Far Out In The Wilderness (Terzanelle)
Far out in the wilderness
I have come upon a thrush
far from its nest, singing in happiness
where knee high grass brush,
where grass is bristling
I have come upon a thrush
While some weeds do sting
where it with joy does sing
where grass is bristling
in a sound that is sweet and clearly does ring
with a blessing that is serene and profound
where it with joy does sing
in the most beautiful sound
as if it's praising the creator
with a blessing that is serene and profound
I heard the little great orator
far out in the wilderness
as if it's praising the creator
far from its nest, singing in happiness.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Nightingales (Roundelay)
Barren are the hillocks, the cliffs and streams
in the wilderness where the sun harshly beams
where you nest, learn your joyous sublime sound,
filling many nights with something profound
where you sing at times right up to the dawn
and to your sweet voice many men are drawn
while it is echoes through the sky and ground
filling many nights with something profound.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Of Winged Things (Corona Of Wreathed Quatrains)
I. A yellow weaver
Time and again I see it fluttering
a small thing on the gate of the driveway
each day stretching, shaking its tiny wings,
while it sings, it’s as if I see it play
to portray a game that just weavers knows,
as the breeze blows it is twittering,
with feathers shining, quickly out it throws
in a own show paws and beak and its wing;
delighting with feathers yellow and sleek
somewhat meek I see it with colours shining,
with dogs wining giving me a small peek,
in the week I hear a pretty bird sing.
II. A black-collard barbet
During the week I hear a pretty bird sing
joy it brings to my old stuffy study
joy of being free, right where it’s sitting,
it sings as if it is singing only to me
very sublimely it visits me daily
in pure glee with a voice quite startling,
it sings from early light happy and gaily,
in beauty the notes keeps on ringing,
something happens and one day it is gone,
it moves on and I watch until darkness;
missing its kindness, I am the only one,
on a stone it’s out in the wilderness.
III. A thrush
To bless it is out in the wilderness
displaying goodness far from its own nest
singing at its best in pure happiness
without distress far away from the rest;
very modest I came upon a thrush
in the bush blessing me totally profound,
I did it found, in the veldt, deep into the brush,
in a holy hush I heard the loveliest sound
of unbound glory somewhere on a branch,
nothing could enhance its beauty on the eye
it was shy as on it I did then glance;
by mere chance, I heard a jubilant cry.
IV. A singing falcon
As I passed by, I heard a jubilant cry,
I felt as if I was very unworthy
in serenity it was ringing from the sky,
where high up it did fly and came to me.
Quite free I saw a forlorn bird trembling
a shadowing spectre against the blue,
reflecting its hue, it was again singing;
on a wing notes of its clear voice were true.
The sound did subdue, it was wavering,
becoming a small thing by its own choice,
it had poise with the high hill answering;
in spring in nature I heard a quiet voice.
V. A bush shrike
Not by choice I heard a very quiet voice,
a voice that was soft but still quite sublime
in its sheer prime outdoing all human noise,
turquoise the sky glowed at that time
like a perfect rhyme when least expecting it,
it did fit in its presence filled with joy,
without ploy it sang a song bit by bit
high notes it hit as a Godly envoy,
like a hidden decoy it was singing clearly,
it spoke to me, sang directly to the heart,
from the start it caught me very early,
bringing tranquillity in its joyful art.
VI. A raven
Apart from my life of some joyful art
in it did dart with a gleaming black coat
croaking like a goat, but looking quite smart,
it did depart with a sudden screeching note,
it was remote in the beyond that pleases him
getting dim past the old church’s weather vane,
like a stain, but my eyes began to swim
my sight was slim like a dirty window pane,
I felt inane and at its chosen height
almost out of sight against the blue sky,
it went by in its strong travelling flight,
it might draw me, fluttering it does fly.
VII A butterfly
When it is dry, fluttering it does fly,
to catch it I try, as it searches nectar,
near and far using its curios eye,
as a spy or like a wandering star
going over tar and inspecting tenderly
quite free acting with care, acting with grace
it does amaze finding a medley,
a sanctuary as it goes from place to place
it’s not commonplace, it’s without anxiety
that I see a lovely bright fragile thing,
thriving on a special variety
with almost piety I see it fluttering.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Mowing
There was not a sound
but that of the machine
that howl against the sky
and magically sheared the grass
from where it grew.
No bushes of grass, or even weeds
could keep its length
when that yellow long necked
Weedeater appeared.
Grass, weeds and stems
were scattered everywhere
and underneath, with the smell
of mown grass in the air
a beautiful lawn appeared.
poem by Gert Strydom
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On Hearing A Grey Shrike Thrush Singing In The Rain
The grey thrush sing on branch of mountain gray
At twilight of a most Unspring like day
On October evening made damp by drizzling rain
And grey bird sing his same song o'er again.
And freshening wind has breath of winter sting
Seems more like Winter now than middle Spring
And wind driven rain fall from the darkening sky
And still the grey thrush pipes his notes of joy.
I wonder why he sing so merrily
On low down branch of noble gray gum tree
Could it be that he can tell from inner eye
That tomorrow's weather will be warm and dry?
Or could he sing that in some nearby tree
His wife on nest shelter new family?
And he tell his neighbours this my territory
And I'm now a dad 'oh lucky happy me'.
And why he sing should it matter anyway
His song at close of wet October day?
The weather dreary for the time of year
But grey thrush's notes sweet music to my ears.
poem by Francis Duggan
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On Hearing A Grey Shrike Thrush
The grey shrike thrush on branch of mountain gray
At twilight of a most Unspring like day
On October eve made damp by drizzling rain
And grey bird sing his same song o'er again
And freshening wind has breath of winter sting
Seems more like Winter now than middle Spring
And wind driven rain fall from the darkening sky
And still the gray thrush pipes his notes of joy.
I wonder why he sing so merrily
On low down branch of noble gray gum tree
Could it be that he can tell from inner eye
That tomorrow's weather will be warm and dry? .
Or could he sing that in some nearby tree
His wife on nest shelter new family
And he tell his neighbours this my territory
And I'm now a dad 'oh lucky happy me'? .
And why he sing should it matter anyway
His song at close of wet October day
The weather dreary for the time of year
But grey thrush's notes sweet music to the ear.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Wild Geese
(A Lament for the Irish Jacobites.)
I have heard the curlew crying
On a lonely moor and mere;
And the sea-gull's shriek in the gloaming
Is a lonely sound in the ear:
And I've heard the brown thrush mourning
For her children stolen away;--
But it's O for the homeless Wild Geese
That sailed ere the dawn of day!
For the curlew out on the moorland
Hath five fine eggs in the nest;
And the thrush will get her a new love
And sing her song with the best.
As the swallow flies to the Summer
Will the gull return to the sea:
But never the wings of the Wild Geese
Will flash over seas to me.
And 'tis ill to be roaming, roaming
With homesick heart in the breast!
And how long I've looked for your coming,
And my heart is the empty nest!
O sore in the land of the stranger
They'll pine for the land far away!
But day of Aughrim, my sorrow,
It was you was the bitter day!
poem by Katharine Tynan
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Grass
The world is all one smother of grass,
Waves of it rolling deep and green,
Clothing the paddocks’ gentle slope,
Laughing the brown tree-trunks between.
And some are praising the brilliant flowers,
The beauty of foliage as they pass,
But I am drinking its glory in
And thanking the Lord for grass, for grass!
The air is a-murmur with rippling sound
From jubilant creeks long fed with rain,
Singing of drought and travail past
And a bounteous earth drown young again-
An earth that is telling its thankfulness
With passionate rapture too deep for words
In acres and acres of waving grass,
Haven of promise to starving herds.
There’s a tangle of bloom in its moist green shade,
Mottled yam-flowers and gentians blue,
Small white stars that are honey sweet,
And nodding bluebells all drenched with dew.
And oh! The breath of its incense rare
As the summer breezes over it pass,
My heart is thrilling with voiceless prayer
And thanking the Giver of things for grass.
poem by Alice Guerin Crist
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Ministriles de marsias: stral fungente d amore
Ten angels praising
Ten angels singing
Alleluia alleluia alleluia
Praise be God
Praise be God
Of the MOST HIGH
Angelic voices
Pure pure pure
I am listening
My neck is growing
Giraffe like
My thorax is
Inflamed
The sound of heaven
Is to me, unbearable
Praise be God
Praise be God
I am listening and my ears are growing
Elephant like
I am flapping my spirit
The sound of heaven
Is to me, uncertain
Praise be God
Praise be God
The Most High
I marvel at the sound of ten angels singing
I marvel at the sound of the angels praising
My heart is growing
My body is shrinking
My brain is shrinking
Look! Look!
Praise be God
Praise be God
The Most High
I am a huge heart
Jumping with joy
Filled with holy air
Like a rubber ball bouncing to the sky!
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Tuvvi Tuvvi
SERENADING THE SEASON OF SPRING WITH SMILES
ARE THE BIRDS SINGING MELODY OF TUVVI TUVVI
DANCING TO THE BEAUTY OF BLOOMING DAFFODILS
ARE THE LEAVES IN THE WIND WHISTLING TUVVI TUVVI
USHERING THE WARM SUNSHINE OF THE SPRING
ARE THE WALTZING SHADOWS SINGING TUVVI TUVVI
BORDERING THE GREEN GRASS ALL AROUND BEAMING
ARE THE SWAYING TREES SINGING TUVVI TUVVI
WELCOMING THE BRIGHT SPRING IS THE BEAUTIFUL MORNING
REFLECTING ITS LIGHT ON FLOWING STREAMS OF SINGING TUVVI TUVVI
SEEING THE SIGNS OF NEW LIFE PRAISING
ARE THE GRATEFUL HEARTS SINGING TUVVI TUVVI
BLOOMING ARE THE FLOWERS IN SPRING COLORS
INVITING THE BEES BUZZING TUVVI TUVVI
FILLING THIS WORLD WITH SWEET SOUNDS OF LAUGHTER
ARE THE CHILDREN SINGING TUVVI TUVVI
Transalation of Poem by KUVEMPU
poem by Mittur Ramprasad
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The Broken Soldier
The broken soldier sings and whistles day to dark;
He's but the remnant of a man, maimed and half-blind,
But the soul they could not harm goes singing like the lark,
Like the incarnate Joy that will not be confined.
The Lady at the Hall has given him a light task,
He works in the gardens as busy as a bee;
One hand is but a stump and his face a pitted mask;
The gay soul goes singing like a bird set free.
Whistling and singing like a linnet on wings;
The others stop to listen, leaning on the spade,
Whole men and comely, they fret at little things.
The soul of him's singing like a thrush in a glade.
Hither and thither, hopping, like Robin on the grass,
The soul in the broken man is beautiful and brave;
And while he weeds the pansies and the bright hours pass
The bird caught in the cage whistles its joyous stave.
poem by Katharine Tynan
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The Nest
That was the skylark we heard
Singing so high,
The little quivering bird
We saw, and the sky.
The earth was drenched with sun,
The sky was drenched with song;
We lay in the grass and listened,
Long and long and long.
I said, 'What a spell it is
Has made her rise
To pour out her world of bliss
In that world of skies!'
You said, 'What a spell must pass
Between sky and plain,
Since she finds in this world of grass
Her nest again!'
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Wilderness
Wilderness, wild, dress, deer, reeds, seeds, needs, in, dine, weeds, din, lines;
But to foretell the future belongs to the Creator! !
For we have all sinned and have come short of His Glory.
Wilderness, sine, wide, lesser, sin, is, less, red, den, led, wine, win, wise, rises;
We have to respect the way we live on this earth!
For there are laws and regulations;
But the future is always for the Creator.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Nothing is so beautiful as spring - when weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush; Thrush's eggs look little low heavens, and thrush through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring the ear, it strikes like lightning to hear him sing.
quote by Gerard Manley Hopkins
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Happiness is
Happiness is watching the sun rise in the east
As it gradually peeks over the canyon so grand
While watching it set in the west is quite a feast
All of it is through God our Creator's hand.
Happiness is walking barefoot along the beach
Salty ocean waves frothily rumbling ashore
The ebbs and the flows of the tides reach
Hot white sands sweeping them offshore.
Happiness is planting yellow sunflower seeds
Watering them daily watching them grow tall
Tenderly caring for them, removing the weeds
Blessed be to God ~ He made them all.
Happiness is in serving our neighbor and sharing
Loving one another in this world that we live in.
Happiness is being alone with God in praying,
Repenting of our sins and being forgiven,
Thanking and Praising Him for every gift given.
poem by Mel Patterson
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Spring
Nothing is so beautiful as spring --
When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush;
Thrush's eggs look little low heavens, and thrush
Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring
The ear, it strikes like lightnings to hear him sing;
The glassy peartree leaves and blooms, they brush
The descending blue; that blue is all in a rush
With richness; the racing lambs too have fair their fling.
What is all this juice and all this joy?
A strain of the earth's sweet being in the beginning
In Eden garden. -- Have, get, before it cloy,
Before it cloud, Christ, lord, and sour with sinning,
Innocent mind and Mayday in girl and boy,
Most, O maid's child, thy choice and worthy the winning.
poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins
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a Poem Of Silence
Silence is a beautiful thing.
no other sound is as great as silence.
Silence is the sound of nothing,
but it is still a sound.
even if a sound is great and amazing,
nothing can top the blissfulness of silence.
not the sound of wind on grass,
not the sound of laughter,
nothing is as beautiful as silence.
silence is a sound, but it is so much
better than any other sound.
What created such a far-off winner?
I love silence, silence is the best.
Never there will be a time that there
will be
a greater sound
than silence.
poem by Llew N. Rmail
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Gloria
Text: traditional french carol
Music: michael w. smith
(additional lyrics adapted from the song, angels we have heard on high)
Angels we have heard on high
Sweetly singing oer the pains
And the mountains in reply
Echo back their joyous strains
Gloria o gloria in excelsis deo
Come to bethlehem and see
(gloria o sing gloria)
Him whose birth the angels sing
(gloria o sing gloria)
Come adore on bended knee
Christ the lord the newborn king
Gloria o gloria in excelsis deo
Angels we have heard on high
(gloria o sing gloria)
Sweetly singing oer the plains
(gloria o sing gloria)
Jesus lord of heavn and earth
With us sing our saviors birth
Gloria o gloria in excelsis deo
Alleluia
song performed by by Michael W. Smith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When a lost bird flies to your roost in the fog
'You are very familiar but I think that you have missed your particular nest.'
The kind bird said.
'Yes, I know my dear but my nest is no more as it's scattered by the Easterly winds.
And I think a lone bird never let me go away isn't it? ' The beautiful singing bird questioned.
'You are most welcome sweet but my nest is not strong enough for the two of us and I have little doubts about the coming hurricane.' The kind lone bird replied
'Let the wind blows and take us away but not alone, now we could start singing together from the place where you have stopped.' And she smiled.
* To Alison & Jerry..................!
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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The Pheasant's Nest
On a warm evening on the second day of July
As I walked through the high grass upwards a bird did fly
A bantam sized mottled brown bird with low and short quick flight
Beyond the hedge she disappeared from sight.
There at my feet amongst the high grass as I looked down
In her simple nest her ten eggs of greeny brown
I dared not touch them on them only gazed
At such a thing of Natural beauty quite amazed.
By chance alone the hen pheasant's nest I'd found
Since I had walked the fields for miles around
And only once see a pheasant with her young they flew away
And amongst the high grass hidden they did stay.
A school friend of mine once raised pheasants in an outdoor cage
And he sold them to a gun club at their adult stage
The gun club in late September set them free
At the time of wild pheasants a scarcity.
I still recall that evening in July
The mottled pheasant from her nest did fly
And I was eight and of Nature little did know
And that was more than fifty years ago.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Profound Is the Sound of Silence
Profound is the sound of silence.
The acceptance of its presence,
Is immediate and welcomed.
Profound is the sound of silence.
The calmness of it is irresistable.
It seems to magnify in power.
Profound is the sound of silence.
So much when it arrives can be accomplished.
And so appreciated it is when it comes and gives.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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