Grey Stones
I picked the stones grey,
Over eighty years aged.
When on them my ears lay,
Hear the melodies
Composed in yore days…
Music removes dust on my ancient mansion
With countless empty rooms,
All in antique fashion:
Miracles and mysteries
Hover over it always.
My rich grandmother
Ever spreads her wings,
And the rustics poor seek refuge under;
Homes father with cakes
And gather the kids with open beaks.
Behold the cat eyed maid,
Through my windows,
And the twigs of henna plant bloomed,
Fetching the water in pots made of clays
Along the grove of coconut trees.
The palm tree shed blood at noon,
When it was cut;
The cowherd did swoon
The ghost caught: events
So strange told and retold by servants.
Vrischika, the month of winds unceasing
Looses the knots of dream,
Brings the fragrance of jasmine buds blooming,
And the song of cuckoo does deem
Lulling my lover at moonlight dim.
…Grand house…deserted…vanished in the ashes grey
In a summer fire dance wild,
Leaving only the stones grey.
Sometimes, the heart loses its fire,
Then, no fear, stones play on the inner lyre.
poem by Fabiyas M V
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Related quotes
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
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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
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Stones
Stones
Stones would play inside her head
And where she slept,
They made her bed
And she would ache
For love and get but stones
La la la la la la la la la
Lordy, child
A good days comin
And Ill be there to let the sun in
And bein lost
Is worth the comin home
La la la la la la la la la on stones
You and me, a time for planting
You and me, a harvest granting
The every prayer ever prayed
For just two wild flowers that grow
La la la la la la la la la on stones
Mmmmmmmm.....
song performed by by Neil Diamond
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Secret Life of Stones
Stones are family. They move in earth and water and are so strong
they cannot be beaten. Stones live within themselves without fear.
They change in winter through ice and in summer through sun.
Without regret they may turn to dust, eternal in changed forms.
They are distant from foolishness and do not hurt for scant reason.
On a summer evening I will take a stone in the palm of my hand
and thus address you
On the last day let me be you
You are proved to be the better.
poem by Leslie Philibert
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The Praise of Dust
'What of vile dust?' the preacher said.
Methought the whole world woke,
The dead stone lived beneath my foot,
And my whole body spoke.
'You, that play tyrant to the dust,
And stamp its wrinkled face,
This patient star that flings you not
Far into homeless space.
'Come down out of your dusty shrine
The living dust to see,
The flowers that at your sermon's end
Stand blazing silently.
'Rich white and blood-red blossom; stones,
Lichens like fire encrust;
A gleam of blue, a glare of gold,
The vision of the dust.
'Pass them all by: till, as you come
Where, at a city's edge,
Under a tree - I know it well -
Under a lattice ledge,
'The sunshine falls on one brown head.
You, too, O cold of clay,
Eater of stones, may haply hear
The trumpets of that day
'When God to all his paladins
By his own splendour swore
To make a fairer face than heaven,
Of dust and nothing more.'
poem by G.K. Chesterton from The Wild Knight and Other Poems (1900)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Grey Goshawk
There is a flutter in the trees,
And now a sudden, dread unease
Stills all the bushland melodies
Amid the gums;
Stills now the song of wren and thrush,
Robin and honeyeater hush.
Now, with a swoop, a whistling rush,
Grey goshawk comes.
I am the threat: the dread king.
Grim Azrael, is on the wing,
And every little living thing
Dares scarce a breath.
And now a parrot, shrill with fear,
Flies dodging there and doubling here
Thro' inlaced limbs, in mad career
From lusting death.
Grey ghost, grey death, I work my will
O'er forest dense, o'er wood hill,
And on some tree-top rend my kill
With reddened beak.
There is no have in the tree,
There is no habor safe from me;
In many a singing sanctuary
My meat I seek.
Beware! The swift grey ghost is out!
Be still! Grey death lurks near about!
Crouch close! Shrink low! ... But have no doubt
I've marked my kill.
Grim nemesis. I never fail;
Gaint hunger is my spur, my flail.
I feast. And now away I sail
O'er the far hill.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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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
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The grey monotony of winter
Winter, these days,
reminds me of grey and orange,
of faded mosses and polished stones,
of icy sheen and black sheer,
of falling white leaves and winter flowers,
of the torquiosire sky and fading sunlight,
the dusty windows now covered with snow,
Its the grey monotony of winter that I love!
poem by Amatulla Mohammadi
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As the wind caresses me through the w indow...
Delighted
The hoarse voiced crows
Caw caw as a veil of grey-black
Stealthily spreads on hills and the sea
Surprisingly the cawing sounds music
To the dry ears longing to hear
The tip tap of raindrops on the earth
The roar of thunder is music pr excellence
As the heart cocks its ears to absorb
Each and every nuance
The dragon flies dance in maniac rhythm
Their wings pitted against the erratic winds
Somewhere within my niche
Something stirs to life…
22sep2010
14.58hrs
poem by Indira Babbellapati
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Dancing? ? ?
Your music 'tis filled with rubatos-
A slow dance gone very wrong-
Surrounded by my guardian angels-
With Gods forgiveness, i sing His Psalms.
His light shining brightly-
His leading of my way-
On the straight and narrow path-
Where Gods children play.
Rumors gone wild for three decades-
Laced with treacherous adjectives-
Believe none of what you hear-
And only a fourth of what you see.
Lost in your music as always-
I am afraid i just cannot follow-
Your tempo 'tis too dark and unforgiving-
A slow dance that is much too hollow.
Empty and yet full of inuendo-
Severe judgement so undeserved-
Your music 'tis filled with rubatos-
Leaving me empty, yet pitifully un-nerved.
Cast your stones unto the wind-
Be not of my joy filled days-
For the darkness living inside of you-
Has burned what feeling i had left for you-
(turned to ashes and blown away)
(Dust In The Wind Of My Life)
1974-2009
poem by Theodora Onken
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A-Roving
WHEN the sap runs up the tree.
And the vine runs o’er the wall,
When the blossom draws the bee,
From the forest comes a call,
Wild, and clear, and sweet, and strange,
Many-tongued and murmuring
Like the river in the range—
’Tis the joyous voice of Spring!
On the boles of grey, old trees,
See the flying sunbeams play
Mystic, soundless melodies—
A fantastic march and gay;
But the young leaves hear them—hark
How they rustle, every one!—
And the sap beneath the bark
Hearing, leaps to meet the sun.
Oh, the world is wondrous fair
When the tide of life’s at flood!
There is magic in the air,
There is music in the blood;
And a glamour draws us on
To the distance, rainbow-spanned,
And the road we tread upon
Is the road to Fairyland.
Lo! the elders hear the sweet
Voice, and know the wondrous song;
And their ancient pulses beat
To a tune forgotten long;
And they talk in whispers low,
With a smile and with a sigh,
Of the years of long ago,
And the roving days gone by.
poem by Victor James Daley
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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
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Gypsy Dance of love
We danced like gypsies in the heat of day,
and matched our colors bright and gay,
and music strings brought tears of love,
and bands of strolling players moved above,
our village tent.
Then when the music stops, and day
of love is done, and colors then are grey,
I will recall the gypsy dance and flame,
and call it back from lowered calming fire.
For we did dance and we did sing,
and we did love with every Spring,
as summer heat lit up the lovers field,
no winter snow will ice what we did feel.
I will recall the gypsy dance and fire,
and if your gone i will be sad and tire,
for in my heart and dreams you stay,
and we can dance the night away,
in dreams.
For true love never leaves the heart,
it is the guide to follow life's uneven chart,
though grey, I will recall the gypsy dance,
to fire my dreams,
the kiln of life,
now with an aged stance.
For we did dance and we did sing,
and we did love with every Spring,
as Summer heat lit up the lovers field,
no winter snow will ice what we did feel.
poem by Bernard Kennedy
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The Praise of Dust
'What of vile dust?' the preacher said.
Methought the whole world woke,
The dead stone lived beneath my foot,
And my whole body spoke.
'You, that play tyrant to the dust,
And stamp its wrinkled face,
This patient star that flings you not
Far into homeless space.
'Come down out of your dusty shrine
The living dust to see,
The flowers that at your sermon's end
Stand blazing silently.
'Rich white and blood-red blossom; stones,
Lichens like fire encrust;
A gleam of blue, a glare of gold,
The vision of the dust.
'Pass them all by: till, as you come
Where, at a city's edge,
Under a tree-I know it well-
Under a lattice ledge,
'The sunshine falls on one brown head.
You, too, O cold of clay,
Eater of stones, may haply hear
The trumpets of that day
'When God to all his paladins
By his own splendour swore
To make a fairer face than heaven,
Of dust and nothing more.'
poem by Gilbert Keith Chesterton
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The Turn Of The Road
WHERE confident, calm I strode,
I walk with hesitant feet;
For at yonder turn of the road
What shall I meet?
The youth of the day has gone,
And my shadow goes before;
I know that the road runs on —
I know no more.
I have travelled a goodly way,
As one at a glance may see,
Since the East and the break o' day
Called out to me.
Though the highway be hard to miss
With its signs and stones and such,
The worst of the road is this —
It turns too much.
For a part of its length it flows
(Too brief is that stretch, alas!)
'Twixt hedges of palm and rose,
O'er fern and grass.
The butterfly fancies flit
On their lit wings, gossamer-frail;
And a host of roysterers sit
At cakes and ale.
With the flight of their glory hour,
The Fancies flutter and die;
And the nectared heart of the flower
Grows sere and dry.
Though the cakes and ale are done,
And the roysterer's moment gone,
Yet under the slanting sun
The road winds on.
Good-bye to the flower and fern,
And the hedges at each grass-side! —
Maybe at the next road-turn
New pleasures hide.
New pleasures? 'Tis turned, and lo!
Hot miles and a driving dust
'Twixt trees that are grey as woe,
Gnarled limbs out-thrust!
Yet Hope is a bright allure,
A light in the hearts of men —
At the end of a league, for sure,
'Twill turn again.
Though the highway be hard to miss
With its signs and stones and such,
The best of the road is this —
It turns so much!
Towards the turn of the roadway you
I walk with hesitant feet;
When I come to the turn, anon —
What shall I meet?
poem by Roderic Quinn
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At Cashel
ABOVE me stand, worn from their ancient use,
The King's, the Bishop's, and the Warrior's house,
Quiet as folds upon a grassy knoll:
Stark-grey they stand, wall joined to ancient wall,
Chapel, and Castle, and Cathedral.
It is not they are old, but stone by stone
Into another lifetime they have grown,
The life of memories an old man has:
They dream upon what things have come to pass,
And know that stones grow friendly with the grass.
The name has crumbled CASHEL that has come
From conqueror-challenging CASTELLUM
Walls m a name! No citadel is here,
Now as a fane the empty walls uprear
Where green and greener grass spreads far and near!
poem by Padraic Colum
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Psalm 49
Listen all ye people, rich and poor
Open up your ears and hear my heart
The rich man rests in the abundance of his wealth
Yet from this earth he surely shall depart
Oh rich man will your money, buy your brother's soul
Or will you take your money to the grave?
Will you not die, like any other man
And after death how will your money save?
You may conquer many lands, and build a house of gold
And upon the lintel have your name engraved
You may gather costly diamonds and heap up precious stones
Yet despite all this your soul shall not be saved
How foolish is the man, who only lives for gain?
He is foolish in heart and all his ways
He shall die with all the rest, they shall lay him in the grave
And in the darkness spend eternal days
poem by Frank McEleny
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Strange Fire
I come to you with strange fire
I make an offering of love
The incense of my soul is burned
By the fire in my blood
I come with a softer answer
To the questions that lie in your path
I want to harbor you from the anger
Find a refuge from the wrath
This is a message
A message of love
Love that moves from the inside out
Love that never grows tired
I come to you with strange fire
Fire
Mercenaries of the shrine
Now who are you to speak for god
With haughty eyes and lying tongues
And hands that shed innocent blood
Now who delivered you the power
To interpret calvary
You gamble away our freedom
To gain your own authority
Find another state of mind
You know its time we all learned
To grab hold
Strange fire burns
With the motion of love
Fire
Fire
When you learn to love yourself
You will dissolve all the stones that are cast
Now you will learn to burn the icing sky
To melt the waxen mask
I said to have the gift of true release
This is a peace that will take you higher
Oh I come to you with my offering
I bring you strange fire
This is a message
A message of love
Love that moves from the inside out
Love that never grows tired
I come to you with strange fire
Fire
Fire
I come to you with strange fire
song performed by by Indigo Girls
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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She
She grew up without very much
She didn't know who her father was
She met a boy and her heart he stole
So she gave him all her body and soul
She's not ready to face
The outcome of their mistake
It's brought her nothing but pain
And she's too young for this fate
SHE'S ALONE
CAUGHT UP IN THE UNDERTOW
WHERE IT TAKES HER NO ONE KNOWS
THAT'S HOW IT GOES, THAT'S HOW IT GOES
WHEN WE THROW STONES
People denied and criticized
They sent her away isolated
Caught in a bad dream, her plea rejected
They left her alone and neglected
They put her out on display
Showcasing all her mistakes
She's worn out and she's afraid
Why does it always happen this way?
[refrain]
She went to them for help
But blindly they cast the first stone
They could have taken her in
Instead they left her on her own
All alone
[refrain]
When we throw stones at the wounded
We throw stones at the brokenhearted
That's how it goes when we throw stones
song performed by by ZoeGirl
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Rucksack Full Of Stones
A Babe…
Born perfect, innocent, ready
Cast into a corrupt world
Parents eagerly present
A family heirloom
A patchwork rucksack
Part-filled with stones
To a wide-eyed child
Begins the journey…
Child given stones of many shapes, sizes
Stones of pity, sorrow, fear, trauma
Stones filled with words like “No”
Stones filled with ugly phrases
Stones filled with abuse, punishment, pain
Rucksack seams burgeon
A growing Soul shouts
“Enough”
Emptying begins…
Through lessons, experiences, prayer
One by one
Removed the stones
Rucksack lightens
By the Grace of God,
Finally emptied
Another Babe born
Rucksack beckons
“Not this time”
Rucksack flung
Into Wisdom’s Fire
Consumed
Ends a vicious cycle…
poem by Ray Lucero
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