sunflowers turn their heads
gazing at the sun always
from dawn until dusk
haiku by John Celes
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Upon Gazing At The Cut Sunflowers Of Vincent Van Gogh
upon seeing the cut sunflowers of vincent van gogh
i cannot but think about the tragic moment when
he cut his ear, when blood oozed
when at the end, finally he took his life away,
this thing happens when one knows much about
the life of another
this familiarity that breeds contempt,
and so gazing again at the painting of vincent,
i start with real sunflowers in my mind, the one that mother
planted in her garden when she was alive,
i think of the sun and the sunshine touching my face
i think about warmth and life and oozing verve
the vivacity of all things around my little world,
the field of sunflowers and the bees and the butterflies
and birds
i pretend i have not read about the life of vincent
i pretend i have not heard about the stories of mother
i just gaze again at the cut sunflowers. just that.
now there is joy in my heart. The suicide story does not exist
in the bold yellow petals, on those three huge sunflowers
look at them again, they are the symbols of our smiles.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Research on Cinderalla - after Shel Silverstein In search of Cinderalla
From dawn til dusk,
from land to land,
without too much ado,
I'd seek the perfect ankle,
From dawn til dusk
I'd stretch my hand
to virgin, husk, - not you! -
perceptions change, oh dear, they do!
perfection minds must rankle
In Search of Cinderella
From dusk to dawn,
From town to town,
Without a single clue,
I seek the tender, slender foot
To fit this crystal shoe.
From dusk to dawn,
I try it on
Each damsel that I meet.
And I still love her so, but oh,
I've started hating feet.
- Shel Silverstein
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Prayer for a profusion of sunflowers
Send sunflowers!
With my turkey-bone whistle
I am calling the birds
To sing upon the sunflowers.
For when the clouds hear them singing
They will come quickly,
And rain will fall upon our fields.
Send sunflowers!
poem by Amy Lowell
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It is So Hard to be Alone
It is so very hard to be alone; from dawn to dusk
From dusk to dawn, alone, alone alone.
From a chant to a rant to a highpaying job
To an apartment in St Germain des Pres
That everybody wants to rob.
It is very hard to be a cog in the wheel
It is very hard to be a cog without a wheel
To turn, to burn in one's flaming solitude.
From birth to death, this profession of existence
Making an art of solitude, an act of independance.
It is so easy to die alone.
Copyright: Rani Turton
poem by Rani Turton
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Take Time Off To Relax! !
Behind each and every human,
Who has to work dusk to dawn,
Dawn to dusk or dawn to dawn,
There are few mouths at home,
Hopefully waiting for them,
To keep the food on the table,
to provide cloth and shelter,
to educate and medicate,
to love, care and cherish,
Most labor goes for love,
Love that we have,
Upon our loved ones,
our friends, society,
and our dear nation,
That energizes us,
To work tirelessly.
Happy Labor's day! !
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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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
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As if you are Helen of Troy
As if you are Helen of Troy
You are such a nasty playboy!
You wear a beautiful mask
From dusk to dawn dawn to dusk!
You hurt me with Cupid’s arrow
My life is now full of sorrow!
As if you are deaf and blind
You can’t hear and read my mind!
poem by Asif Andalib
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In Search Of Cinderella
From dusk to dawn,
From town to town,
Without a single clue,
I seek the tender, slender foot
To fit this crystal shoe.
From dusk to dawn,
I try it on
Each damsel that I meet.
And I still love her so, but oh,
I've started hating feet.
poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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Haiku is
haiku is telling the readers
how the day starts
and how it actually ends
the light, the mist, the birds, the sun
how the dawn is different from the dusk
how the birds sing in the dawn
and how they sing in the dusk
and ultimately how the sun rises
and how it sets
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Longing never ceases
One looks for dawn while at dusk
and for dusk when at dawn.
One longs for winter in summer
and for summer when in winter.
One begs for hunger in affluence
and the other for food in penury..
The one at peak is for privacy
and the other, down, for publicity.
Who is happy from womb to tomb?
28.12.2000, Pmdi
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Easy
it would have been easy to write
about sunflowers
gazing to the light of the sun
and feel the wind
and hear the songs of the leaves
in an orchestra of nature
something so happily designed
something even so palatable to the tongue
nice to hear
soft to the feel of the skin
as soft as silk
or kapok
but times are hard
the truth is
you are alone in the hospital and
worrying about how to survive an ordeal
with relatives visiting only
for 15 minutes
and they go on with their own lives too
so i cannot write about the sunflowers
someone writes it
for us
i write something truthful to you
this existence of the mice and how it is trapped
in the gutter
under a heavy rain
with thunder and lightning
when everyone is soundly sleeping on their warm beds
when all the lights are turned off
when silence speaks again
without any bar
as to what to say
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Death Song
What cometh here from west to east awending?
And who are these, the marchers stern and slow?
We bear the message that the rich are sending
Aback to those who bade them wake and know.
Not one, not one, nor thousands must they slay,
But one and all if they would dusk the day.
We asked them for a life of toilsome earning,
They bade us bide their leisure for our bread;
We craved to speak to tell our woeful learning;
We come back speechless, bearing back our dead.
Not one, not one, nor thousands must they slay,
But one and all if they would dusk the day.
They will not learn; they have no ears to hearken.
They turn their faces from the eyes of fate;
Their gay-lit halls shut out the skies that darken.
But, lo! this dead man knocking at the gate.
Not one, not one, nor thousands must they slay,
But one and all if they would dusk the day.
Here lies the sign that we shall break our prison;
Amidst the storm he won a prisoner's rest;
But in the cloudy dawn the sun arisen
Brings us our day of work to win the best.
Not one, not one, nor thousands must they slay,
But one and all if they would dusk the day.
poem by William Morris
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This Mighty Wanderer
Standing on a cliff overlooking the sea
I stare out at the restless waters below,
slowly moving in and out
with each incoming and receding tide.
Like a nomad ever seeking
a new place to rest its head.
Its colours always changing
under the rays of the sun,
wandering restlessly forever
from dawn to dusk,
dusk to dawn
in its never-ending travels
in this worldwide.
This mighty wanderer
only comes to shore
at the incoming tide.
17 September 2008
poem by David Harris
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Between the Dusk of a Summer Night
Between the dusk of a summer night
And the dawn of a summer day,
We caught at a mood as it passed in flight,
And we bade it stoop and stay.
And what with the dawn of night began
With the dusk of day was done;
For that is the way of woman and man,
When a hazard has made them one.
Arc upon arc, from shade to shine,
The World went thundering free;
And what was his errand but hers and mine --
The lords of him, I and she?
O, it's die we must, but it's live we can,
And the marvel of earth and sun
Is all for the joy of woman and man
And the longing that makes them one.
poem by William Ernest Henley
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What Part Of Reality Refused
What part of reality refused,
Do people continue to disbelieve?
The one they see without accepting,
And turn their heads?
Or the one they turn their heads,
To see in disbelief it exists to dismiss?
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A Working Man
I am a working man
up from dawn to dusk.
I till the fields to keep my family fed.
The soil is not my right,
but a gift to me.
If I handle it with care,
crops every year it rewards me.
I am a working man
and when my day is done,
the warmth of my family
fills the place I call home.
Every morning I see
the wonders of the rising sun
and as night approaches,
I watch the moon come up.
My life is sometimes hard,
but I know satisfaction of a job well done.
It is our daily bread,
where our money comes from.
God blessed me with this land
and I look after it for him.
For I am a working man
up from dawn to dusk.
26 November 2007
poem by David Harris
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As the Sun rises,
Sunflowers lift their faces
In adoration.
Some miss the soft light of dawn;
Bats fear, run for dark haven...
tanka by Mamta Agarwal
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Early Works - Woodland Silence
The light that dawn brought
now fades as dusk returns
with it comes a soft breeze
that whispers to the trees
as lovers walk hand in hand
through twilights wonderland
the birds in the trees that sang
now rest their heads in sleep
as in the woodland silence
there is heard not a peep.
Date unknown
poem by David Harris
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News Flash
A multitude of sunflowers was found swaying in the field this morning between 5 and 6 a.m. Our reporter had a direct experience of being sucked in the happy yellow colour as the sunflower heads were rising towards early morning sunbeams. He claims the sunflower leaves turned into hands clapping up in the air in the rhythm of the dawn resurrection. The ambulance car got hurt while attempting to save our reporter from the fit of a passionate bliss. Accidental passengers willing to be interviewed confirmed the news by sending thousands of kisses into the air. Whether the incident was a collective hallucination or divine interference is yet to be investigated.
Right from the spot
Van Gogh 3rd Channel
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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The Anxious Dead
O guns, fall silent till the dead men hear
Above their heads the legions pressing on:
(These fought their fight in time of bitter fear,
And died not knowing how the day had gone.)
O flashing muzzles, pause, and let them see
The coming dawn that streaks the sky afar;
Then let your mighty chorus witness be
To them, and Caesar, that we still make war.
Tell them, O guns, that we have heard their call,
That we have sworn, and will not turn aside,
That we will onward till we win or fall,
That we will keep the faith for which they died.
Bid them be patient, and some day, anon,
They shall feel earth enwrapt in silence deep;
Shall greet, in wonderment, the quiet dawn,
And in content may turn them to their sleep.
poem by John McCrae
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