Crown Of Laurel
Amidst high clouds rises divine Kingdom;
of honor Gods dwell securely bestow
to those knights serving mortal wisdom,
scintillant souls, halcyons, in skies glow;
Olympus peaks firm stance sacred emblem;
Nymphs sing paeans to men of prowess,
as skulls and bones legions abide and aim,
to accented domes celestial boats egress.
Amid green woods, Dryads honor, 'n' twine,
Assess virtues in sounds of chords to allay;
crown of laurel on hairbreadth you 'll dine,
with Persephone, upon green fields to lay;
Soldier gallivants fetes in modes of aves,
as Siren maids in brines sing nice of loves!
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Bull Horn Grip
Eagle like, descends the road,
deep red wine potion, brusque,
as hidden eyes reckon in dusk
of this man to stare and bode.
Hours so, consent to darkness;
starry skies salute his walking,
tis maids of long mane talking,
about a raw prowess to egress.
In the tavern, at the dockside,
pipers play a monotonous mode,
destinies weave, deathly abode,
in deep spaces of brines abide.
A drink is life, glass of grog,
players render the pipes loud,
dim stars blink and a low cloud,
covers the shore in shroud fog.
Pipers monotonous tones wield,
dew drops dropp from foreheads,
Charon awaits for a spilled red,
a bull horn blade of Sheffield.
Outside steps, inside the mist,
maids weave, his life's thread,
Persephone will be his one wed,
his bull horn Sheffield, in fist.
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Wraith II
A call of the gust speaks thousand words
passing amid the weeping cries of Cedars,
bears up souls in woods, lost nightly hordes,
amounting solitude, of Pine needle guitars;
Wind is blowing mournful amid the foliage,
while rain's droplets whisper caressing,
leaves that rest on the ground to assuage,
the wraith's solitude, of self addressing.
Denoting calls in the breeze, a black Alder,
designing spirals of airy spells, around Fir,
a wraith whirls in twilit dance; sky's border,
were we subdued in lightless and void glare?
Rain is falling, souls turned up to bedizen,
skies are blessing the form that sky-rises,
benignant smiles spirits bestow to glazen,
as lonely Dryads spell whispering advises.
The wraith whirls in twilit play; to faraway,
beckons above Oaks shingle, her dusky wing,
our souls in woods, ghosts of a dour Sunday,
dwell in Cedars; call of cold gust and sting.
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Spring
See how new green shoots
and branches and leaves
and flowers appear
and the green grass
rises everywhere,
the gods had set a part
of Eden here.
Hear the birds
sing and cheer
and see them fly past
and follow the white-hot sun
while the rays comes to stay
for a longer time.
Smell the first rain
and wild flowers
in the fields
and get thrilled
by the sweet scent
that every flower brings
Abide with me
as the trees dress fit
for a royal wedding
and new life
appears from where it hides
and realise that Spring
is a living thing.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Soldier of bronze
Bound thoughts transform to trees;
black alders are implanted in forest,
where the winds embrace 'em free
and rain drops pour to their closest.
Winter winds around trees consent,
their foliage sweep, dithering gusts;
as their firm trunks upwards extent,
pointing to skies and selected stars.
Shadows float, as hours thump near,
adjacent to his entity, walking friends,
joyous in a silver solitude to appear,
soothing count that his sins amends.
And while a joyful and moonlit glow,
dances on rhymed cadence meters,
a ghost will stay with flakes of snow,
and fly above the pastoral features.
Maids will pass, in light snow above
amid sky clouds in black agate hue,
daughters of solitude to bestow love,
embracing shapes and kindly imbue.
A soldier of bronze dances his fever
in alder forest to sway his dead life,
thrown in with his song of a griever,
a crown of laurel and his wraith wife.
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Accented merit
Accented merit twines his diligence,
Spring morning on pelted blossom petals
forsooth perceptual force experience
redemptive muse bestows the war's medals.
Opalescent far stars, cold nacreous view,
companion souls had left, in bold retention,
from onset comely death not to eschew,
absconding to the night's stardom ascension.
Siren of Had's invoked by modes of aves,
of Sacred Legion robust fighting knight,
proud in ablution Styx, departs to aboves,
Day nuptial of his nymph renders in light.
pean of Dorians and crimson dew cloves,
embellished lithe Naiad to embrace on sight.
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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The Star
I HAD a star to sing by, a beautiful star that led,
But when I sang of its splendour the world in its wisdom said:
'Sweet are your songs, yet the singer sings but in madness when
He hymns but stars unbeholden of us his fellows of men;
Glow-worms we see and marshlights; sing us sweet songs of those
For the guerdons we have to give you, laurel and gold and rose;
Or if you must sing of stars, unseen of your brother man,
Go, starve with your eyes on your vision; your star may save if it can!'
So I said, 'If I starve and die I never again shall see
The glory, the high white radiance that hallows the world for me;
I will sing their songs, if it must be, and when I have golden store,
I will turn from the marsh and the glow-worms, and sing of my star once more.'
So I walked in the warm wet by-ways, not daring to lift my eyes
Lest love should drive me to singing my star supreme in the skies,
And the world cried out, 'We will crown him, he sings of the lights that are,
Glories of marshlight and glow-worms, not visions vain of a star!'
I said, 'Now my brows are laurelled, my hands filled full of their gold,
I will sing the starry songs that these earthworms bade withhold.
It is time to sing of my star!' for I dreamed that my star still shone,
Then I lifted my eyes in my triumph. Night! night! and my star was gone.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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The Cloud Chorus
SOCRATES SPEAKS
Hither, come hither, ye Clouds renowned, and unveil yourselves
here;
Come, though ye dwell on the sacred crests of Olympian snow,
Or whether ye dance with the Nereid Choir in the gardens clear,
Or whether your golden urns are dipped in Nile's overflow,
Or whether you dwell by Maeotis mere
Or the snows of Mimas, arise! appear!
And hearken to us, and accept our gifts ere ye rise and go.
THE CLOUDS SING
Immortal Clouds from the echoing shore
Of the father of streams from the sounding sea,
Dewy and fleet, let us rise and soar;
Dewy and gleaming and fleet are we!
Let us look on the tree-clad mountain-crest,
On the sacred earth where the fruits rejoice,
On the waters that murmur east and west,
On the tumbling sea with his moaning voice.
For unwearied glitters the Eye of the Air,
And the bright rays gleam;
Then cast we our shadows of mist, and fare
In our deathless shapes to glance everywhere
From the height of the heaven, on the land and air,
And the Ocean Stream.
Let us on, ye Maidens that bring the Rain,
Let us gaze on Pallas's citadel,
In the country of Cecrops fair and dear,
The mystic land of the holy cell,
Where the Rites unspoken securely dwell,
And the gifts of the gods that know not stain,
And a people of mortals that know not fear.
For the temples tall and the statues fair,
And the feasts of the gods are holiest there;
The feasts of Immortals, the chaplets of flowers,
And the Bromian mirth at the coming of spring,
And the musical voices that fill the hours,
And the dancing feet of the maids that sing!
poem by Aristophanes
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Clary
Because of her soul, Fall was mild,
in hazy noons, light was extolling,
in green pasture souls were calling
she called me; and the sun smiled.
Upon the grass she sat on prairie,
one thousand rain drops of longing
and was her rainy smile imploring,
amidst flowers, daisies, and clary.
There our souls sing odes forever,
fly above Autumn calls of twenty;
we pretend the world 's not empty,
wind's blades our love won't sever.
Above the prairie fly white doves;
care to see her form amid flow'rs
and then as night adorns the stars,
consents our stares then, of loves.
Winds call me, from empty noons;
her soul sings and snow flakes toil,
flying leaves dance my siren's coil,
and wonder aimlessly in odd tunes.
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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An Hymn To The Muses
Honour to you who sit
Near to the well of wit,
And drink your fill of it!
Glory and worship be
To you, sweet Maids, thrice three,
Who still inspire me;
And teach me how to sing
Unto the lyric string,
My measures ravishing!
Then, while I sing your praise,
My priest-hood crown with bays
Green to the end of days!
poem by Robert Herrick
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To Every Fallen Soldier
-- * TO EVERY FALLEN SOLDIER * --
The honor of the Country
Given to a Hero true.
This honorable young soldier
Who died for me and you.
To every fallen soldier
No matter, heritage or creed,
Who fought bravely for country
Due to someone else's greed.
Returned in flag draped coffin
No more laughter or joy to share.
A solemn trip into the prairie.....
A Spirit Crossing, there......
As Mothers weep in sorrow
Wives crying out in pain,
The earthly presence of this child
In life, we can't retain.
This honor, we do give you.
It's not enough, we know.
But to all these sons and daughters,
This Honor, now, we bestow.
Author: Carolyn Ford Witt
Ms. Caroline
3-13-06
poem by Carolyn Ford Witt
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Who Else is Going to Protect You.
Who else is going to protect you?
Who else is going to hunt for you?
Who else will die for you?
I am a Cheyenne dog soldier,
It’s my life,
It’s my honor,
To die for you,
Who else is going to cry for you?
Who else?
Who else will mourn for you?
Who else will fight?
Against the white mans might,
I am a Cheyenne dog soldier,
It’s my life,
It’s my honor,
To die for you,
Who else will wipe your tears away?
Who else will pick up the broken pieces?
Who else can see?
Who else can feel my pain?
Will we ever be the same?
Will our hearts ever heal?
I am a Cheyenne dog soldier,
It’s my life,
It’s my honor,
To die for you,
Who turned our world upside down?
Who was it who bought us down?
Who was it who scorched our ground?
Who was it who saw what was coming?
Who saw the darkness coming?
Who saw the image of the buffalo fading?
I am a Cheyenne dog solder,
It’s my life,
It’s my honor,
To die for you,
Visions and dreams haunt me,
Starvation,
Concentration,
Reservation,
Deprivation,
Our spirit can’t be broken,
Our language is still spoken,
Our pride indestructible,
Our treatment unspeakable,
More promises broken,
I-am a –Cheyenne dog soldier,
Ready to defend,
Ready to die,
I carry with me honor,
Pride,
Courage,
Generosity,
Wisdom and humility,
My vision of a Cheyenne dog soldier.
Osceola Birdman Waters.
Copy writes pending.
poem by Osceola Waters
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The Bench and the Blonde in Black
His Honor walked into the shop
For of shopping his Honor was fond.
Did she blush? Did her eyes indicate shy surprise
In that slim little, trim little blonde?
Did his bachelor heart miss a beat?
Did she flash him a smile as she turned?
Did his Honor smile back at this vision in black?
Said his Honor, 'The case is adjourned.'
His Honor walked into his court.
Said the advocate, 'Shop-ladies lack
Much appeal, I submit, when these dark frocks they fit -'
Said his Honor, 'I like 'em in black.
Yes, I like 'em in black when they're blonde.
And I am not concerned with the cost.
It's a question of taste; and I've no time to waste.'
Said his Honor, 'Your action is lost.'
His Honor walked into the church.
'I will,' breathed his Honor, and beamed
On his blonde who, alack, was no longer in black,
For in ivory satin she gleamed.
Said the clergyman, 'Say after me -'
Said his Honor, 'My true wedded wife. . .
Er - at - sickness and health....and - er - all worldly wealth....'
Said his Honor, 'The sentence is life.'
His Honor walked up and walked down,
Sobbed the blonde, 'But you don't seem to care!
Why, my grey, pink and green are not fit to be seen;
And I haven't a rag fit to wear!
And you always did say I looked nice
In black suits? Twenty guineas? What fun!'
Then she smiled, kissed his neck, as he wrote out the cheque.
Sighed his Honor, 'Your suit, dear, is won.'
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The White Maiden And The Indian Girl
“Child of the Woods, bred in leafy dell,
See the palace home in which I dwell,
With its lofty walls and casements wide,
And objects of beauty on every side;
Now, tell me, dost thou not think it bliss
To dwell in a home as bright as this?”
“Has my pale-faced sister never seen
My home in the pleasant forest green,
With the sunshine weaving its threads of gold
Through the boughs of elm and of maples old,
And soft green moss and wild flowers sweet,
What carpet more fitting for maidens’ feet?”
“Well, see these diamonds of price untold,
These costly trinkets of burnished gold,
With rich soft robes—my daily wear—
These graceful flower-wreaths for my hair;
And now, at least, thou must frankly tell
Thou would’st like such garb and jewels well.”
“The White Lily surely speaks in jest,
For has she not seen me gaily dressed?
Bright beads and rich wampum belts are mine,
Which by far these paltry stones outshine,
Whilst heron plumes, fresh flowers and leaves,
Are fairer than scentless buds like these.”
“But, Forest Maiden, to this my home
What sights—what sounds of beauty come;
Pictures of loveliness—paintings rare—
All the charms that art can bestow are there,
With ravishing music of harp and song,
Sweet notes that to gifted souls belong.”
“The wild birds sing in our shady trees,
Mingling their notes with the vesper breeze;
The flow of waters, the wind’s low moan,
Have a music sweet that is all their own;
Whilst surely no tints or colors rare
Can with those of the sky and the wood compare.”
“But what of the winter’s cheerless gloom
When nature sleeps in a snowy tomb,
The storm clouds brooding over head,
Thy song-birds gone—thy wild-flowers dead?
With silence and gloom where’er you roam,
What then, what then, of your forest home?”
“We sing gay songs round our winter fires,
Or list the tales of our gray-haired sires;
When the hunting path has claimed our braves,
We pray to the God of winds and waves;
Or, on snow-shoes swift, we love to go
Over the fields of untrodden snow.”
“Then, I cannot tempt thee here to dwell,
Oh! wayward child of the forest dell,
To leave thy wandering, restless life,
With countless dangers and hardships rife
For a home of splendor such as this,
Where thy days would be a dream of bliss?”
“No, sister, it cannot my heart engage,
I would worry to death of this gilded cage
And the high close walls of each darkened room,
Heavy with stifling, close perfume;
Back to the free, fresh woods let me hie,
Amid them to live,—amid them to die.”
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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There is a small glen in the clouds
There is a small glen in the clouds
where cumulus receive nice forms,
enthralled souls fly, on heavens grounds.
Up there the Sun his golden crowns,
faithful rises to brighten morns,
there is a small glen in the clouds.
Strong currents sing solitude's sounds,
on glen souls bare of painful thorns,
enthralled souls fly, on heavens grounds.
The winds affray in gray surrounds;
air streams repeat some lyric calls,
there is a small glen in the clouds.
Beholden soul on glen, astounds,
a dream is remnant while it mourns,
enthralled souls fly, on heavens grounds.
Souls rise on glen to feast in bounds,
air callithumps atop the knolls,
there is a small glen in the clouds;
enthralled souls fly, on heavens grounds.
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Sonnet XXXIX: Prepare Your Wreaths
Prepare your wreaths, Aonian maids divine,
To strew the tranquil bed where I shall sleep;
In tears, the myrtle and the laurel steep,
And let Erato's hand the trophies twine.
No parian marble, there, with labour'd line,
Shall bid the wand'ring lover stay to weep;
There holy silence shall her vigils keep.
Save, when the nightingale such woes as mine
Shall sadly sing; as twilight's curtains spread,
There shall the branching lotos widely wave,
Sprinkling soft show'rs upon the lily's head,
Sweet drooping emblem for a lover's grave!
And there shall Phaon pearls of pity shed,
To gem the vanquish'd heart he scorn'd to save!
poem by Mary Darby Robinson
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Where I Live in This Honorable House of the Laurel Tree
I live in my wooden legs and O
my green green hands.
Too late
to wish I had not run from you, Apollo,
blood moves still in my bark bound veins.
I, who ran nymph foot to foot in flight,
have only this late desire to arm the trees
I lie within. The measure that I have lost
silks my pulse. Each century the trickeries
of need pain me everywhere.
Frost taps my skin and I stay glossed
in honor for you are gone in time. The air
rings for you, for that astonishing rite
of my breathing tent undone within your light.
I only know how untimely lust has tossed
flesh at the wind forever and moved my fears
toward the intimate Rome of myth we crossed.
I am a fist of my unease
as I spill toward the stars in the empty years.
I build the air with the crown of honor; it keys
my out of time and luckless appetite.
You gave me honor too soon, Apollo.
There is no one left who understands
how I wait
here in my wooden legs and O
my green green hands.
poem by Anne Sexton
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Dreams are Sewn
You will not know the size of my love,
or why I reached to spaces unknown,
amidst my heart and the stars above,
where my childhood dreams are sewn.
Lady of dusk, spilled tears and merits,
give me the gift of nightfall and glow,
when the Zephyr far horizons inherits,
pour communion in my cup to bestow.
Paint on my featureless field a forest,
where ode birds sing to killed soldiers,
on bridge deck I claim a void conquest,
your nymphical voice on plain moulders.
So fill and waste my dreams and goals,
with sunsets to redden my gaze to yon,
stockpiling remorse of my extant false,
because men fight to transfer beyond.
You will not know the size of my love,
ineffable goals submerse to obligation,
In single feasts nuptial grooms thrive,
to enter Hades train in one way station.
When their love expands to fill the sky,
and Elysian nymphs take them to fields,
soldiers' souls perform one celestial fly,
while rain falls on meadows and daffodils
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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You Have Let The Beauty Of The Day Go Over
You have let the beauty of the day go over,
You have let the glory of the noon go by.
Clouds from the West have gathered close and cover
All but a remnant now of our proud sky.
Dumbly the rain beats on our darkened faces.
Hushed are the woods. Alas, for us no bird
Shall sing to--day of pleasure in green places,
No touch shall thrill, no soul of leaves be stirred.
Why did we wait? What faith was ours in fortune?
What was our pride that fate should kneel to us?
Oh, we were fools. Love loves not to importune,
And he is silent here in this sad house.
Alas, dear love, the day for us is ended,
The pleasure of green fields, of streams, of skies.
One hour remains, one only of joy blended
With coming night. Ah, seize it ere it flies.
Draw fast the curtains. Close the door on sorrow.
Shut out the dusk. It only makes us grieve.
Here we may live a life,--and then, to--morrow,
If fate still wills it, we may take our leave.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Psalm 95
A Psalm before prayer.
Sing to the Lord Jehovah's name,
And in his strength rejoice;
When his salvation is our theme,
Exalted be our voice.
With thanks approach his awful sight,
And psalms of honor sing;
The Lord's a God of boundless might,
The whole creation's King.
Let princes hear, let angels know,
How mean their natures seem,
Those gods on high and gods below,
When once compared with him.
Earth, with its caverns dark and deep,
Lies in his spacious hand;
He fixed the seas what bounds to keep,
And where the hills must stand.
Come, and with humble souls adore,
Come, kneel before his face
O may the creatures of his power
Be children of his grace!
Now is the time; he bends his ear,
And waits for your request;
Come, lest he rouse his wrath and swear,
"Ye shall not see my rest."
poem by Isaac Watts
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Eve of loves
Eve of loves sleeps in pelting letters,
perfect words of her wistful memory,
sadden Spring strings, 'n' scopes to avoid,
Eve rains her melancholy, 'n' petters,
cold mizzle drops recall her anchory,
bedewed smiles fly my air voices, to void.
She gallivants years of lingering calls,
laugh modes of erstwhile words mine,
Eve of loves, silently my dreams bestows..
Cold drops from tall skies always fall,
Eve's tears, doleful drops, facial sign,
Months of solitude, form our rain billows.
Pictures talk, as time wears fetters,
Eve of drizzles feasts on night knoll,
lone destiny sings modes of our life line.
Blissfully comes, with nice laughter,
Eve's doleful rain drops of skies tall,
are compliant to solitude of nigh after.
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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