When Purple Petals Show (Balassi Stanza)
When purple petals show
speckled black and yellow,
a small modest lily spread
lovely vivid colours
blooming for many hours
as she opens her bright head
and as time passes by
she draws the human eye
before she withers, are dead.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Black And Red
Black and Red
The colours of dead
Black and Red
The colours of my bed.
Black and Red
swirling in my head
Black and Red
Killing my brov Ted.
BLACK AND RED
Black and Red
Colours that spread
Black and Red
The patterned thread.
Black and Red
The voices said
Black and Red
I Iove eating bread
Black and Red
My favourite colours till the end.
poem by Carniz Fatema
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Carnations (Balassi Stanza)
Carnations grow lovely,
perfect beauty I see
in vivid colours of white
red, pink, some are yellow
with loveliness they glow,
are usually quite bright,
they smell somewhat like cloves,
have purity of doves,
they are flowers drawing sight.
poem by Gert Strydom
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A Lovely Lavender Day
Purple, everything purple, purple
the colour I love, everything packaged
in purple – tile cleaner in a purple
container for lavender sweetness
Also power-cleaning cream for lavender-
fresh effects, the bottle appealing in a
soft purple hue, fabric conditioner in purple
too, accompanied by lavender promises
And my purple hot water bottle – I bought
Nici a purple fleece; a purple coverlet
on my bed, my favourite chocolate in a
purple wrapper
Purple is spiritual in the division of
seven chakra colours – red is earthed in
primitive desire, followed by orange, yellow,
green – the colour of love – and
Blue – the colour of communication, then
purple for third-eye enlightenment - purple
adds lustre and the sweetness of vague
mistiness to everything on which it appears;
Wishing you a lovely lavender day
in all hues of purple and blue!
poem by Margaret Alice
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Dark Purple
Under a blanket of dark purple
I do my best work.
Blue doesn’t do and Red goes
To my head.
Yellow’s too mellow and Black
just makes me dead.
Underneath my blanket, of mixed
Blue and Red sublime….
Is Purple, saintly Purple, I call
that color mine! ! !
poem by Susan Drozda Cooper
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Varied And Intense
Enriched my office world with two new
flowers, soft purple with yellow centre
and small, unassuming yellow sprig,
exuberance of spring in my life
Adding pink to the passionate orange
flowery explosions next to my desk
was a mistake, a pink cobweb scarf
with silver thread does not work
The colours of my aura probably are
varied and intense to demand such
an array of colours around me, I'm
happy; may this feeling continue
Until I go home today, I need strong
emotion to help me through this
dark shadow in my head…
13 September 2012
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Paintings by fliss
Colours vivid
Colours bright
Texture livid
Radiating bright
Cottages rural
Pen and ink
Not done as a mural
Shaded as the sun sinks
Autumn leaves
So vivid and right
Oh let me please
Hold them so light
Abstract art deco
Grace and whirls
Lucid memories echo
Canvas covered swirls
Beach scene
Evoking holidays abroad
Laid back and serene
Paintings on board
Sunflower so warm
Head in full bloom
Sit and look until dawn
Paintings so rich, warmth filling room.
poem by Robert Green
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Colours
Colours are just colours
One might suppose
Rage is red…
But then again…
so is a rose
So colours are more
Than they seem, don’t’ you think
For boys it’s usually blue
For little girls always pink
Yep, colours are colours
Perhaps that’s all they should be
Just something to look at
Only something to see
But colours have emotion
At least they do to me
Perhaps I just don’t see hues
In the same way
that you see
Because blue to me
Is more than just a hue
It’s the sky, it’s berries,
Oceans … and sadness too
Green is envy, grass and dinero
Purple is royalty, plums and passion
Yellow is cowardice, butter and tallow
Colours are … whatever you wish to fashion
Perhaps I see colours differently than you
Perhaps exactly the same way… I hope
But my advice to you, whatever you do
Is … don’t get me started on taupe! !
poem by David Whalen
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Adorning Velvet Sensibilities
A faith in fear is no saving grace
Small worlds abound upon the purple journey sought
Small worlds for small gods within which we are caught,
Trampled by a knowledge of un-knowing
Defeated by the acceptance of surrender
Bitter from the chill of a bleak yet beautiful December.
I Promise To Pan
That Never Shall I Fail
In Being The Man I Am
And That Forever Shall I sail
The blue abyss to know
The warmth beneath the desert’s snow.
The journey purple bends my mind
It leaves me wild and hard to find
Lost within my kingdoms dream
Where nothing’s real or as it seems.
Here I am, awaiting a flicker of emotion to rise
Staring stone dead statuettes in their eyes
Awaiting breath anew to be cast by the lips of death.
The curtains are drawn to the sky re born above my tower
Here I am, in need of a shower, black holes swallowing eternity within my eyes.
The void is calling, the fear is falling and we are as shedding skins anew,
Turning bright and vivid colours our feathers that once were blue.
Who could have known?
Who could have shown us the way in our unwinding of the labyrinth?
The god of the corridor is stirred from slumber
Where is the girl I dreamt of devouring he cries?
Under what skies does she move?
Adorning velvet sensibilities
poem by David Lacey
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A spring evening
Outside the irises flower yellow and purple
and I haven’t seen a red one yet
and there are some pink and white blossoms
on the fruit trees
and the streetlights burn continually
glowing orange-yellow
all day and all night
as if the municipality
does not know how to do things right
and in the fading evening light
the moon is full and white
and the evening star is already shining bright
and a hot breeze sweeps in
through the open windows
and I wonder when the first spring rain
is going to fall
and in the distance I see thunder
crashing down
in blue-white flashes, but the storm
is blown away and again the sky is clear
and the black speckled by stars.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Cosmos
So much rain fell
that the grass
was like a swamp
and next to the road
suddenly wildflowers bloomed
in colours of white, pink
and crimson-brown.
On long green stems
they grew together
the petals almost
in the shape
of a fortget-me-not
but much more spread
at the front edge.
Some kids might take them
to play the I love you game,
but do so in vain.
The smell of cosmos
hangs soft in the air
and there were patches
of colour everywhere.
I picked some with regret
to see the petals fold over
to hide their heads
of yellow and black specks.
Far to brittle to the touch,
still their beauty was too much
and I thought God,
You made nature really great.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Morning Glories (Balassi Stanza)
You open with the red sun
with small petals that run
over walls from tiny seeds
in purple-blue small cups
everywhere streaming up.
People see you as a weed
while in clusters you grow
opening from the first glow,
are very lovely indeed.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Rose
See, Mignonne, hath not the Rose,
That this morning did unclose
Her purple mantle to the light,
Lost, before the day be dead,
The glory of her raiment red,
Her colour, bright as yours is bright?
Ah, Mignonne, in how few hours,
The petals of her purple flowers
All have faded, fallen, died;
Sad Nature, mother ruinous,
That seest thy fair child perish thus
‘Twixt matin song and even tide.
Hear me, my darling, speaking sooth,
Gather the fleet flower of your youth,
Take ye your pleasure at the best;
Be merry ere your beauty flit,
For length of days will tarnish it
Like roses that were loveliest.
poem by Pierre Ronsard
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After Rain
The rain of a night and a day and a night
Stops at the light
Of this pale choked day. The peering sun
Sees what has been done.
The road under the trees has a border new
of purple hue
Inside the border of bright thin grass:
For all that has
Been left by November of leaves is torn
From hazel and thorn
And the greater trees. Throughout the copse
No dead leaf drops
On grey grass, green moss, burnt-orange fern,
At the wind's return:
The leaflets out of the ash-tree shed
Are thinly spread
In the road, like little black fish, inlaid,
As if they played.
What hangs from the myriad branches down there
So hard and bare
Is twelve yellow apples lovely to see
On one crab-tree.
And on each twig of every tree in the dell
Uncountable
Crystals both dark and bright of the the rain
That begins again.
poem by Edward Thomas
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A Flower To Auroville Mother-77
Rain Lily Rose(Zephyranthes rosea)
Primrose Rain Lily(Zephyranthes primulina)
Yellow Rain Lily(Zephyranthes citrina)
Fairy Lily(pink rain lily, Zephyranthes carinata)
Fairy Lily(white rain lily, Zephyranthes candida)
Ah, o'dear I found you at Kalakad
Brought and planted in my yard
Knowing not then much of matter
About you and your family fatter
And when you grew prettily wide
Rain God in love one day pattered
Awesome to see you basked in joy
Blossoming making me too enjoy
You were rose with sister yellow
White or pink or primrose yellow-
Somewhere yonder all far farther
Only you rose and yellow together
Short and flared yellow upward
Potted or fielded grassy leaved
Small and green throated lily rose
To green tube funneled rosy tepals
O'rain lilies, so yellow and rose
Bloom, bloom often by rainy showers
Bordered or potted or clumped lot
Gathered in gentle bliss in my heart
poem by Indira Renganathan
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Syrian Military Attacking Killing Civilians
Syrian military
tanks aircraft are attacking
are killing civilians
with Russian
political military...
aid civilian Arab
blood flows
blood red black rose withers
those Russians
those Russians
living before frost
ice thaw
say how can you expect...
dictators
to leave
blood red black rose withers
without sowing
killing fields
with thousands
millions of rebels
exterminated
are not model...
civilians
not citizens
blood red black rose withers
plus misfits
did not conform
to official
party policy
insanity insanity...
there can be
only party
blood red black rose withers
Russian tradition slay civilians
put in ice box grave Gulag...
have they not heard
Stalin is dead...
dictatorship is dead...
martyr minds
beyond the wire noose...
blood red black rose withers
beyond the wire noose...
are already free
blood red black rose withers
do not blame Arab
dictator
for civilian deaths
in Aleppo? ? ?
without Russian Chinese
political muscle flexing
merciless
backing blood would not flow
backing blood would not flow
in black rose freedom
blood red black rose withers
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Look Up To See
The little girl bent her head
She lost her mother today
Lost her to the waters of death
Where her warm hugs cannot reach
But she opens her eyes
Looks up to see
Her little sister wipe away her tears.
The little girl bent her head
She has cried so many tears
Non of them were perfect
And she's tired of the screams
But she opens her eyes
Looks up to see
Her friends welcoming her home.
The little girl bent her head
The scars on her arm, a tell-tale sign
Her sadness she locks away
Hidden in colours on canvas
But she opens her eyes
Looks up to see
The ball go through the basket of happiness
The little girl bent her head
She thinks there could've been another way
That she should've never left.
The land of smiling skies
But she opens her eyes
Looks up to see
A hand show her the way
The little girl bent her head
In a dark corner lies her future
Hiding from her heart
Too far for her to touch it,
But she opens her eyes
Looks up to see
A dream walking through light
poem by Mariam de Haan
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The Trout
Naughty little speckled trout,
Can't I coax you to come out?
Is it such great fun to play
In the water every day?
Do you pull the Naiads' hair
Hiding in the lilies there?
Do you hunt for fishes' eggs,
Or watch tadpoles grow their legs?
Do the little trouts have school
In some deep sun-glinted pool,
And in recess play at tag
Round that bed of purple flag?
I have tried so hard to catch you,
Hours and hours I've sat to watch you;
But you never will come out,
Naughty little speckled trout!
poem by Amy Lowell
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Lily Palmer
She doesn't ask much of life poor Lily Palmer
Just a small cabin by the Gippsland sea
Where she might sleep and from the weather shelter
'Your dreams are small when you're in poverty'.
Her life's belongings in a shopping trolley
She push it up through Bourke Street Mall each day
A tattered figure amongst the wealthy shoppers
She show her years in wrinkles and in gray.
Some look at her with looks of human pity
Whilst some with looks of scorn ask who is she?
But she has learnt to cope with disapproval
Nor does she welcome looks of sympathy.
The Salvation Army give her food and clothing
Without their help by now she may be dead
And she sleep on hard bench at Spencer Street Station
I do not envy Lily her cold bed.
She's sixty six too old for the rough lifestyle
And far too old for sleeping in the damp and cold
Life's never easy for the poor and needy
And so much harder for the poor and old.
It has been said she has a son and daughter
And that she has not laid eyes on them for years
She raised them on her own when times were better
But for her past she doesn't shed any tears.
Faces of wealth and affluence all around me
And amongst them the face of poverty I see
Through Bourke street Mall poor Lily slowly shuffles
Indifferent to both scorn and sympathy.
Still she has her dream and her dream seem quite modest
A small cabin in Gippsland somewhere by the sea
Where she might sleep and shelter from the weather
Your dreams are small when you're in poverty.
poem by Francis Duggan
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A Ballad of London
AH, London! London! our delight,
Great flower that opens but at night,
Great City of the midnight sun,
Whose day begins when day is done.
Lamp after lamp against the sky
Opens a sudden beaming eye,
Leaping alight on either hand,
The iron lilies of the Strand.
Like dragonflies, the hansoms hover,
With jeweled eyes, to catch the lover;
The streets are full of lights and loves,
Soft gowns, and flutter of soiled doves.
The human moths about the light
Dash and cling close in dazed delight,
And burn and laugh, the world and wife,
For this is London, this is life!
Upon thy petals butterflies,
But at thy root, some say, there lies,
A world of weeping trodden things,
Poor worms that have not eyes or wings.
From out corruption of their woe
Springs this bright flower that charms us so,
Men die and rot deep out of sight
To keep this jungle-flower bright.
Paris and London, World-Flowers twain
Wherewith the World-Tree blooms again,
Since Time hath gathered Babylon,
And withered Rome still withers on.
Sidon and Tyre were such as ye,
How bright they shone upon the tree!
But Time hath gathered, both are gone,
And no man sails to Babylon.
poem by Richard Le Gallienne
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Primrose
Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow!
It is not a color.
It is summer!
It is the wind on a willow,
the lap of waves, the shadow
under a bush, a bird, a bluebird,
three herons, a dead hawk
rotting on a pole--
Clear yellow!
It is a piece of blue paper
in the grass or a threecluster of
green walnuts swaying, children
playing croquet or one boy
fishing, a man
swinging his pink fists
as he walks--
It is ladysthumb, forget-me-nots
in the ditch, moss under
the flange of the carrail, the
wavy lines in split rock, a
great oaktree--
It is a disinclination to be
five red petals or a rose, it is
a cluster of birdsbreast flowers
on a red stem six feet high,
four open yellow petals
above sepals curled
backward into reverse spikes--
Tufts of purple grass spot the
green meadow and clouds the sky.
poem by William Carlos Williams
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