En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Ebb-Tide

NOW the vexed clouds, wind-driven, spread wings of white,
Long leaning wings across the sea and land.
The waves creep back bequeathing to our sight
The treasure-house of their deserted sand,
And where the nearer waves curl white and low,
Knee-deep in swirling brine the slow-foot shrimpers go.

Pale breadth of sand, where clamorous gulls confer,
Marked with broad arrows by their planted feet;
White rippled pools, where late deep waters were
And ever the white waves marshalled in retreat
And the grey wind in sole supremacy
O'er opal and amber cold of darkening sky and sea.

poem by Edith Nesbit
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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White Dove

Music :presser, adamis, rudolf schenker
Lyrics:klaus meine
A place without a name
Under a burning sky
Theres no milk and honey here
In the land of god
Someone holds a sign
It says we are human, too
And while the sun goes down
The world goes by
White dove
Fly with the wind
Take our hope under your wings
For the world to know
That hope will not die
Where the children cry
Waves, big like a house
Theyre stranded on a piece of wood
To leave it all behind
To start again
But instead of a new life
All they find is a door thats closed
And they keep looking for
A place called hope
White dove
Fly with the wind
Take our hope under your wings
For the world to know
That hope will not die
Where the children cry
Na na
Na na na na
Na na na na na na na na
Na na
Na na na na
Na na na na na
Can anyone tell me why (can anyone tell me why)
The children of the world (the children of the world)
Have to pay the price (pay another price)
And now your telling me
Youve seen it all before
I know thats right but still
It breaks my heart
Well, the golden lamb we sent
Makes us feel better now
But you know its just a drop
In a sea of tears
White dove
Fly with the wind
Take our hope under your wings
For the world to know
That hope will not die
Where the children cry
White dove
Fly with the wind
Take our hope under your wings
For the world to know
That hope will not die
Where the children cry
Na na
Na na na na
Na na na na na na na na
Na na
Na na na na
Na na na na na
...

song performed by by Scorpions
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Avalanche-the White Death

The land is white
The name of the land brings you
to the land of nothing
The name is white
The white is dead
Sun shines pale, the land shades full of pain
Avalea doesn't bloom and fall in this drain
I'm going back alive again
But no one's crying for the dead
The land is still white
Ice and snow are still the same as yesterday
But the wind is stronger in the sorrow
The land is white
The white is dead
They weep wherever they blow
Forever love, cursed land
Forever goodbye, my lovely land
No more tears falling in this land
Even the sand doesn't know
why he doesn't round to anywhere
The land has frozen like stone
The air is blowed dead
The land is white
The name is white
The land called white is dead

poem by Maria Sudibyo
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And The Rains Descended And The Floods Came

NOW the far waves roll nearer and more near,
The wind's awake, the pitiless wind's awake,
It shrieks the menace that I dare not hear,
Soon at my feet the angry waves will break
In desolating wrath--and here I stand
Helpless my house is built upon the sand.

O you, whose house upon a rock is set,
Laugh, safe and sure, at threatening wave and wind.
You chose the better part and yet--and yet,
There was no other ground that I could find,
And I was weary and I longed to raise
A house to guard my shivering nights and days.

And it was pleasant in the house I made,
While still the floods and winds were held asleep.
I blessed it at the dawn, at night I prayed
As though its dear foundations had been deep
Sunk in the rock. I whispered in surmise,
'What if winds never wake, floods never rise?'

And now the waves are near and very near,
And here I wait and wonder which may be
The wave in which my house will disappear,
My little house that loved and sheltered me,
Where joy still sings, her garland in her hand,
Built on the sand, oh God, built on the sand!

poem by Edith Nesbit
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Alcan Road

Open the gate to the red land
Alcan road, by the turquoise lake
Starry skies, a mushroom cloud
Folding waves - in a foamy tide
Washing in beds - of opal shells
white gulls cry - for you and I
butterflies - float away
drift over pools - of salt and clay
mountain man - frosted child
eagles cry - puppets of god
strung like time - molded in form
trees bend back - and trails distort
it leads to the land - of Alcan Road
the turquoise lake - and starry skies
mushroom clouds - folding waves
foamy tides - of salt and brine

song performed by by Ween
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Baby Running Barefoot

When the bare feet of the baby beat across the grass
The little white feet nod like white flowers in the wind,
They poise and run like ripples lapping across the water;
And the sight of their white play among the grass
Is like a little robin’s song, winsome,
Or as two white butterflies settle in the cup of one flower
For a moment, then away with a flutter of wings.

I long for the baby to wander hither to me
Like a wind-shadow wandering over the water,
So that she can stand on my knee
With her little bare feet in my hands,
Cool like syringa buds,
Firm and silken like pink young peony flowers.

poem by David Herbert Lawrence
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Sunset On The Beach

Warm wind blows on my skin,
waves splash as I splash my fin.
Warm blue water of the ocean,
fish swim around me in motion.
I stare up at the setting sun,
clouds of yellow, pink, purple
wrapped into clouds swirling into one.
A lonely pelican flies by,
as more clouds cross the sky.
I see lovers walk through sand,
each holding each other hands.
Then waves become white with force,
I realize I’ve stayed my course,
leaving before rain starts to pour,
I say “goodbye sunset” as I transform and walk to shore.

poem by Christina Sunrise
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Fisher Child's Lullaby

THE wind is out in its rage to-night,
And your father is far at sea.
The rime on the window is hard and white
But dear, you are near to me.
Heave ho, weave low,
Waves of the briny deep;
Seethe low and breathe low,
But sleep you, my little one, sleep, sleep.
The little boat rocks in the cove no more,
But the flying sea-gulls wail;
I peer through the darkness that wraps the shore,
For sight of a home set sail.
Heave ho, weave low,
Waves of the briny deep;
Seethe low and breathe low,
But sleep you, my little one, sleep, sleep.
Ay, lad of mine, thy father may die
In the gale that rides the sea,
But we'll not believe it, not you and I,
Who mind us of Galilee.
Heave ho, weave low,
Waves of the briny deep;
Seethe low and breathe low,
But sleep you, my little one, sleep, sleep.

poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Me, My Dog, And The Beach

To the beach, my dog and I run,
Play catch frisbees, just for fun.
Umbrella's to block the sun,
Waves crash upon the sand.
My dog chases gulls that try to land. Sky so blue, sand so white,
My dog and I, were up at daylight.
Winds are warm and blowing slight,
Ocean sprays, dog strays,
Sand blows, through our toes. It gets cool, the sun goes down,
My dog and I, head back to town.
It's time we leave the beach to rest.
After all, we were just a guest.
All the birds have flown away.
We will come back, another day.
Just me and my dog, to play.

poem by Karen Curcio
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Another Near To Perfect Day

In the sky the sun brightly shining the blue sky with some clouds of gray
On an afternoon in late October another near to perfect day
The white surf waves are gently rolling one reason no surfer in sight
And the silver gulls on the white beach search for food in the warm sunlight
An artist may well sketch such beauty and writers about it may write
By the coastal town on the surf beach there is beauty in peace and quiet
Today the ocean is not roaring no big waves for surfers to ride
The waves on the beach gently lapping so timid the sea at low tide
In the park the magpie larks calling the only notes they sing pee wee
And wattlebirds on the flowering coastal banksias their harsh calls familiar to me
On a beautiful day in the Springtime of around 24 degrees
And there is a cool sort of freshness in the cool freshening coastal breeze
Save for the silver gulls the beach is deserted and so clean is the fresh coastal air
A good memory to keep and to cherish and a good memory with others to share.

poem by Francis Duggan
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A Storm Is Coming

An angry grey comes from the deepening storm
Caressing the wings of petrels, gulls and a
Lone storm riding albatross
Greens curling twisting into grey corners
Black edges spitting razor rain
Wind driven craziness
Smiling predatory hunters gather on the front line
Storms bring nervous food sources
That have lost caution
Thrown it to the wind so easy
This wind that whips up salty froth
The rain rains
Big fish eat
Little fish die
There is a symphony of sound
That no one hears
Storms assume that the world is deaf
There is a hundred colours here
Mixing on this easel of nature
Out here on the sea of bluster
This way and that way
The wind and the waters
The wind and the waves
The wind and the wild
Wanton storm song
That no one else can sing
And the birds wheel and cry
Turn and fly away just before they cant
The beasts of the deep grey green
do the same
Only I cannot turn and fly away
Only I remain and scream at the sight
sound and might.

poem by Geoffrey Fafard
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In Memory of David Archer (LIV)

The words are always as
strange and dead as those
fragments and oddments that
the wave casts up on the shore:
I stand in the sea mist
gazing down at the white
words and old bits of wood
and wonder what they were for.
I think that they were not
ever intended to do
what, when we seek to speak,
we believe that they may:
they cannot bear us up
the frothy words and like
wings at the lame foot
lift us out of the clay.

For all the reflections
I call up out of the sea
(they seem to speak as the shell
seems to speak for the sea)
are no more truly here
than the wind weaving sand
into shapes of things
we think that we know and see.

When in the evening sky
a single star appears
over my head, and the moon
out of the cloud lifts its face,
when the white gull turns
or the high plover hovers
to tell me with a cry
I trespass in this place:

What I see, then, with
that cloud my witness is
not shapes of the mind or wind
like the slow rainbowings
of the dolphin's skin as it dies
but, as though from the cloud
I saw my bone walk the shore,
the theology of all things.

The white stones and the old
odd bits of sea blanched wood,
Overstrand and the swinging
lighthouse glimpsed in the mists,
they flash in the prisms and I
believe for a moment I see
the dazzling atoms dancing
in every thing that exists.

The children dance on the shore.
The waves dies on the sand.
The spray blows to and fro,
the children dance and die.
What waves are these that dance
with the children on the sand?
I hear them calling, but cannot
hear what it is that they cry.

I neither understand
nor know why I am moved
beyond these words by the
odd bits of bleached wood
cast up on Overstrand
or by the black and twisted
October evening tree
dying beside the road.

or by the child of midnight
so deep asleep but still
lost in the corridors
of the mansions of dust,
by any or by all
ceremonial evidence
attesting that we love
simply because we must.

I walk upon Overstrand shore
and the crab at my foot
inscribes praise in the sand.
The wave bursts with glory
because it rises up like
angels out of the sea,
and the dead starfish burns
on Overstrand promontory.

Why do I hear them cry
out from the far side of life,
those forms and impulses
unborn beyond the sky?
Why should they hope and seek
above all else to be?
Tonight on Overstrand
I know for one moment why.

poem by George Barker
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Erie waters

A dash of yellow sand,
Wind-scattered and sun-tanned;
Some waves that curl and cream along the margin of the strand;
And, creeping close to these
Long shores that lounge at ease,
Old Erie rocks and ripples to a fresh sou'-western breeze.

A sky of blue and grey;
Some stormy clouds that play
At scurrying up with ragged edge, then laughing blow away,
Just leaving in their trail
Some snatches of a gale;
To whistling summer winds we lift a single daring sail.

O! wind so sweet and swift,
O! danger-freighted gift
Bestowed on Erie with her waves that foam and fall and lift,
We laugh in your wild face,
And break into a race
With flying clouds and tossing gulls that weave and interlace.

poem by Emily Pauline Johnson
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The White Waves At Port Fairy

The white waves at Port Fairy they make a loud din
As on to the long beach the tide does roll in
And the dainty looking silver gulls mew as they fly
As the sun disappears in the gray evening sky
Thousands of centuries before the first Humans came to this great Land
The tide at Port Fairy rolled up the gray sand
Long before the first dinosaurs from their eggs pecked their way free
The huge white waves rolled in the Southern Sea
Though to the Port Fairy locals mine is a strange face
I do feel at home in this beautiful place
The artists have sketched it, the writers of it write
Their stories and poems for to read and recite
A special place to many and a special place to me
Port Fairy where the land does meet with the sea.

poem by Francis Duggan
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I loved all the love away

I loved all the love away
Left with mine prodigal hand
Mine heart through my fingers play
To soft white sensual sand
In a desert of sheer famine
Bereft of love and love's sea
I scavenge the ground and examine
The desert of what's left of me
Nothing but white sand and shore
Where the moon tide's waves
move rippled sand of desert galore
to taunt and with will depraves
The love I need, but shows the love I had
Lost in the desert delusional I'm utterly mad…

poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
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A Coarse Morning

OH the yellow boisterous sea,
The surging, chafing, murderous sea!
And the wind-gusts hurtle the torn clouds by,
On to the south through a shuddering sky,
And the bare black ships scud aloof from the land.
'Tis as like the day as can be,
When the ship came in sight that came never to strand,
The ship that was blown on the sunken sand—
And he coming back to me!

Oh the great white snake of foam,
The coiling, writhing, snake of white foam,
Hissing and huddering out in the bay,
Over the banks where the wrecked ship lay,
Over the sands where the dead may lie deep!
There are some in the churchyard loam,
Some two or three the sea flung to our keep:
Their mothers can sit by a grave to weep,
But my son never came home.

Never, never, living or dead—
Oh, never, Willie, living or dead,
Could you keep your word and come back to me!
Oh, my darling! As like this day as can be,
When the ship came in sight that came never to strand,
When the ship came rounding the head,
Close to the haven and close to the sand.—
And their graves are long green that were tossed to land.
Ah, 'Sure to come back,' he said!

poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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I've Come Down to the Ocean

I've come down to the ocean;
The ocean great and wide,
Of pure blue span
And soft white sand
And the beach's crashing tide.

I've come down to the ocean;
The sea so black and queer
Of lightless dark
And fiercest shark,
Where even fearless fear.

I've come down to the ocean;
The waters I can't grasp,
Of strangest deep,
And sunless sleep,
Where the breathing may not gasp.

I've come down to the ocean;
To sing its sea-spray song,
Of salty brine
And waves that shine
Before I've been too long.

poem by Lizzy Anon
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Chimes are the Wind

Chime’s are the Wind

“Chimes are the wind”, when it goes from Dawn to Twilight.

“Chimes are the wind”, when the sun goes down and the moon goes up.

“Chimes are the wind”, when the Ocean’s tidal waves splash the deep blue and the aqua
water and the tidal pools disappear.

“Chimes are the wind”, when the puffy white clouds cover the golden yellow sun.

“Chimes are the wind”, when the rain floods the river.

“Chimes are the wind”, when there’s a million possibilities.

“Chimes are the wind”, when there are no more possibilities to harm the world
when there’s such a peaceful place in the universe that there is so-many
possibilities there are endless possibilities.

By: Bella Martinez

poem by Bella Martinez
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Sand In The Sea

from afar i see the waves
myriad lines of luminous white
galloping as if on a mission to conquer
propelling successive waves
in another sea of emotions

blessed's the endowed artist
who can transfer this gallant spirit
onto canvas with shinning and crowning hues
so many morns, the waves alone
drive in the days into me, blast tribulations,
even stones and rocks

pounding into the mind and soul
that after a million years
they would be nothing more than sand
under triumphant sounding waves
and - our humble feet

poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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The Day Before The Tsunami in Phuket 2004

H! That white boy
Skiny, thiny thing
Did god claim him too?

----------

christmas day
i saw the boy
the white boy
skiny, thiny thing
who could only be
two scores of age
smiling so
innocently in phuket
the elders surrounding him
cajoling
i saw a little boy
black plump little thing
barely two, i guess
almost nude, running
carefree, near the sea
close to the waves
and into the waves
looking, discovering
danger, no,
a thousand miles away
i saw a grandad
jumped a few steps
as he ran
a little girl
trailing behind
did the same
a breeze
chilled us
refreshed us
in the splendour
of the setting sun
the rays that dilated
our pupils
so that everything
became so dreamy
in that already
paradisical setting
i saw a mother
her satiated self
sitting on a towel
her dreamed holiday came true
surrounded by teenagers
oh! that warm smile
of love from a mother!
i cried over life
transience too
over mother!
i saw the white men
executives of
some conglormerates
stressing out
a mishmash of tired nerves
pampered by the sea
the cool wind,
the sand,
the Thai women,
their reassuring
and status
confirming
touches and beer
the patong beach
christmas day dusk
endless waves of joy
swept through the souls
the hundreds of foreign souls

the white boy,
the skiny thiny thing
the boy i turned back
to take so many looks
the young child
playing by himself
near the harmless mass of water
and so many others
their last holiday?
the wave of joy now
overtaken by waves
waves, tsunami scale grief
the waves, the relentless waves
that roared
kill, kill, kill
all over the Indian Ocean
Oh! that skiny little white thing
with that lovely smile
those mysterious successive waves
of pain that sweep through me
did god take him too?

poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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That Mysterious Waves Of Pain

christmas day
i saw the boy
the white boy
skiny, thiny thing
who could only be
two scores of age
smiling so
innocently in phuket
the elders surrounding him
cajoling
i saw a little boy
black plump little thing
barely two, i guess
almost nude, running
carefree, near the sea
close to the waves
and into the waves
looking, discovering
danger, no,
a thousand miles away
i saw a grandad
jumped a few steps
as he ran
a little girl
trailing behind
did the same
a breeze
chilled us
refreshed us
in the splendour
of the setting sun
the rays that dilated
our pupils
so that everything
became so dreamy
in that already
paradisical setting
i saw a mother
her satiated self
sitting on a towel
her dreamed holiday came true
surrounded by teenagers
oh! that warm smile
of love from a mother!
i cried over life
transience too
over mother!
i saw the white men
executives of
some conglormerates
stressing out
a mishmash of tired nerves
pampered by the sea
the cool wind,
the sand,
the Thai women,
their reassuring
and status
confirming
touches and beer
the patong beach
christmas day dusk
endless waves of joy
swept through the souls
the hundreds of foreign souls

the white boy,
the skiny thiny thing
the boy i turned back
to take so many looks
the young child
playing by himself
near the harmless mass of water
and so many others
their last holiday?
the wave of joy now
overtaken by waves
waves, tsunami scale grief
the waves, the relentless waves
that roared
kill, kill, kill
all over the Indian Ocean
Oh! that skiny little white thing
with that lovely smile
those mysterious successive waves
of pain that sweep through me
did god take him too?

poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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