prayer wheels, flowers!

Let the flowers
Fade, the prayer wheels run down.
What have they to do
With us who have stood atop the snow
Atop the mountain,
Flags seen from the valley?

It might be possible to live in the valley,
To bury oneself among flowers,
If one could forget the mountain,
How, never once looking down,
Stiff, blinded with snow,
One knew what to do.

Meanwhile it is not easy here in Katmandu,
Especially when to the valley
That wind which means snow
Elsewhere, but here means flowers,
Comes down,
As soon it must, from the mountain.

poem by Donald Justice
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Ave, Caesar!

From the winter's grey despair,
From the summer's golden languor,
Death, the lover of Life,
Frees us for ever.

Inevitable, silent, unseen,
Everywhere always,
Shadow by night and as light in the day,
Signs she at last to her chosen;
And, as she waves them forth,
Sorrow and Joy
Lay by their looks and their voices,
Set down their hopes, and are made
One in the dim Forever.

Into the winter's grey delight,
Into the summer's golden dream,
Holy and high and impartial,
Death, the mother of Life,
Mingles all men for ever.

poem by William Ernest Henley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

On Hearing A Grey Shrike Thrush Singing In The Rain

The grey thrush sing on branch of mountain gray
At twilight of a most Unspring like day
On October evening made damp by drizzling rain
And grey bird sing his same song o'er again.

And freshening wind has breath of winter sting
Seems more like Winter now than middle Spring
And wind driven rain fall from the darkening sky
And still the grey thrush pipes his notes of joy.

I wonder why he sing so merrily
On low down branch of noble gray gum tree
Could it be that he can tell from inner eye
That tomorrow's weather will be warm and dry?

Or could he sing that in some nearby tree
His wife on nest shelter new family?
And he tell his neighbours this my territory
And I'm now a dad 'oh lucky happy me'.

And why he sing should it matter anyway
His song at close of wet October day?
The weather dreary for the time of year
But grey thrush's notes sweet music to my ears.

poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Helderberg Mountain

Outside the first rays fall
on one of the pinnacles
of Helderberg
and I look at the peaks
that disappears gigantic into the height.

In winter
there’s snow on the mountain
and at times
it looks grey and dark
of coldness
through the winter rain.

Today there’s something majestic
the picture
that the mountain
make with the long hot summer day.

There’s the smell of turpentine
while I walk through the rows of trees
and from the top
the Strand and Gordonsbay
lies picture perfect
with the sapphire blue sea
as a backdrop.

poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!