Like trains of cars on tracks of plush
Like trains of cars on tracks of plush
I hear the level bee:
A jar across the flowers goes,
Their velvet masonry
Withstands until the sweet assault
Their chivalry consumes,
While he, victorious, tilts away
To vanquish other blooms.
His feet are shod with gauze,
His helmet is of gold;
His breast, a single onyx
With chrysoprase, inlaid.
His labor is a chant,
His idleness a tune;
Oh, for a bee's experience
Of clovers and of noon!
poem by Emily Dickinson
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His Feet are shod with Gauze
916
His Feet are shod with Gauze—
His Helmet, is of Gold,
His Breast, a Single Onyx
With Chrysophrase, inlaid.
His Labor is a Chant—
His Idleness—a Tune—
Oh, for a Bee's experience
Of Clovers, and of Noon!
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Idleness is a constant sin, and labor is a duty. Idleness is the devil's home for temptation and for unprofitable, distracting musings; while labor profit others and ourselves.
quote by Anne Baxter
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Struggle..
Life is tough for every single flower,
that has to endure the mighty power,
Life is tough for every single flower,
that has to do it alone over and over.
Has to sway to the tune of the wind,
has to dance to the beat of the rain,
has to tolerate the moods of the sun,
has to settle high on thin stem.
Life is tough for every single flower,
that blooms with hope and willpower,
to face every obstacle on its way,
to be victorious every day.
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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Shepherds All And Maidens Fair
PIPE, shepherds, pipe, the summer's ripe;
So wreathe your crooks with flowers;
The world's in tune to Love and June,
The days are rich in hours,
In rosy hours, in golden hours--
Love's crown and fortune fair,
So gather gold for Love to hold,
And flowers for Love to wear!
Sing, maidens, sing! A dancing ring
Of pleasures speed your way;
Too harsh and dry is fierce July,
Too maiden-meek was May;
But Love and June their old sweet tune
Are singing at your ear:
So learn the song and troop along
To meet your shepherds dear!
Oh, Chloris fair, a rose to wear,
And gold to spend have I--
When all are gay on this June day
You would not bid me sigh?
You would not scorn a swain forlorn--
Each shepherd far and near
Hastes to his sweet, with flying feet,
As I towards my dear.
No maids there be in Arcady
But have their shepherds true;
Must you alone despise the one
Who only pipes for you?
You have no ear my pipe to hear
Though all for you it be;
And I no eyes for her who sighs
And only sings for me!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Poppies
These are the flowers of sleep
That nod in the heavy noon,
Ere the brown shades eastward creep
To a drowsy and dreamful tune—
These are the flowers of sleep.
Love’s lilies are passion-pale,
But these on the sun-kissed flood
Of the corn, that rolls breast deep,
Burn redder than drops of blood
On a dead king’s golden mail.
Heart’s dearest, I would that we
These blooms of forgetfulness
Might bind on our brows, and steep
Our love in Lethe ere less
Grow its flame with thee or me.
When Time with his evil eye
The beautiful Love has slain,
There is nought to gain or keep
Thereafter, and all is vain.
Should we wait to see Love die?
Sweetheart, of the joys men reap
We have reaped; ’tis time to rest.
Why should we wake but to weep?
Sleep and forgetting is best—
These are the flowers of sleep.
poem by Victor James Daley
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Trains
Here I am at the end of the day
With a cup of cold coffee
From the station buffet.
On trains, on trains I seem
To spend my life on trains.
See the blue suit banker in the ticket line.
Got an evening standard with playboy
Hidden behind.
On trains, on trains he seems
To spend his life on trains.
Time after time.
Was I just dreaming?
Did I help you aboard?
Full passenger service ---
Let me help with the door.
Sit down take the weight off your feet.
Theres a train full of people Id like
You to meet.
On trains, on trains we love
To spend our lives on trains.
Join the secret world of trains.
Feel the pleasure. touch the pain.
Drift into yesterday.
Once and again
I was just thinking.
We could meet sometime
On the 17.30 where
I usually find
My friends at the end of the day.
May we pay your fare, lady?
We should like you to stay
In our train. on trains ---
Youll have to spend your life
On trains.
I hear theres an office party on the 18.05.
Youll be home for christmas if they
Take you alive from the train.
Those trains, we have to spend our lives
On trains.
Once and again
I was just thinking.
We could meet any time
On number two platform
Where I usually find
My friends at the end of the day.
On trains, trains, trains.
song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Flower Basket
Bring to me the flowers of Spring
In a woven straw basket brown
Pretty Little Maids all in a row
Petal's strewn 'cross the town
Oh so delightful in the Springtime
Resplendent in the Summer air
A garden basket of sweet scented blooms
Of The Maiden's Fair
Most beautiful to all breath-taking
Their aroma's splash the breeze
Velvet soft-like petals abloom
In The Secret Garden With Ease
They living out their complete prime
Beautifying Others Life
Their fragrance emulating upon a zephr
Numbing all of this worlds strife
Long before the rustic fall comes calling
With It's Oft' Northern Breeze
Chasing away the flowers and the green
Ending the blooms sweet life
With Ice Cold Freeze
poem by Theodora Onken
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Sweet death
After spring there are many Jacaranda flowers
that lies purple at my feet,
while the trees shed
their beautiful blossoms.
Like the sweet blooms
that die,
I know that I
have but a short time
to spent in this life.
There’s a sweet perfume
that rises from the road
where the scattered flowers lie,
before it disappears
with the new rain
and I wonder if my words and deeds
will be a blessing for a time
when I am gone?
poem by Gert Strydom
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Couplets In Praise
Poet of love, I sing here my whole soul to you.
Ah, might I all deeds dare, love would I prove to you.
Make I at least your praise, chaplet of sunny verse,
Each dear delight of your told to the universe.
Let me your sweetnesses, O child, enumerate.
All the proud wealth of you Love shall remunerate.
``Glory to God,'' I sigh each time I gaze at you.
Eyes that have wept all night thrill in amaze at you.
Night in your dark hair sleeps, caught in the net of it,
Emblem how dear of dreams pure as the jet of it.
Valiant joy crowns your brow, stainless its ivory.
Incense your sweet lips breathe, rose--red their livery.
Earth has no part in you. Yet do your eyes to--night
Vanquish all Earth for me, wise in their wise delight.
Evening and morning still watch your feet shod with dew,
Answering praise and prayer, fearless, your God with you.
Dare to delight our souls steeped in love's tenderness.
Earn us a wage of joy saved from the wilderness.
Lo, how my heart leaps up new life inheriting.
Armed for the fight am I, all your praise meriting.
Idly if I have lived, now am I glorious,
Daring all deeds for you, yours and victorious.
Empires shall bend and break; kingdoms shall crumble down.
Wise men shall bow the knee; wise ones look humble down.
You are the cause of it. Only your name it is
Nerves me to fight the fight stern with life's vanities.
Die! Ay, to die for you, foremost in rivalry,
Heroes to dig my grave: that were true chivalry.
All lovers there should sing, all who had wit any,
Mourn me and weep with you. Here ends my litany.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Discontent
Late at night
our trains pass through broad meadows.
We grip controls, heavy, uncertain, anxious
about schedules,
about stalled cars on tracks,
about small children darting through the night,
small children who dare steel wheels and blinding lights
who dare death at our trembling hands;
we guide our trains
probing the night
along the measured way,
discontent,
without incident.
poem by Steven Federle
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Performance and Stamina
Cool with life and free of superstitions,
Four leaf clovers, rabbit feet...
And free flights of fancy.
She said I had 'captured wisdom' in my eyes.
As she turned down my request for a date,
To ask if I knew her grandfather!
It just so happened I did.
When we both were kids.
Cool with life and free of superstitions
Four leaf clovers, rabbit feet...
And free flights of fancy.
Most of the times.
People say I shouldn't admit to being 60.
That I should say to everyone I'm 45!
I feel so blessed I'd confess anything to who I meet.
Rejecting me because of my age,
Is such a foolish thing!
'Rejecting me because of my age,
Is such a foolish thing! '
After much practice...
I'd say that to someone.
Only to hear the other one say,
What they want, how they do it
With expectations along the way!
Preferences and club hangouts.
Using cellphones to give a brief shout out!
And lapses of memory in mid sentence.
Asking then again what I said.
And, 'What was that age you mentioned?
I'm sorry I wasn't paying you any attention! '
Cool with life and free of superstitions,
Four leaf clovers, rabbit feet...
And free flights of fancy.
And if you actually believe that...
You too suffer from 'captured wisdom'!
Have a cup of tea
And recall all of those memories you had...
Trapping that captured 'stuff'.
Remember it well.
Being interviewed for performance and stamina,
Was not the issue then!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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April
April, pride of woodland ways,
Of glad days,
April, bringing hope of prime,
To the young flowers that beneath
Their bud sheath
Are guarded in their tender time;
April, pride of fields that be
Green and free,
That in fashion glad and gay,
Stud with flowers red and blue,
Every hue,
Their jewelled spring array;
April, pride of murmuring
Winds of spring,
That beneath the winnowed air,
Trap with subtle nets and sweet
Flora’s feet,
Flora’s feet, the fleet and fair;
April, by thy hand caressed,
From her breast
Nature scatters everywhere
Handfuls of all sweet perfumes,
Buds and blooms,
Making faint the earth and air.
April, joy of the green hours,
Clothes with flowers
Over all her locks of gold
My sweet Lady; and her breast
With the blest
Birds of summer manifold.
April, with thy gracious wiles,
Like the smiles,
Smiles of Venus; and thy breath
Like her breath, the Gods’ delight,
(From their height
They take the happy air beneath)
It is thou that, of thy grace,
From their place
In the far-oft isles dost bring
Swallows over earth and sea,
Glad to be
Messengers of thee, and Spring.
Daffodil and eglantine,
And woodbine,
Lily, violet, and rose
Plentiful in April fair,
To the air,
Their pretty petals do unclose.
Nightingales ye now may hear,
Piercing clear,
Singing in the deepest shade;
Many and many a babbled note
Chime and float,
Woodland music through the glade.
April, all to welcome thee,
Spring sets free
Ancient flames, and with low breath
Wakes the ashes grey and old
That the cold
Chilled within our hearts to death.
Thou beholdest in the warm
Hours, the swarm
Of the thievish bees, that flies
Evermore from bloom to bloom
For perfume,
Hid away in tiny thighs.
Her cool shadows May can boast,
Fruits almost
Ripe, and gifts of fertile dew,
Manna-sweet and honey-sweet,
That complete
Her flower garland fresh and new.
Nay, but I will give my praise,
To these days,
Named with the glad name of Her
That from out the foam o’ the sea
Came to be
Sudden light on earth and air.
poem by Remy Belleau
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Thr Railroad Tracks
Who lived across the railroad tracks?
A few of us whites, but mostly blacks.
These railroad tracks without even knowing
separated my town and kept it growing
into a segregated place.
I used to listen for the sound of the train.
As it rolled on by, it would never remain.
It just kept rolling to where it was going.
The engineer waved. The smoke kept blowing
into a segregated place.
Even when the trains stopped the rolling
the tracks will still there.They were controlling
the thinking of the people in our town.
So they kept the tracks there, never tore them down
in our segregated place.
Some were on the right side of the tracks, you see.
Some were on the wrong side of the tracks, like me.
They never took the tracks down from 60 years ago.
And the town I grew up in doesn't want to know
it's a segregated place.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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We—Bee and I—live by the quaffing
230
We—Bee and I—live by the quaffing—
'Tisn't all Hock—with us—
Life has its Ale—
But it's many a lay of the Dim Burgundy—
We chant—for cheer—when the Wines—fail—
Do we "get drunk"?
Ask the jolly Clovers!
Do we "beat" our "Wife"?
I—never wed—
Bee—pledges his—in minute flagons—
Dainty—as the trees—on our deft Head—
While runs the Rhine—
He and I—revel—
First—at the vat—and latest at the Vine—
Noon—our last Cup—
"Found dead"—"of Nectar"—
By a humming Coroner—
In a By-Thyme!
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Jai Ho, Jai Ho, Jai Ho, Jai Ho - Be Victorious
Jai Ho, Jai Ho, Jai Ho, Jai Ho
Be thou victorious, be thou victorious
Be thou victorious, be thou victorious
Come on in and join us under this big
Well decorated and tastefully coloured shelter
Come on in and join us under the
Glittering blue sky and celebrate thy victory
Be thou victorious, be thou victorious
Despite the fact that thou know
As each day passes thou art nearing thy death
Be thou victorious
Be thou victorious and dance on
The ever burning earthly turmoil
As the flames of black coal
Dance with the waving wind
Be thou victorious, be thou victorious
Blow away thy sleep
From thy ever bright eyes
And in thy demonstration
Show to the world
That thou art victorious
Be thou victorious, be thou victorious
Extend thy tender fingers to reach out
The shining stars on the sky
Brushing aside the dogma around them
Be thou victorious
Be thou victorious, be thou victorious
Overcoming all the obstacles
Bottlenecks between thou and the victory
Let thou be crowned with victory always
Be thou victorious
Be thou victorious, be thou victorious
Despite thy knowing thy weaknesses
But thou know how to harness thy strengths
And emerge victorious
In all challenging situations
Be thou victorious
Be thou victorious, be thou victorious
Be thou victorious, be thou victorious
Come on in and join us under this big
Well decorated and tastefully coloured shelter
Come on in and join us under the
Glittering blue sky and celebrate thy victory
Jai Ho, Jai Ho, Jai Ho, Jai Ho
poem by Bashyam Narayanan
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To James Bromley With 'Wordsworth's Grave
Ere vandal lords with lust of gold accurst
Deface each hallowed hillside we revere--
Ere cities in their million-throated thirst
Menace each sacred mere--
Let us give thanks because one nook hath been
Unflooded yet by desecration's wave,
The little churchyard in the valley green
That holds our Wordsworth's grave.
'Twas there I plucked these elegiac blooms,
There where he rests 'mid comrades fit and few,
And thence I bring this growth of classic tombs,
An offering, friend, to you--
You who have loved like me his simple themes,
Loved his sincere large accent nobly plain,
And loved the land whose mountains and whose streams
Are lovelier for his strain.
It may be that his manly chant, beside
More dainty numbers, seems a rustic tune;
It may be, thought has broadened since he died
Upon the century's noon;
It may be that we can no longer share
The faith which from his fathers he received;
It may be that our doom is to despair
Where he with joy believed;--
Enough that there is none since risen who sings
A song so gotten of the immediate soul,
So instant from the vital fount of things
Which is our source and goal;
And though at touch of later hands there float
More artful tones than from his lyre he drew,
Ages may pass ere trills another note
So sweet, so great, so true.
poem by William Watson
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Armenian Folk-Song--The Partridge
As beats the sun from mountain crest,
With 'pretty, pretty',
Cometh the partridge from her nest;
The flowers threw kisses sweet to her
(For all the flowers that bloomed knew her);
Yet hasteneth she to mine and me--
Ah! pretty, pretty;
Ah! dear little partridge!
And when I hear the partridge cry
So pretty, pretty,
Upon the house-top, breakfast I;
She comes a-chirping far and wide,
And swinging from the mountain side--
I see and hear the dainty dear!
Ah! pretty, pretty;
Ah! dear little partridge!
Thy nest's inlaid with posies rare.
And pretty, pretty
Bloom violet, rose, and lily there;
The place is full of balmy dew
(The tears of flowers in love with you!)
And one and all impassioned call;
'O pretty, pretty--
O dear little partridge!'
Thy feathers they are soft and sleek--
So pretty, pretty!
Long is thy neck and small thy breast;
The color of thy plumage far
More bright than rainbow colors are!
Sweeter than dove is she I love--
My pretty, pretty--
My dear little partridge!
When comes the partridge from the tree,
So pretty, pretty!
And sings her little hymn to me,
Why, all the world is cheered thereby--
The heart leaps up into the eye,
And echo then gives back again
Our 'Pretty, pretty,'
Our 'Dear little partridge!'
Admitting the most blest of all
And pretty, pretty,
The birds come with thee at thy call;
In flocks they come and round they play,
And this is what they seem to say--
They say and sing, each feathered thing;
'Ah! pretty, pretty;
Ah! dear little partridge!'
poem by Eugene Field
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Old Toy Trains
Old toy trains, little toy tracks,
Little toy drums, coming from a sack,
Carried by a man dressed in white and red,
Little boy don't you think it's time you were in bed.
Close your eyes and listen to the skies,
All is calm and all is well,
Soon you'll hear Kris Kringle and the jingle bells.
Bringing old toy trains, little toy tracks,
Little toy drums, coming from a sack,
Carried by a man dressed in white and red,
Little boy don't you think it's time you were in bed.
Close your eyes and listen to the skies,
All is calm and all is well,
Soon you'll hear Kris Kringle and the jingle bells.
Bringing old toy trains, little toy tracks,
Little toy drums, coming from a sack,
Carried by a man dressed in white and red,
Little boy don't you think it's time you were in bed.
song performed by by Toby Keith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Summer's Last Will and Testament (excerpt)
1 Spring, the sweet spring, is the year's pleasant king,
2 Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,
3 Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing:
4 Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
5 The palm and may make country houses gay,
6 Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,
7 And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay:
8 Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
9 The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
10 Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,
11 In every street these tunes our ears do greet:
12 Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to witta-woo!
poem by Thomas Nashe
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Spring, the Sweet Spring
Spring, the sweet spring, is the year's pleasant king,
Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,
Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing:
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
The palm and may make country houses gay,
Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,
And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay:
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,
In every street these tunes our ears do greet:
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to witta-woo!
poem by Thomas Nashe
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