On A Painting By Patient B Of The Independence State Hospital For The Insane
1
These seven houses have learned to face one another,
But not at the expected angles. Those silly brown lumps,
That are probably meant for hills and not other houses,
After ages of being themselves, though naturally slow,
Are learning to be exclusive without offending.
The arches and entrances (down to the right out of sight)
Have mastered the lesson of remaining closed.
And even the skies keep a certain understandable distance,
For these are the houses of the very rich.
2
One sees their children playing with leopards, tamed
At great cost, or perhaps it is only other children,
For none of these objects is anything more than a spot,
And perhaps there are not any children but only leopards
Playing with leopards, and perhaps there are only the spots.
And the little maids that hang from the windows like tongues,
Calling the children in, admiring the leopards,
Are the dashes a child might represent motion by means of,
Or dazzlement possibly, the brilliance of solid-gold houses.
3
The clouds resemble those empty balloons in cartoons
Which approximate silence. These clouds, if clouds they are
(And not the smoke from the seven aspiring chimneys),
The more one studies them the more it appears
They too have expressions. One might almost say
They have their habits, their wrong opinions, that their
Impassivity masks an essentially lovable foolishness,
And they will be given names by those who live under them
Not public like mountains’ but private like companions’.
poem by Donald Justice
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Leopards at Knole
Leopards on the gable-ends,
Leopards on the painted stair,
Stiff the blazoned shield they bear,
Or and gules, a bend of vair,
Leopards on the gable-ends,
Leopards everywhere.
Guard and vigil in the night
While the ancient house is sleeping
They three hundred years are keeping,
Nightly from their stations leaping,
Shadows black in moonlight bright,
Roof to gable creeping.
Rigid when the day returns,
Up aloft in sun or rain
Leopards at their posts again
Watch the shifting pageant's train;
And their jewelled colour burns
In the window-pane.
Often on the painted stair,
As I passed abstractedly,
Velvet footsteps, two and three,
Padded gravely after me.
- There was nothing, nothing there,
Nothing there to see.
poem by Victoria Sackville-West
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Empty Old Houses
Empty Old Houses
Empty old houses can talk…
But one must know how to listen…
to hear them
Empty old houses have stories…
But one must be eager to listen…
to hear them
Empty old houses can suffer..
But one must have empathy …
To feel it
Empty old houses can feel pain
But one must be able to bear it …
To feel it
Empty old houses have memories
But one must believe … that they have…
To share them
Empty old houses contain people’s lives
But one must believe…that they do…
To share them
Empty old houses can seem dead and deserted
But one must know that they’re not..
To know them
Empty old houses can teem with life’s pleasures
But one must walk through
to sense the aura of life
Empty old houses abound in life’s treasures
But one cannot help but…
To admire them
poem by David Whalen
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Rainforest Phantoms
The leopards listen to each noise
Of their surrounding sounds...
On steadfast feet they gently poise,
Resisting fearful bounds.
Perhaps it isn't time to run,
Like cowards fearing pain,
Or just like girls who love the sun,
Yet flee from falling rain...
The leopards like the spot they've seen,
It suits them to a tee...
They'll stay till others intervene,
Like phantoms on their tree...
The forest has its moody times,
Its fierce and frantic days,
Its pleasant passing sunny climes
And melting dew-dropped phase...
The sun shines through the trees above,
The clouds go gliding by...
And soon the moon will shine with love,
To grace the midnight sky...
The leopards lack for nothing now,
True friends in harmony...
Receiving what the Fates allow,
Like phantoms, fancy free...
The poem is based on the magnificent painting
by Stephen Gayford called 'Rainforest Phantoms'.
Consider the UK Sky Digital Rainforest Rescue
charity appeal found on the UK sky-dot-com as
this explains how losing the rain forests destroys
the lives of those humans, animals and plants
in the name of progress for some, but not for all.
poem by Denis Martindale
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Mountain Splendour
Snow leopards look at snow all day!
It's here, there, everywhere!
It hardly ever goes away!
It's white beyond compare!
It's dazzling white, it's total white,
It really, really is!
It's safe to say that it's too bright!
It's not something they'd miss...
Snow leopards sit the whole day long
On snow, snow, snow, snow, snow...
It's sometimes nice, don't get me wrong,
But doesn't that stuff glow! ?
It's freezing cold, no good at all...
And bores them all to tears...
They hate it when new snowflakes fall
And tickle both their ears!
Snow leopards wait for food to eat...
They wait, wait, wait, wait, wait...
They take things slow, they tap their feet...
And think life's just great!
They can't hum tunes like humans do...
Remembering each rhyme...
They just sit down, enjoy the view...
And... while... away... the... time...
Denis Martindale, copyright, November 2010.
The poem is based on the magnificent painting
by Stephen Gayford called 'Mountain Splendour II'.
More Stephen Gayford poems here:
denis-martindale-dot-blogspot-dot-com
poem by Denis Martindale
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City Of Worcester
Worcester, the city of noise,
Walking along these city streets,
Seeing people busy,
pacing,
Cracked city walks,
Aged city houses,
Beautiful city air, '
Never seems to be a minute to spare,
As cars stream along,
Cops and fire trucks pass down my street.
Loud children playing in the streets.
As I walk down the street of mine,
I hear parents yelling at their children.
Dogs barking as you walk by,
Houses that are old and crusty,
Men and women fighting.
This right here is the city I was born in.
The City Of Worcester!
poem by Cassandra Prew
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Notes On Sendai
she was once at Sendai
posing by the port with some close friends
the picture shows a very calm blue sea
there were other tourists
faraway on can see seagulls flying
white yachts, green mountains
white shorelines, well kept stores
some children playing
as mothers keep watch closely
we all know what happened to Sendai
the tsunami ate all the houses and the children and the tourists
and temples and farms
there are no more yachts
the birds are few
and the people have left.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Mountain Myth
Snow leopards once were thought as myths, ghostly apparitions,
Upon the mountains and on cliffs, mostly superstitions.
Then photographs so quickly proved what first was hard to see -
The way they laid, the way they moved, no more a mystery.
Yet when I look, there's still a part that takes my breath away,
A majesty that strikes my heart, no matter, come what may.
For beauty still affects my soul, my spirit and my mind,
Such that it swiftly takes control, as if a spell to bind.
Cat lovers know their soft embrace, that purring noise they make.
No other creature takes their place, of that, there's no mistake.
Imagine, then, if leopards, too, befriended Man as well,
With purring noise said, 'I love you! ' What tales we each could tell.
When Adam walked upon the Earth, with Eve right by his side,
The animals all knew their worth, each owned a sense of pride,
Each walked in peace, it all made sense, till sin and then the Fall.
Alas, we all know violence... its bitter taste is gall.
Snow leopards raise their families and do the best they can.
All creatures long to live in peace, yet none strives more than Man.
More Stephen Gayford poems here:
denis-martindale-dot-blogspot-dot-com
poem by Denis Martindale
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Sweet Ground of My Childhood Memoir
Sweet Ground of my childhood memoir
I dwelled for so many years
And as mum carried me to her breast
Her hum made the afternoon asleep
I witness a town of children
As they run along the streets
And hide in bushes and houses
And during merry times and Christmas Eve
They serenade the houses of the rich and poor
Oh little children of that day
Had walked the long long road
We played with time to and fro the beauty of our town
The frogs in the lilies as they kokak
We come and pick their pinkish cloudy eggs
Poor papa frog
We are a monster in your house!
Excuse as even once
We leaved the field with many little marks
As we rush in time before the sunset die
At times when Rain will come
We are the children of papa frog!
That longed to play outside.
Mama whips us for our little Joy
Because we never understand
Never will I forget
The Good old days
When the hum of that day is a sweet yesterday!
poem by Agnes Quirante
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Happy Winter
The clouds sift the flour over the plain,
children play with it,
they knead some snowmen.
People look wonderfully at these snowmen
that are so cold and live for only three months.
Children are very happy with them
for only three months.
When the wind is blowing
and it is very cold,
only the snowmen are playing with each other,
talking to each other, thinking about children
and waiting for children.
Nobody knows that
the snowmen are looking for
our happiness
and they need hearts
as them to understand
how short it is happiness.
Children know that happiness
has been for only three months
while snowmen stayed with them.
poem by Valentin Gabriel Cristea
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Father Xmas Song
Father xmas
Will be working all night today
So that he can deliver all the christmas presents on time
To the children and their families
Father xmas
Is living his workshop now
In his reinder to deliver the Christmas presents
To all the houses here at home
Father christmas
Won't have any time to sleep at all
Because all the christmas gifts have to be delivered by christmas
And he has to follow the clause in his contract or otherwise he will get fired
And he could even make the children upset
Because there will be no presents to open at christmas
Father xmas
Goes down through the chimney
And then he comes out in the living room of the houses
Inside of the living room of the houses at christmas time
Father xmas will find the christmas tree decorated and lighted up
Father xmas
Eat his shortbread cookies and drink his glass of milk
poem by Aldo Kraas
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Father Xmas
Father xmas
Will be working all night today
So that he can deliver all the christmas presents on time
To the children and their families
Father xmas
Is living his workshop now
In his reinder to deliver the Christmas presents
To all the houses here at home
Father christmas
Won't have any time to sleep at all
Because all the christmas gifts have to be delivered by christmas
And he has to follow the clause in his contract or otherwise he will get fired
And he could even make the children upset
Because there will be no presents to open at christmas
Father xmas
Goes down through the chimney
And then he comes out in the living room of the houses
Inside of the living room of the houses at christmas time
Father xmas will find the christmas tree decorated and lighted up
Father xmas
Eat his shortbread cookies and drink his glass of milk
poem by Aldo Kraas
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Children?
Children are the easily led,
Their learning is profound,
Their lift is happy and proud,
Why do parents forgive them?
We produce the fellow children
To lift and uplift each of us
When there happens a life.
Children need growth to boast,
To live and outlive, to death is their journey
After a life of straightforward happiness and bliss.
Felt good? Why children? Because, say Children,
We live among others who are like the mothers
In the land we call Children.
Child after child shall learn of the existing ones
That need admirals and generals of late.
The defence of a child is the greatest concern,
And I laugh at one who destroys life,
Ever in turmoil is a child because of this act.
Children will be enough to be today.
Children can upset no one who is old and ancient,
Selfless students are children.
However much you push and pull at the threads that children weave
And sort, and spread, and sew,
The adult will sew better and more often than a child.
That is the secret, children.
poem by Naveed Akram
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The Cities Of White Men
Those men build many houses:
They dig the earth, and they build;
They cut down the trees, and they build;
They work always - building.
From the elevation of the mountainside
I behold the clouds:
The clouds build many beautiful houses in the sky:
They build, and they tear down;
They build, and they dissolve. . . .
The cities of white men,
They are not beautiful like the cloud cities;
They are not vast, like the cloud cities. . . .
A wind-swept teepee
Is all the house I own. . .
poem by Anonymous Americas
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Leopard
Leopards with their spots
Four legged polka dots
Jaguars too have spots
Leopard have densely spots
Jaguars have central spots
You and I call them spots
But Zoologist calls them
'Rosettes' which doesn't rhyme with spots.
Better to call them 'spots'
because it rhymes with 'dots.'
No architect troubled to design houses that suited people who were to live in them, because that would have meant building a whole range of different houses. It was far cheaper and, above all, timesaving to make them identical.
quote by Michael Ende
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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For example, lead paint in old houses can be a greater threat to children's health than lead that may be under some industrial site where there are no children.
quote by Fred Thompson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Farewell to the Crocodile Plaster
Farewell to the Crocodile Plaster (Written for Pre-School Leavers, read at the School Nativity Play)
The time has come to say goodbye
Both parents and children leave with a sigh
We look down now, on each smiling face
Reflecting the fun, they have had in this place.
From finger painting and stick-a-brix
To drawing houses and making rocket ships
Our kitchens are adorned with these objects of art
Not really in vogue, but of us a part.
Our children report on the world that they see
The comforting words for the cut on the knee
The Crocodile plaster to cover the harm
The teachers smiling face to reduce the alarm
The learning and sharing of lots of things new
Letters, numbers and computers too
Writing my name and counting to twenty
A great start to life, of which there is plenty
So thanks to you teachers, and Mrs Ellis the head
In preparing our children for the challenge ahead,
We’ll remember these days, with fondness hereafter
Farewell to St Peters and the crocodile plaster.
poem by Philip Eames
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The Hoary Memories In Winter
a day in january
in winter with hoary and grey clouds
the hoary thistles in the garden up over there
the hoary thistles with hoary poppies
the hoary frost on them
the hoary mist up and down
no finches, no birds of any kind
except the black crows and ravens
crowing up and there
hoaring covered everywhere
a hoary man strolles on them
with unsteady steps and paces
what is he after
what is he looking for
what is he searching
look at the ancient houses there
some tumbling down
some with plasters all gone
what the hoary man looks for
what is he after
his childhood may be
his memories may be
and his lost..gone mother..he tries to see
in this hoary mist
he has so missed
and longed for
he stopped in the hoary mist as if hearing a voice
calling
oh son..come on..come now the meal is ready
he felt himself playing in the hoary garden
this must be his mother call
addressing and calling him from above
calling him to her new home
cause she has missed him too
oh the hoary grasses
oh the hoary houses
oh the hoary man
oh the hoary woman
oh the hoary world
oh the hoary graves
oh the hoary memories
are we not approaching hoariness
why did we live so quickly
how did our lives finished and faded suddenly
metin sahin
poem by Metin Sahin
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There Are No Children Here
The untrained eye
Walks down the street
And sees children
But they're not children
There are no children here
Adults look back
With hungry eyes
And someone thinks
''They're just children
With a mother and a father
Never any fear''
And they kid themselves
As there are no mothers
No fathers
Because there are no children here
Terror doesn't care
As they cry over there
It lets someone stare
Through the sight of a gun
Seeing everyone
And just for fun
Shoot them
People rush around crying
''But they were just children!
They were just children! ''
A man with a gun
Turns and runs
But as he does they hear
''They aren't children''
And
''They weren't children''
And
''You need to know:
There are no children here''
No one makes a sound
Listening to the truth he's found
And they know:
It's our fault
We didn't save them
We could have saved them
If we cared
There would be children here
poem by Violet Llewellyn
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Vivaldi, concerto for flute
Children playing on a green playground
Mothers watching
Closely watching
The faces of children
Smiling
Cool air
Green leaves brown leaves yellow leaves
Soft wind
Leaves falling down to the slow soft wind
Children running
Chasing each other
They are playing
A mother feels the soft wind
Cool air
And sees the trickles of leaves
Blending green brown yellow
With sunshine as canvass
Nature and human figures of mothers and children
Blending
Amazing
What a beautiful painting has God
In quick short brushes
Effortlessly with perfect strokes did make
The frame is laughter of children.
I am taking the whole picture for home.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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