The pale brown thrush
Pale brown the thrush scratches in the garden
is pecking at earthworms that wriggle around
before suddenly it trumpets out its joy,
but when an old car rattles down the street
it ascends fluttering into the blue sky,
lands on a branch of the old oak tree,
is silent while school children are raising funds,
as if sits for moments dreaming there,
before its song of joy again streams from its throat,
its twittering cuts through the afternoon's dull weariness.
poem by Gert Strydom
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This Day Will Not Come Again
'A sweet summer afternoon. Cool breezes and a clear sky. This day will not come again.
The young bulls lie under a tree in the corner of their field. Quiet afternoon. Blue hills.
Day lilies nod in the wind. This day will not come again. '
Thomas Merton, Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander
I expected the slight rise
in the east, the sky
growing slate, then
blushing pink and
suddenly blue.
The winter tree
is often
bathed in gold,
and the familiar song
of thrush and jay,
woodpecker's rapid tapping
brash geese
shouting,
are often the same
from one to another day.
But this sudden breeze,
freshening breath
of the butterfly,
the warmth
the joyful cry!
My God is here!
I breathe,
I sigh.
poem by Steven Federle
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Y... Close to my children
I was dreaming
I was a magnificent tree
With my children as saplings
standing around me
sharing my roots
I was dreaming
I was a beautiful rose
With my children as buds
standing near me
on the same stalk
I was dreaming
I was a reddish apple
with my children as blossoms
standing near me
on the same branch
I woke up
and my children were near me
So many thanks, my God.
poem by Aufie Zophy
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Miracle of the Geese
The Catholic school children gathered
obedient to the bell, silent, waiting
for morning prayers
to begin another day,
when geese
raced suddenly above
tight formation crossing the
playground, stroking high air, shattering
our discipline with lusty
call, savage
song!
And the children,
raising their arms to heaven,
shouted in praise
at the wonder and glory,
the holy presence,
the miracle of the geese!
poem by Steven Federle
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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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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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The Last Lovely Rose Of The Fall
Her pink petals lay on the short grass beside the red brick garden wall
By the thorny mother that bore her the last lovely rose of the Fall
White butterflies flit in the garden in the warm sunshine of mid day
And the shrike thrush he pipes on a low branch in his cloak of light brown to gray,
The rose tree has lost her last and her finest daughter next year new roses she will bear
And the rose tree in her flowers does look lovely than her there is none quite so fair
And her flowers they must return to Nature and on Nature's bosom decay
And the rose tree herself sooner or later must return to Nature one day,
The dark willy wagtail he sits on the brick wall his long black tail he wags to and fro
For him 'tis a very good Season on butterlies fat he does grow
Each life form serves a purpose in Nature for one to live one has to die
And what comes from Nature goes back to Nature and the same goes for you and for i
The pink rose petals lay on the grass by their mother on this warm March day in the Fall
And of all of the flowers in the garden in bloom she was the fairest of all.
poem by Francis Duggan
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A Song
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear;
There is ever a something sings alway:
There's the song of the lark when the skies are clear,
And the song of the thrush when the skies are gray.
The sunshine showers across the grain,
And the bluebird trills in the orchard tree;
And in and out, when the eaves dip rain,
The swallows are twittering ceaselessly.
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear,
Be the skies above or dark or fair,
There is ever a song that our hearts may hear--
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear
There is ever a song somewhere!
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear,
In the midnight black, or the mid-day blue:
The robin pipes when the sun is here,
And the cricket chirrups the whole night through.
The buds may blow, and the fruit may grow,
And the autumn leaves drop crisp and sear;
But whether the sun, or the rain, or the snow,
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear.
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear,
Be the skies above or dark or fair,
There is ever a song that our hearts may hear--
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear--
There is ever a song somewhere!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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A lighter shade of pale
She don’t like sunshine
burning on her skin
and wear sunglasses
to hide from the glare,
as if she’s lost in
her own world.
She don’t like red wine
and likes something sweeter
sparkling like champagne
to glide down her lips
and her teeth glitter white
when she smiles.
I met her on a Sunday
and before Friday
I was lost in love with her
and caught a glimpse of her heart
reflecting her soul
in golden eyes sparkling
in a face
a lighter shade of pale.
She loves looking at her garden
where purple blue morning glories
creep towering into the sky
and watch birds fly
from branch to branch
in the big pepper tree.
Like a child finding a rare coin
and clutching it in wonder
to his breast
I was blessed
but suddenly it’s gone,
I have lost her
and do not know how
to find her again
while life rages on
and her face is
fainting away like a dream
in a lighter shade of pale.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Pale
Pale blue clouds, in a pale blue sky,
Pale sea birds, fly every which way.
O'er the pale blue sea, they softly fly,
Throughout the pale blue day.
Pale brown grass, withering alone,
Amid the sand dunes dying.
Pale as a sun bleached animal bone,
As you hear the sea breeze sighing.
Pale grey mist upon the sea,
Slowly creeping to the shore.
Pale giant tarpons jumping free,
As the pale Atlantic, gently roars.
12/3/11 Alton Texas
poem by Juan Olivarez
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The red weaver
The red weaver flies from a plate of bulrush
dances on a branch while it slap its red wings,
walking whistling to and thro,
before it whispers twittering deep in the reeds.
It flutters around draws sparks through the air,
swoops down at it's weaved nest
with a beak full of grass, twigs or some hay,
flies up and down and suddenly back.
There is something pretty to it that catches the eye
when through the blue sky it draws a glowing line,
when early in the morning it awakes me
when it hangs twittering at its small nest,
the red weaver flies from a plate of bulrush
before it whispers twittering deep in the reeds.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Dawn Song
I hear a twittering of birds,
And now they burst in song.
How sweet, although it wants the words!
It shall not want them long,
For I will set some to the note
Which bubbles from the thrush's throat.
O jewelled night, that reign'st on high,
Where is thy crescent moon?
Thy stars have faded from the sky,
The sun is coming soon.
The summer night is passed away,
Sing welcome to the summer day.
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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A Fine Day
After all the rain, the sun
Shines on hill and grassy mead;
Fly into the garden, child,
You are very glad indeed.
For the days have been so dull,
Oh, so special dark and drear,
That you told me, "Mr. Sun
Has forgotten we live here."
Dew upon the lily lawn,
Dew upon the garden beds;
Daintly from all the leaves
Pop the little primrose heads.
And the violets in the copse
With their parasols of green
Take a little peek at you;
They're the bluest you have seen.
On the lilac tree a bird
Singing first a little not,
Then a burst of happy song
Bubbles in his lifted throat.
O the sun, the comfy sun!
This the song that you must sing,
"Thank you for the birds, the flowers,
Thank you, sun, for everything."
poem by Katherine Mansfield
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Late autumn
The yellow veldt, the skeleton chestnut trees
specs of orange-red aloes in the kopje
are near to the old white house
and in the late afternoon shades draw long lines
while I walk up to the house on the red-brown dirt road
and most of the flowers in the garden are stripped bare
but a few irises are flowering yellow,
purple and cream brown
and the sky is dull blue and the early evening cold
is already on the wind that is rustling everything
and after years I open the garden gate
are coming back to my childhood home
stripped from illusions,
and I am bare from the childhood innocence
but full of hope
and looking through a mature man’s eyes.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Thrush Sings Its Twittering Song
The thrush sings its twittering song, picks up worms,
the Jack Russell snatches wild at the bees,
startled they try to escape,
the sunbird gambols from flower to flower
while we are at the washing line
where I catch you in my arms,
as the sun laughs white hot at us
from the blue sky
on this glorious day
and I wonder if another like this will come.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Sketches For A Fine Day
actually i like the sound of
brooms sweeping the street today
a young girl
short for her age
and brown and
bow legged
does her assigned task in the street
gathering dead leaves
as i watch
it is a bright day
the street light is turned off
a young boy's hand is held by her mother
crossing the street
waiting for the school bus
a white dog pisses
on the side of the trunk of the
mahogany tree
a black car from the right side of the village
wheels its way towards the boulevard
a young woman with short blue jeans
jogs along the green valley
the sea is sky
blue and the sun slowly rises from the horizon
like a man's face peeping upon a table's edge
the long line of trees along the faded street
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Long Ago & Far Away
Long ago a young man sits
And plays his waiting game
But things are not the same it seems
As in such tender dreams
Slowly passing sailing ships
On sunday afternoon
Like the people on the moon Ive seen
Are things not meant to be
Where do those golden rainbows end
(where do the rainbows end)
Why is this song so sad
(why is this song so sad)
Dreaming the dreams I dream my friend
(dreaming the dreams I dream)
Loving the love I love
To love is just a word Ive heard
When things are being said
Stories my poor head has told me
Can not stand the cold
And in between what might have been
And what has come to pass
Are misbegotten guests alas
And bits of broken glass
Where do your golden rainbows end
(where do the rainbows end)
Why is the song I sing so sad
(why is this song so sad)
Dreaming the dreams I dream my friend
(dreaming the dreams I dream)
Loving the love I love
To love to love to love
Where do your golden rainbows end
(where do the rainbows end)
Why is the song I sing so sad
(why is this song so sad)
Dreaming the dreams I dream my friend
(dreaming the dreams I dream)
Loving the love I love
To love to love to love
Whoa no no no no no
song performed by by Indigo Girls
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Long Ago And Far Away
long ago a young man sits
and plays his waiting game
but things are not the same it seems
as in such tender dreams
slowly passing sailing ships
on sunday afternoon
like the people on the moon i've seen
are things not meant to be
where do those golden rainbows end
(where do the rainbows end)
why is this song so sad
(why is this song so sad)
dreaming the dreams i dream my friend
(dreaming the dreams i dream)
loving the love i love
to love is just a word i've heard
when things are being said
stories my poor head has told me
can not stand the cold
and in between what might have been
and what has come to pass
are misbegotten guests alas
and bits of broken glass
where do your golden rainbows end
(where do the rainbows end)
why is the song i sing so sad
(why is this song so sad)
dreaming the dreams i dream my friend
(dreaming the dreams i dream)
loving the love i love
to love to love to love
where do your golden rainbows end
(where do the rainbows end)
why is the song i sing so sad
(why is this song so sad)
dreaming the dreams i dream my friend
(dreaming the dreams i dream)
loving the love i love
to love to love to love
whoa no no no no no
song performed by by Indigo Girls
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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North and South
O sweet are tropic lands for waking dreams!
There time and life move lazily along.
There by the banks of blue-and-silver streams
Grass-sheltered crickets chirp incessant song,
Gay-colored lizards loll all through the day,
Their tongues outstretched for careless little flies,
And swarthy children in the fields at play,
Look upward laughing at the smiling skies.
A breath of idleness is in the air
That casts a subtle spell upon all things,
And love and mating-time are everywhere,
And wonder to life's commonplaces clings.
The fluttering humming-bid darts through the trees
And dips his long beak in the big bell-flowers,
The leisured buzzard floats upon the breeze,
Riding a crescent cloud for endless hours,
The sea beats softly on the emerald strands--
O sweet for quiet dreams are tropic lands!
poem by Claude McKay
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On Hearing And Seeing A Goldfinch
The last day of October a balmy day of Spring
And on highest branch of a blackwood tree a sunlit goldfinch sing
His twittering notes unmistakeable so pleasant for to hear
One of the smaller songsters of the Springtime of the year.
With red around beak and of grey, brown and fawn and gold
A sunlit goldfinch in song is quite lovely to behold
You do not need to see him you know him by his song
One whose voice is familiar and you never can get wrong.
In a cup shaped nest of rootlets lined with down, lichen and bits of hay
Four to seven bluish white eggs the female bird she lay
Her mate he does the singing whilst she hatches her eggs to life
One cannot say about her that she is not a good wife.
The last day of October 'tis so breezy and bright
And a goldfinch is singing in the warm sunlight
Butterflies flit around the flower beds and the dark brown honey bees
Are buzzing whilst gathering nectar from the blossoming bushes and trees.
poem by Francis Duggan
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On Seeing Tawny Frogmouths
At nightfall the birds known as tawny frogmouth come out in family groups of three or four
They do not have a song the only sounds they do make is a sort of a low pitched nasal snore
In the wooded parkland they fly from tree to tree in their search for tree insects and flies
And they return to roost on their roosting trees at the dawning just before sunrise,
Quite expert at camouflage in their colours of brown lengthwise on a bare branch of a tree
In the bright light of day they look part of the branch they are almost impossible to see
Disguised from the prying eyes of predators in safety they rest Nature never ceases to amaze
Of her so little we do seem to know we are strangers to Nature's ways,
Related to the nightgars nocturnal insect eating birds though frogmouths far greater in size
For better vision in dimlight the night birds 'twould seem than day birds have far larger eyes,
I have seen the frogmouths at nightfall in the park near my home almost tame to them I approached near
Of human kind so little they seem to know so of humans they show little fear,
From tree to tree in the parkland they fly these quiet brown birds of the night
So well camouflaged on their bare roosting branch they seem part of the tree in daylight.
poem by Francis Duggan
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