En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Sometimes it’s as if my childhood days comes back

Sometimes it’s as if my childhood days
comes back to me unexpectedly
where the sheer beauty of things astounds me,
water that lies glistening in a river
how water reflects my face and in wrinkles disguises it

the smell of wild flowers hanging sweet in the air
and the colour and texture catching me
as if I am walking in an overgrown garden
full of singing birds

where I see clouds spread like flakes
covering the bright blue in little pieces
with spots of blue between the white
and it is as if for short moments I can return

to a place and time
full of joy and jolliness

poem by Gert Strydom
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Sometimes Its As If My Childhood Days Come Back

Sometimes it's as if my childhood days come back
and it's as if the colour and texture catches me
when I am astounded by the sheer beauty of things,

by the smell of flowers hanging in the air,
where I see clouds as flakes,
and it's as if the colour and texture catches me

that is spread over the bright blue in small pieces
that brings me back to another time and place
where I see clouds as flakes,

and I am again full of joy and happiness
and the whole sky is full with specks between the blue and white
that brings me back to another time and place,

to the memories of my childhood days
when I see the summer sun rising golden
and the whole sky is full with specks between the blue and white

and the birds and insects are of the loveliness some proof.
Sometimes it's as if my childhood days come back
when I see the summer sun rising golden,
when I am astounded by the sheer beauty of things.

poem by Gert Strydom
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When Days Get Long

I

When summer days get extremely long
the sky becomes a much deeper hue,
a myriad of birds fill the cobalt blue,
constantly singing their gorgeous song

it is as if everything do belong
to the coming spring, are singing true
like some beautiful birds and insects do,
while colourful swarming in their great throng

over the gentle meadow and the valley
filling the tranquil grey evening sky
softly singing a sweet kind of medley
while in jubilance they still do fly
over fields of hay and fields of barley,
sunny day after sunny day pass by.

II

Sunny day after sunny day pass by
with almost a kind of smothering heat
the fields, the open veldt and dirt road lie
far to hot to tread with just bare feet.

Everything shimmers, the poplars that rears
like huge fingers pointing to the sun,
massive broad oak trees of many years
and grass and flowers where life has just begun

glitters in a new emerald green sheen,
the wind rustles things touching one by one
as if finding things where there had not been,
between huge black boulders rocks and stone

the sun blazes on every day the same,
I see the sun making wings of hot flame.

III

I see the sun making wings of hot flame
on the few white clouds in dazzling colours
and in the west there are some small wild game
drinking water while the evening hours

brings the white and blue stars out dazzling clear
with night predators in the pitch black sky
and some more wild game are drawing near,
I hear the hyenas laughing, wild dogs cry,

the growls of lions, the howling of jackals,
I get the smells of the earth and the bush,
I hear some leopards growling, their calls
that are where they are lying in ambush,

at night the predators are hunting prey,
making a living in the dying day.

IV

Making a living in the dying day
swarms of birds fly calling with flapping wings
poplars, cedars and many trees do sway
while the twilight is grey, full of life, brings

as if by some magic, all at play
flying leaves, bats insects and flying things
with a few that lonesome away stray,
most are flying to nests in trees that swings

and eventually places of rest receives
the many small things that are fluttering,
the wind settles among the moving leaves,
the numerous evening birds start to sing

until the full moon shines its silver rays,
when night fades slowly as on other days.

V

When night fades slowly as on other days,
man is still bound by nature and destiny
to the world in which he works and plays
as it probably will be to eternity.

The yellow sun, the cobalt blue heaven
is like it has been from its very birth
with its joyous bright splendour even
like any other day upon this earth

but a time will come when man will be free
from all death and all kinds of destruction
from heartache, the sorrows that he see
with a new amazing introduction

to a place that’s holy, pure and bright;
now suddenly it is silver twilight.

VI

Now suddenly it is silver twilight
and the sheer darkness of night flees away
before the coming new breaking day
with the blazing sheer redness of sunlight

constantly reflecting against the bright
unclouded sky open in its solid grey
with the red blossoming as if its to stay
and in the veldt guinea fowl flees in fright

while a small jackal laughs out its delight
and the few milling dark clouds do stray
before a strong wind as if in spite
and through bushes and grass rocking it plays
churning up eddies before going out of sight
while the hot sun rises with its golden rays.

VII

While the hot sun rises with its golden rays,
you come from a country where rivers meander
where the rain sieves down for many days
where some beautiful wild birds do wander

in lush overgrown tranquil water-meadows,
far away from the busy big city,
filled with thick green living hedgerows
where many bright wild flowers are pretty

but I still do wonder what you will see
in a land where vicious savage beasts
have no civility and do roam free
where the natives have very weird feasts,

where the flaming sun does spare no one,
when summer days get extremely long.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Hues of blue

From the holiday apartment’s window
I see people swimming in the blue pool
and the water looks icy cold
from the dark blue colour

Some girls and women have
bathing caps on in colours
of white, green and blue
and others swim without
while some lie
around the pool.

While the day gets hotter
the colour of the pool changes
to a lighter hue

and just across the road
the beach is full
of people lying in the sun.

Some swim with the waves
breaking white
and some are deeper
in the aquamarine water

and still deeper
some surfers
are riding the waves
the of a navy blue ocean.

poem by Gert Strydom
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A Blue Rose!

Genetically modified flower blue rose is unique!
Rose colour gives hope of future by its very look;
Red rose is unique among flowers as it is queen
In the flower world nobody can deny having it!

Yellow rose shines bright in the long green garden
Full of many trees and other flower plants broad!
Pink rose flowers are many everywhere as border
Mainly in the botanical garden of hill stations here!

Blue rose, a new addition in the flower kingdom
Among lavender, blue bells and rare kurinjis of
Light blue, violet and ink blue colours everywhere
Stands majestic and having healing touch to all!

Rose is rose by whatever name it is called and also
Rose is rose by whatever colour it is produced ever!

poem by Ramesh T A
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A strange glimpse of remembered moments

Dozing this morning – was I awake,
or was I asleep? for many minutes,
I entered a bright and shining world,
but of my own remembered moments;

yet more than visual memories:
that state of mind, that happiness
which knows no other..

all was brightest colour:
the first Mickey Mouse Weekly
to come out in full, rich colour; (I'll swear
it smelled different, too..)

the new craft room at school,
the intoxicating smell of open tins
of bright coloured enamel paint,
the smell of fresh-cut wood…

sunlight on ancient grey-gold stone;
oh, a whole repertoire of memories
on which there was no need to dwell,
for they declared their shared totality…

but one brief, vivid glimpse I’ll share
for your amusement and what else:
slightly curled, from being rolled in the post,
a copy of ‘American Home’ from the late forties:
against a blue blue sky, white clapboard and
white picket fence; inside, a gingham apron,
a sweet-smelling pipe, proudly ruffled hair..
a gingham table-cloth, hand-stencilled furniture,
blue and white plates against a butter-yellow wall..

all radiated promise, satisfaction, happiness;
as if winter sings of Spring;
all things were possible, and live on now;
but, above all, in myself,
a glorious sense – of ordinariness…

as if I was in place; had always been;
would always be; no other place to be,
no other self to seek, no world seen alien;

our holiest, most precious,
self-sacred moments, when experienced,
have this glorious matter-of-factness;
saying, how could this be other?
The glorious, here, is ordinary…
and back in your familiar world,
the ordinary must be glorious; deserved;
and to be savoured as its truth…

I opened my eyes, eventually;
saw no reason to deny that world;
to cover it with yes but, or, maybe;

later thought, only a poem,
to share this, give this back.

poem by Michael Shepherd
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Now is the time of our awakening

I

Now is the time of our awakening
in world where things are beautiful,
with the first caressing touch
of the morning’s refreshment

where the sun falls bright and hot,
where birds are singing together in joy,
in the blue jewel of the universe
about the glory that summer brings,

the earth is fresh after the first summer rain
with every tree, plant and flower
that grows much more powerful than previously
in the glory of their maturity

in every touch, colour and scent
we find nature at her prime.

II

We find nature at her prime
with birds singing joyous in the branches,
and we cannot draw ourselves away
of a world intruding into us,

every morning has something glorious
that we only have got to discover
and every time that you look at me
your glance wants to draw me into depths,

the essence of love is caught
in every day hanging around us,
we celebrate our intimate connection
in every wish and urge

that we yearn for in this world;
now your smile falls brightly.

III

Now your smile falls brightly
over the darkness of my life,
shining like a glorious day,
you bring new meaning each day

when your hand folds finely over mine
you look fragile, modestly
and I see the heavenly cobalt blue colour
in the bright gaze in your eyes

your voice is pure in every sound of it,
you are prettier than the most beautiful flower,
when your arms stretch round my neck
with everything coming out of the depth of love

our existence, our summer becomes holy
with an indistinguishable bright light.

IV

With an indistinguishable bright light
in the blinding bright ardour
of Your Godly omnipotence
that breaks right through our wavering courage

we both want to see You in our foolishness
even if days, nights, times has got to shatter
where You keep the world in Your mighty hands
past seasons of summer and winter

but in no thunder or raining stars
we could really see or find You,
in silent illustriousness You come
where every flower and animal serves you out of there own

from past the age old beginning, in the shining light
in the glory of sunshine.

V

In the glory of sunshine
you are in every bright summer day,
in the stars shining at night,
in the sovereign blue sky.

To me you are the most beautiful woman
who can understand me entirely
and there’s a kind of nobility that I see in you,
with comprehension you know where my life is going.

You are given to me in this summer sun,
as if happiness is bounded to this moment,
in the things we wish for and can do
for a whole lifetime’s meaning

when nature splashes down in moments;
the smell of your hair is like sweet grass.

VI

The smell of your hair is like sweet grass
baking in the summer sun
or ripe red peaches on a branch
that is washed clean in the drizzle

and the way that you reach for me
is like the brittle fluttering
of the wind singing through the trees,
is caressing like sun on glass

and your unknown moving foot
is a butterfly fluttering between flowers,
that only touches here and there in her arrival

before it again in apprehension flies away
with brittle wings banging down;
you are my serenity of the veldt.

VII

You are my serenity of the veldt,
earthly and still noble and pure,
the sweet repeating refrain
that insects and birds keep on mentioning.

You are glittering like an awesome brooch,
with your eyes glistening like the shining stars,
with enchantment that cannot disappear
full of fire but naturally unaffected.

You are the fluttering of the wind
that rustles through the fields of grass,
with the soft touching,
the charm that you find in drops
that sieve down on you, hesitating on your cheeks;
now is the time of our awakening.

poem by Gert Strydom
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At Houtbay beach

A young girl and an old man
walk down steps
to the stretch
that the beach at Houtbay
throws against the sea.

There are some small fishing boats
in colours of blue,
orange and white
that sails into the sea,

but big white cabin cruisers
bobs up and down
next to the quay
some distance away
as if they are ownerless
while their bosses
play somewhere else.

The smell of sea-pike
roasting on coals
lies on the light wind
and their stomachs growl
of sudden hunger
and here and there
the girl stoops
to pick up shells.

His sturdy boots leaves flat tracts
on the firm sand
and there’s a brown wood walking stick
with a lion head in his hand
and the girl’s
bare foot tracts
run in advance.

The sea swishes in and out
and the wet sand
reflects a bright open day
and the blue water
stretches out
as far as you can see
and it’s as if he gets new power
next to the foaming water.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Water Vortex

It's hot on the river walk
Where to River? Play in new clothes
And rivers, remote back over at a friend inside.

Words to break the outer covering tears
What is the path to climb stricken with hardship Play
The sweet cruelty
Stone water fall flowing all evening
Away drag it out of the river
Danaya the birds glow, deep sigh Anonymous
And tears of your feet and flowers in water
Stand up to water, the loneliness at school.

You know, water's water, water vortex breakdown silence
None of the ship's mast Tear
The Black Keys pray for rain at night?

I was crying, asking plunged music.

poem by Shafi Sumodro
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Daybreak is A Glowing Bright Ball

Daybreak is a glowing bright ball
from which the fiery rays shine,
sometimes drops falling along with thunder,
with freshness embracing me when I go outside.

Early morning is a bright sun hanging in the heaven
when the colour of the bright blue
catches you with something full of mystery,
with the wind sometimes clinging to you with fingers.

Spring is flower upon flower
that is spread over fruit trees,
the beauty that astonishes you
when the garden of God stretch into the fields.

Summer is fruit that waits ripe and luring
when everything becomes adult,
sunny day upon sunny day
where the prettiest flowers are still flowering.

Autumn is coloured leaves that are everywhere,
the summer still lingering for the last time
and everything has a secret knowledge
that winter is coming, even every sunray

and nowhere I can find the words of a child,
while I am blinded by the glorious world from being young.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Qinghai Lake

Qinghai, Qinghai Lake,
Largest salt lake in China

Blue colour water
Blue clear skies.

Birds fly near the Birds island
During spring times.

Stand high and tall at 3,600 m
Weather according to season

Sunrise at dawn
Sunset at dusk near Qinghai Lake

beautiful colourful lake
seen from hill top

Many cattle of yaks and sheep at the hills top
with the nomadic Tibetans and their tent

The lake full of beauty and colour
beyond compare

Qinghai Hu,
Many fishes and plants.

poem by Lawrence Hiung
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Sky Over Us

Sky, always blue sky, so blue, gray and shy
It only appears when there are clouds to dissapear
Then comes the sun, so warm as the love of a father
Just like the love I have for my sweet Sweetie

Sky, this night the sky full of lights but still dark
It keeps people from walking or working with it dim lights
Then looking again I see the beauty of the star arrangements
Just like the beauty of my sweet Sweetie

Sky, protective and iluminating to all life
Watching over all under the sky without falling on them
Then lighting and watering God's creation under it
Just like I want to bless with love my sweet Sweetie

Sky, covering and gathering all under it
As a hen gathers her chicks under it's wings
Then keeping them warm and safe from preditors
Just like peacefully in my arms I desire my sweet Sweetie

poem by Nyota Yasulwe
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When I was a child

When I was a child
I saw fireflies,
fly passing secretly at night.

The world was full of wonderful things
and there were trees
with bird nests and eggs
of white and pink and blue
and with spots on them.

I could shoot a true shot with my kettie
and the blue fishing rod
took carp, blue kurper, yellowfish
and catfish from streams.

Doves or fish fillets
from glowing wood embers,
tasted delicious
and the world was a great place.

At the marsh plovers jumped up and down
and like wounded birds, as if with a broken wing
tried to entice you away from their nests

Aloe and protea bushes were all over the kopjes
and prickly pear, wild peach, mispil and stamvrugte
were everywhere on the ridges.

The world of a child faded away with time.
But when I went back as a adult;
a highway runs right through the hillocks
and there are houses where there was marsh
and the streams are full of rubbish and litter
and I see how progress has destroyed nature.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Water, Poet: Sohrab Sepehri

We shouldn’t muddy the water
A pigeon may drink it down the road
Or in a far away grove a starling may bathe
Or in the village, a jug may be filled

We shouldn’t muddy the water
This running water may feed a poplar and
wash away sadness from a heavy heart
A dervish may dip his dry bread in it

A pretty woman may come to the river bank
We shouldn’t muddy the water
The beauty will be doubled

What refreshing water!
What limpid river!

How pure the uptown people are
May their springs always boil and their cows always milk!
I have not seen their village
But, no doubt, god walks along their wattles
The Moon, over there, lights the width of words
No doubt, uptown, the walls are short
Their people know what a poppy is
No doubt, over there, blue is blue
The people know when a flower blooms
What a village it would be!
May its garden alleys be filled with music!

The people from the head of the river know water.
They did not muddy it
Neither should we

poem by Mehraneh Hosseini
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Young Zed Next Door

Patrick and Fleur have a baby daughter Arabella a little sister for young Zed next door
And he's so happy with his new born sibling and he himself still so young only four
And when you ask him how's his baby sister with a happy smile he answers she is good
These are the happiest days he will remember the foundation to a good life a happy childhood.

A fair haired boy with a cheerful disposition in years from now doubtless he will recall
His happy days in Watt street in Wonthaggi for good childhood memories are the best of all
His life journey may take him from Wonthaggi and he yet may live in a Land far away
But the miracle of the birth of Arabella through his life span with him destined to stay.

Young Zed next door is learning about Nature how birds and bees take nectar from the flowers
The honeyeaters sing in the back garden and magpie blows his flute in Spring's green hours
In Nature's garden natural growth is vibrant and blossoms bloom after the brief Spring showers
And childhood like Spring is such a time of beauty children's lives so spiritual when compared to ours.

I envy Zed his joy and innocence of childhood his young and happy soul full of sunshine
Long years ago and in a different country such joy and happiness was also mine
In Spring the World around me full of beauty and the lark was carolling in the clear blue sky
And wild brown bees out busy gathering nectar buzzing above the fields of Lisnaboy.

Young Zed next door is full of life and vigour he's such a cheerful and a happy boy
And the miracle of the birth of his young sister Arabella is
a thing he will look back on and enjoy
And in years from now these times he will remember though from Wonthaggi he may live far away
For happy childhood memories are the best of memories and through our life span with us tend to stay.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Plan for the day

Plan for the day

Ticking the clock
Remind the life
Even it is no sense
Non stop circle
Carry the journey

Seconds minutes and hours
Jump into days weeks months and years
Making plans hanging calendars

Property extends
Without body and soul
Showing openness
Desire to be encaged
Having collected
Talking humanity

Shooting to democracy
Crying for freedom
Acting multiple characters
In the Theatre of Greece

In the mean time
While everything happen
I want to make
A different plan

Early morning I get up
Adjusting my mind
Keeping promises to myself
To have breakfast of hope

Walking through the jungle
Give me the fear and trust
Blossoming flowers and singing birds
Teach me the beauty of unity
Unity in diversity

On the way I meet people
Smiles left faces
They give lesson of empathy
In return I grant the honesty

We have our lunch with
New born happiness
Sharing equal smell of humanity

I am tired and thirsty
No turn back
Even it is rough and tough
Making fresh
Having rest
Drinking pure water by the river
Enjoy the nature little bit

On the way I look back
Guests of trusts
Burden of tasks
Credible challenges
Follow me

End of the sun set
Welcoming to dark
I finish my trip
Unfinished things
Handing over to night

I have the dinner
At the room of lighted candles
It is not the day or the night
Light or the dark

Memorised mind
Stepped back to the past
Collected moments came back soon
Soul of principles with my paint brush
Between the light and dark of feeling
Paint on canvas of the life
With transformed colour of beauty

Udaya R. Tennakoon

poem by Udaya R. Tennakoon
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It Was Good Then

I go back to my childhood
And images come flying at me
These water color memories
That have faded to a certain extent
With the passage of time
Fade no more
But become no brighter.

I remember things in
Sunshine yellows
And frosty blues
Minty greens
And lavender hues.

I remember smells.
Is it even possible to remember
Smell?
But, I swear I do.

Days had their own smell
Skin had its own smell
Sticky with sweat
From playing outside at high noon.
The grass, flowers, and air
Were scented.
By some far away perfume
Carried from place to place.

I remember the feel of grass
Between my bare toes.

I remember laughter.

I remember the gnarled trunk of
A tree under my hands and
Shoeless feet
When I climbed all the way to the top
And was not afraid to look or
Climb down.

I remember being a gypsy child
Going from place to place
Town to town
Without fear.

I remember making friends
I remember innocence..

I remember
Security,
Something I have forgotten since.

I remember
Childhood
Water color memories.

poem by Rabia Minhas
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I look at clouds

I look at clouds
which sails past
in the blue sky
and it’s almost as if white
is part of the blue colour
and maybe every thing here
is more pure

and yesterday and the rain
from days long
and grey clouds
have disappeared

and the sneeze
that comes
from lawn
that had to be mowed
even Allergex
Cannot stop

and it’s so different
from where you are,
where the air
is much deeper and dark blue
with things much more intense.

Maybe today I long
just a little too much
and look at two toddlers in pink
playing on the grass
next to the road

and I wish
that life could turn back
as it had been,
but I am here
and you are there
and now I have
to sit and stare
at the clouds.

poem by Gert Strydom
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The River Song

This boat is of shato-wood, and its gunwales are cut
magnolia,
Musicians with jewelled flutes and with pipes of gold
Fill full the sides in rows, and our wine
Is rich for a thousand cups.
We carry singing girls, drift with the drifting water,
Yet Sennin needs
A yellow stork for a charger, and all our seamen
Would follow the white gulls or ride them.
Kutsu's prose song
Hangs with the sun and moon.

King So's terraced palace
is now but barren hill,
But I draw pen on this barge
Causing the five peaks to tremble,
And I have joy in these words
like the joy of blue islands.
(If glory could last forever
Then the waters of Han would flow northward.)

And I have moped in the Emperor's garden, awaiting an
order-to-write !
I looked at the dragon-pond, with its willow-coloured
water
Just reflecting the sky's tinge,
And heard the five-score nightingales aimlessly singing.

The eastern wind brings the green colour into the island
grasses at Yei-shu,
The purple house and the crimson are full of Spring
softness.
South of the pond the willow-tips are half-blue and
bluer,
Their cords tangle in mist, against the brocade-like
palace.
Vine-strings a hundred feet long hang down from
carved railings,
And high over the willows, the fine birds sing to each
other, and listen,
Crying—‘Kwan, Kuan,' for the early wind, and the feel
of it.
The wind bundles itself into a bluish cloud and wanders
off.
Over a thousand gates, over a thousand doors are the
sounds of spring singing,
And the Emperor is at Ko.
Five clouds hang aloft, bright on the purple sky,
The imperial guards come forth from the golden house
with their armour a-gleaming.
The Emperor in his jewelled car goes out to inspect his
flowers,
He goes out to Hori, to look at the wing-flapping storks,
He returns by way of Sei rock, to hear the new
nightingales,
For the gardens at Jo-run are full of new nightingales,
Their sound is mixed in this flute,
Their voice is in the twelve pipes here.

poem by Ezra Pound
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Kariba Lake

Really happy, at the brink
of the big Kariba lake
like the great Livingstone,
we were pioneers
viewing that stretch of water
swallowing the river.

Growing up on farmsteads
we hand never seen
fresh water meeting the horizon
and falling into depths
like at the edge of the houseboat.

Your blonde hair falling in waves
catching the sun in its sparkle,
blue eyes clearer that the deep blue sky,
face glowing with anticipation,
body tanned to mahogany brown,
firm breasts swelling
with every breath you took,
you looked like a goddess
at the face of creation.

Every pace measured to perfection
in movement still the gymnast
you danced on that deck
free in the fresh breeze
enjoying the sky,
the cool water
that made your nipples
hard and showing through
the white bikini top,
but on that deck
were only you and I
and we loved each other
as if there was going
to be no tomorrow.

Fishing rods with reels,
Hooks, lines and sinkers
found their way into the water
baited with earthworms, maize
and the cook’s secret dough
and we caught buckets full
of the biggest carp
that I have ever seen,
and you were in your element
and we were really alive
and that holiday
felt like being in paradise.

Maybe the gods
were not happy with our offers,
or those lazy days
that at the time
seemed almost endless,
was given as a last goodbye.

We were hardly back
still on a high
of being really happy,
when your life was taken
snapped out in a split second
and the reality
of being human
pierced me.

[Reference: To Minette, of whom there is just memories.]

poem by Gert Strydom
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Whose Garden Was This?

This song appears on two albums, and was first released on the whose garden was this? album, and has also been released on the changes album.
Whose garden was this
It must have been lovely
Did it have flowers
Ive seen pictures of flowers
And Id love to have smelled one
Whose river was this
You say it ran freely
Blue was its colour
And Ive seen blue in some pictures
And Id love to have been there
Tell me again, I need to know
The forest had trees, the meadows were green
The oceans were blue
And birds really flew
Can you swear that its true
Whose grey sky was this
Or was it a blue one
You say they were breezes
Ive heard records of breezes
And Id love to have felt one
Tell me again, I need to know
The forest had trees, the meadows were green
The oceans were blue
And birds really flew
Can you swear that its true
Whose garden was this
It must have been lovely
Did it have flowers
Ive seen pictures of flowers
And Id love to have smelled one
Tell me again, I need to know
Tell me again, I need to know
Tell me again, I need to know
Words and music by tom paxton

song performed by by John Denver
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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