To One Dead
A blackbird singing
On a moss-upholstered stone,
Bluebells swinging,
Shadows wildly blown,
A song in the wood,
A ship on the sea.
The song was for you
and the ship was for me.
A blackbird singing
I hear in my troubled mind,
Bluebells swinging,
I see in a distant wind.
But sorrow and silence,
Are the wood's threnody,
The silence for you
and the sorrow for me.
poem by Francis Ledwidge
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The Blackbird's Song
The blackbird's song it takes me far away
To northern Land and to a distant day
His kin birds sang all day until sundown
In leafy groves just out of Millstreet Town.
A blackbird piping on a blackwood tree
Awake the nostalgic memories in me
Again I walk the lush green fields in Spring
And hear the wild birds on the hedgerows sing.
Bluebells bloom by the hedge by the bohreen
And cock pheasant often heard though seldom seen
In the knee high rushes clap his wings and crow
By their calls and songs the birds you get to know.
The distance from the home fields may be long
But whenever the migrant hear the blackbird's song
He or she will see the lushness brought by rain
And walk through fields where wild flowers bloom again.
To it the blackbird's song has a nostalgic ring
It takes the migrant to a distant Spring
And though far distant the Homeland near 'twould seem
And the dipper's song is echoing in the stream.
I thought this thing nostalgia I'd outgrown
But the blackbird's song it carries me back home
And I walk the high fields where I walked before
Up to the hill through the wood at Claramore
poem by Francis Duggan
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Where No Bells Toll
There is a wood
where we played as children
and bluebells grow
When you came home
after seeing the rape of Zimbabwe
we picked bluebells
When you came home
from the killing fields of Iraq
we picked bluebells
When you came home
from the poppy fields of Afghanistan
we picked bluebells
When you came home
telling of monks beaten in Tibet
we picked bluebells
When you came home
from the line of fire on the Gaza Strip
it was in a coffin
There is a wood
where history plays tricks on us
and bluebells grow
poem by Roger Taber
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The Blackbird Metaphor
the Beatles had it
as the struggle for freedom of the blacks
that blackbird singing in the dark
wanting to be free
the Americans
had that blackbird swirling in Vietnam
that chopper that saved lives
that war that caused them humiliation
in the world's opinion
that lie of Nixon
Steven Wallace had eight ways of seeing
that blackbird
Noah sent that blackbird
that did not come back since it was happy
picking on the rotten flesh
of the remains of the dead
the ninth way
of seeing
disobedience
One writes again about the blackbird
that lives singing the songs of neurosis
in his mind
at winter time
The poet commits suicide
His colleagues bury him
with eulogies and ' what ifs'
One sleeps with a blackbird
The other sings with a blackbird
Someone flew away with a blackbird
and did not come back
since then
So many stories
So many poems are written
Now i have to write about this blackbird too
But there shall be no disturbance
No unhappy ending
I swear to you.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Japanese lullaby
Sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings,--
Little blue pigeon with velvet eyes;
Sleep to the singing of mother-bird swinging--
Swinging the nest where her little one lies.
Away out yonder I see a star,--
Silvery star with a tinkling song;
To the soft dew falling I hear it calling--
Calling and tinkling the night along.
In through the window a moonbeam comes,--
Little gold moonbeam with misty wings;
All silently creeping, it asks, "Is he sleeping--
Sleeping and dreaming while mother sings?"
Up from the sea there floats the sob
Of the waves that are breaking upon the shore,
As though they were groaning in anguish, and moaning--
Bemoaning the ship that shall come no more.
But sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings,--
Little blue pigeon with mournful eyes;
Am I not singing?--see, I am swinging--
Swinging the nest where my darling lies.
poem by Eugene Field
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Sad Sad Sorrow
The crow sits there
Atop a willow branch
Singing the sad sad song
Of sorrow
Warning you
The end is near
You dismiss the thought
And cover your ears
From the retched cawing
Of the crow
It follows you
Where ever you go
It's a burden
On your shoulder's low
You try to understand
What the crow means
You're sitting on your bed
And you hear
A distant tapping
On your window
The crow
You see it crying
Tears of a dark angel
You jump back
Startled
And try to catch your breath
You go to the window
But the crow's gone
And you begin to feel
All alone
You look down
And see one of its feathers
With its dark magic
And mystic wonder
You roll it over
Between your fingertips
And hear it singing
The song
Of sad sad sorrow
You piece together the puzzle
Tears of an angel
Feathers of dark magic
And the sad sad sorrow song
It's the end
The end is near
The day the crow left
So did you
And now all you hear
Is the song of
Sad sad sorrow
Tierra Bradley
poem by Tierra Bradley
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Silence
I awake to silence and in silence I sleep
Silence to silent me, I silently weep
Away in silence for silence to hear
The sorrow in between both mine ear.
I think in silence, I mediate in peace
Thinking peacefully in silence I cease
All the sorrow that embosoms me
All the silence, that silence be
Whatever silence is, for silence tis
My beauty, my desire, my Adonis
poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
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Bye Bye Blackbird
Fletcher henderson, dixon
Pack up all my cares and woe, here I go, singing low,
Bye-bye blackbird.
Where somebody waits for me, sugars sweet, so is she,
Bye-bye blackbird.
No one here can love and understand me.
Oh -- what hard-luck stories they all hand me.
Make my bed and light the light
Ill arrive late tonight,
Blackbird, bye-bye.
song performed by by Nina Simone
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Am I dying in your Silence?
Silence is a sure killer
For your silence kills
Kills me slowly and softly
Your silence is like a song
Sung silently but killing me at the same time.
I hear a song in the quiet of the room
and in the still of the air
A song of our love
A song of our life
Every word in it
Has so much meaning and pain
I hear you singing that song
So soulfully, but hurting me at the same.
In silence I bear the pain
As Life goes by
The colorful past seems all over
A new day is born
And a new life has begun
Sometimes I crave to just
A hear a few words from you
But you just seem to ignore me
And pretend like I was not there
Like a few drops of water
that quench my thirst
So do I miss a few words from you.
Yes, I miss you
For your silence is killing
And I am waiting
For a few words
To show me a sunny day
Or even a rainbow in the sky.
poem by Debra Masky
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Belles of Blue
The Scent of Bluebells brush the soul
And melt your tears away,
A gentle breeze through leafy trees
Gives purpose to your day.
The Shape of Bluebells cheers the heart
And lifts your spirit up,
Pure bells of joy sweet bells of cheer
To drain the bitter cup
The Smile of Bluebells clears the mind
And turns your fears to joy,
A smile to lighten all mankind
And every Girl and Boy.
The Sight of Bluebells in the wood
Confirms that Spring is here,
A carpet of the purest blue
To fill our lives with cheer.
The Strength of Bluebells is their 'Blue'
A colour so divine,
A lovely bright and heavenly hue
Sent from God's heart to mine.
The Source of Bluebells is the LORD
They grow at His command,
For by His own creative power
Each tree and flower was planned.
The Secret of the Blubells power
Lies in the joy it brings,
Inside the heart of every flower
The 'Joy of Heaven' rings.
Dedicated to all the lovely Belles in the PH Family
(John Knight - Colchester - October 2009)
poem by John Knight
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I Hid My Love
I hid my love when young till I
Couldn't bear the buzzing of a fly;
I hid my love to my despite
Till I could not bear to look at light;
I dare not gaze upon her face
But left her memory in each place;
Where'er I saw a wild flower lie
I kissed and bade my love goodbye.
I met her in the greenest dells,
Where dewdrops pearl the wood bluebells;
The lost breeze kissed her bright blue eye,
The bee kissed and went singing by,
A sunbeam found a passage there,
A gold chain round her neck so fair;
As secret as the wild bee's song
She lay there all the summer long.
I hid my love in field and town
Till e'en the breeze would knock me down;
The bees seemed singing ballads o'er,
The fly's bass turned to lion's roar;
And even the silence found a tongue,
To haunt me all the summer long;
The riddle nature could not prove
Was nothing else but secret love.
poem by John Clare
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I'm Singing
I’m Singing…
I’m Singing a New Song…
Deep Inside my Heart…
It’s a Song…that is different from any other song I have sung before…
It is a Song of…
A Song of Hope,
A Song of Love,
A Song of Fate,
A Song of Peace,
A Song of Friendship,
A Song of Family,
A Song of Life,
A Song of Healing,
A Song of Strength,
A Song of Courage,
A Song of Light,
A Song of Flight…
My Heart is beginning to Soar…
I’m finally starting to Fly…
I’m Singing…
poem by Bleeding Heart
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To hear a blackbird sing
To hear a blackbird sing is such a pleasure to our ears
so full of promise, hope and without fear
there he stands so proud and at ease
as whispers blow along a summers breeze
of memories of long summers past
like warm still evenings upon the mind that last
of frantic family BBQ's with much chat and laughter
the blackbird sings of happy ever after
Their songs are so similar to angels sighs that blow
always for joy, not to boast or glow
if you are ever sat troubled remember those days
sat in the garden of a summers golden haze
single out the blackbird and listen to his joy of each day
and hold it close to your heart, for always
for no matter what joy or difficulties life brings
we can always rely on the joy in the way a blackbird sings
From the stillness of dusk to the glory of dawn
the promise of life like the birth of a fawn
songs that burst forth from the darkness to light
lifting us from the depths to a future so bright
it doesn't matter how down we can be
his song brings us hope for all to see
wherever we are, wherever we go
the blackbird will always be there with the best darn show!
poem by Alison Drew
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The Fighting Téméraire
It was eight bells ringing,
For the morning watch was done,
And the gunner's lads were singing
As they polished every gun.
It was eight bells ringing,
And the gunner's lads were singing,
For the ship she rode a-swinging,
As they polished every gun.
Oh! to see the linstock lighting,
Téméraire! Téméraire!
Oh! to hear the round shot biting,
Téméraire! Téméraire!
Oh! to see the linstock lighting,
And to hear the round shot biting,
For we're all in love with fighting
On the fighting Téméraire.
It was noontide ringing,
And the battle just begun,
When the ship her way was winging,
As they loaded every gun.
It was noontide ringing,
When the ship her way was winging,
And the gunner's lads were singing
As they loaded every gun.
There'll be many grim and gory,
Téméraire! Téméraire!
There'll be few to tell the story,
Téméraire! Téméraire!
There'll be many grim and gory,
There'll be few to tell the story,
But we'll all be one in glory
With the Fighting Téméraire.
There's a far bell ringing
At the setting of the sun,
And a phantom voice is singing
Of the great days done.
There's a far bell ringing,
And a phantom voice is singing
Of renown for ever clinging
To the great days done.
Now the sunset breezes shiver,
Téméraire! Téméraire!
And she's fading down the river,
Téméraire! Téméraire!
Now the sunset's breezes shiver,
And she's fading down the river,
But in England's song for ever
She's the Fighting Téméraire.
poem by Sir Henry Newbolt
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Garden and cradle
When our babe he goeth walking in his garden,
Around his tinkling feet the sunbeams play;
The posies they are good to him,
And bow them as they should to him,
As fareth he upon his kingly way;
And birdlings of the wood to him
Make music, gentle music, all the day,
When our babe he goeth walking in his garden.
When our babe he goeth swinging in his cradle,
Then the night it looketh ever sweetly down;
The little stars are kind to him,
The moon she hath a mind to him
And layeth on his head a golden crown;
And singeth then the wind to him
A song, the gentle song of Bethlem-town,
When our babe he goeth swinging in his cradle.
poem by Eugene Field
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I Hear America Singing
I Hear America singing, the varied carols I hear;
Those of mechanics--each one singing his, as it should be, blithe and strong;
The carpenter singing his, as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his, as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work;
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat--the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck;
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench--the hatter singing as he stands;
The wood-cutter's song--the ploughboy's, on his way in the morning, or at the noon intermission, or at sundown;
The delicious singing of the mother--or of the young wife at work--or of the girl sewing or washing--Each singing what belongs to her, and to none else;
The day what belongs to the day--At night, the party of young fellows, robust, friendly,
Singing, with open mouths, their strong melodious songs.
poem by Walt Whitman
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A Song For You
(leon russell)
Ive been so many places
In my life and time
Ive sung a lot of songs
I made some bad rhymes
Ive acted out my life in stages
Ten thousand people watching
But were alone now
Im singing this song for you
I know your image of me
Is what I hope to be
I treated you unkindly
But darling cant you see?
Theres no-one more important to me
Oh, baby, cant you please see through me?
cause were alone now and
Im singing this song for you
You taught me precious secrets
Of the truth withholding nothing
You came out in front
I was hiding
Oh, but now Im so much better
If the words dont come together
Just listen to the melody
cause my love in there hiding
Ooh, ooh
Oh, I love you in a place
Where theres no space or time
Love you for my life
You are a friend of mine
And when my life is over
Remember when we were together
We were alone and
I was singing this song for you
We were alone
I was singing this song for you, oh
Singing
I was singing, singing, singing, singing, singing this song for you
Oh, yes
Singing this song for you
song performed by by Dusty Springfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Do Yiu Listen..Or Do U Hear
s the sun rises, , all is quite no chatter of people no cars goin by
but in this silence i hear
i hear the wind as she sings her song
i hear the birds in the sky as they fly by
this is the best silence of all
no phones ringing, no engines reviing as they race by
i hear everything in nature in its glory
can u hear it too..or can u not silence ur selfs
i hear the clouds as they roll in
its this silence that i take pen in hand
and write
u think as u read but thier is no silence
for u can hear the horses roam
u can hear the thunder off in th distance
but when we are loud we caint hear
the beauty of what surrounds
so as u read this poem silence ur mind
and next time u walk out side
silence you mouth ur mind
and u can see silence of the
of all things
then u can truly hear
as i do
and a beautfull sound to see
greyicewolf
.
poem by Jeff Greyicewolf
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A Song of Enchantment
A song of Enchantment I sang me there,
In a green-green wood, by waters fair,
Just as the words came up to me
I sang it under the wild wood tree.
Widdershins turned I, singing it low,
Watching the wild birds come and go;
No cloud in the deep dark blue to be seen
Under the thick-thatched branches green.
Twilight came: silence came:
The planet of Evening's silver flame;
By darkening paths I wandered through
Thickets trembling with drops of dew.
But the music is lost and the words are gone
Of the song I sang as I sat alone,
Ages and ages have fallen on me -
On the wood and the pool and the elder tree.
poem by Walter de la Mare
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A Good Friend To Me
The gold billed blackbird whistling upon the the garden tree
For the past few years a good neighbour to me
He whistles every day all through the Spring
And his song to it has a distinctive ring.
From the other all dark males of his race him I know
Since on his left wing a few flight feathers white as snow
He tells other males of his kind in his song
This patch of ground to me and mine belong.
Each time I hear the blackbird pipe and sing
My thoughts return to the far northern Spring
On Spring evenings in groves by Millstreet Town
The blackbirds pipe before the sun goes down.
The blackbird whistling on the wattle tree
He only sings to proclaim territory
His neighbour males the warning in his song hear
And his border they dare not venture near.
The blackbird in the garden a good friend to me
I know him by sight each time him I see
By the few white feathers on his left side wing
And his song it takes me to the Northern Spring.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Route March
Did you hear the children singing, O my brothers?
Did you hear the children singing as our troops went marching past?
In the sunshine and the rain,
As they’ll never sing again—
Hear the little school-girls singing as our troops went swinging past?
Did you hear the children singing, O my brothers?
Did you hear the children singing for the first man and the last?
As they marched away and vanished,
To a tune we thought was banished—
Did you hear the children singing for the future and the past?
Shall you hear the children singing, O my brothers?
Shall you hear the children singing in the sunshine or the rain?
There’ll be sobs beneath the ringing
Of the cheers, and ’neath the singing
There’ll be tears of orphan children when
Our Boys come back again!
poem by Henry Lawson
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