En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Mizzen

Rivulet traveling in green field, of thin rain;
in a caper sweetly song, October fitting;
accurate lovely nature, precise to refrain,
mirroring forms of cumulus, in sky meeting.

Facial reflection of a child to navigate a cork,
a mizzen, as flow guides it, to distant sea,
white hopes in sepia recall this rain's work,
where the child is of nebulae, a departee.

Acceptable 's the drizzle in his soul, angelic,
a message that only estimable spirits trail,
when sullen darkness in his life is empathetic,
in rivulets of memory the cork returns in gale,

And takes his soul to ocean routes his mizzen felt,
in apparitions of his dreams to a rainy apogee,
where nimbus go vividly in sepia gloss melt,
where links of childhood are lucent reverie.

There to find nitid dreams and friends of long,
Of Autumnal gray domes, pleasant in sight,
his rivulet is moving on to extend the same song,
glorious mizzen of the cork will trip in light.

poem by Giorgio Veneto
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Princess of Bright

Princess of Bright

Aerial was that friction match and I,
beguiled by her beaming glare, luminous,
Glorious amid red rose beds, flowery,
Radiant of her young Springs and vows!

Dazzling and glistening the air around
with bees to seethe in redemptive light,
a sprite! Was I the blessed unsound,
a mere mortal! Lurid but unfit, albeit!

And then, like an aeriform, descended
to fill my emptiness, ascetic severeness;
acceptable, wed scented, well respected,
my openhearted vacancy, and nothingness.

Princess of Bright, lucent, deplorable,
aloof! A nonadjacent mistress, in Utopia,
to navigate in veinal dreams lamentable,
to gloss her undimmed glimmer in sepia.

Aphotic my nights became in dismal tear,
as virtuous she was, to forge my dream,
Unfavorable of a Groom I was, to bear,
my Acheronian wick, angelic waxy grim.

There she was! Benighted in brunet yon,
her mane to wave in ethereal fine visions,
Princess of Darkness, made me reckon,
Invisible, then was my trauma incision.

© G. V. - 01.23.2012 /
© 29570343

poem by Giorgio Veneto
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Children Of The Heart

Have you ever left?
Your childhood alone
Have you ever let?
Your childhood dreams go

I've never really known
The joys a child should know
I've never really seen
What it's like to just being a child

But in each of us there lies
A child breaking to be free
To learn life's mysteries
In child like dream

To run with friends and family
Free just like a breeze
To play in the fields
Of a childhood memory's

What is it really like?
To be a warrior of old
What is it really like?
To be innocent in ones life
What is it really like?
To be a hero in a child's dream

I sigh and often dream
What it would be like to be free
Free of all your burdens
In a child's innocent world
Of dreams

Can you explain to me?
What the mystery a child hold's
Why do we crave
Our childhood of old

I smile and think often
Deep inside my soul
There will always be a child
Bursting forth to be free
Just wanting to let go

There will always be a child
Wanting all their dreams
To fly into a world of fantasy's
And just being free

Smiling softly to myself
I close my eyes and dream
Of when I was a little girl
Reliving all my dreams

poem by Kaila George
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

On The Cork Hurlers Strike

The best hurlers will not be playing for the Rebel County this year
At least not under coach Gerald McCarthy for Cork fans such sad news to hear
The Liam McCarthy Cup this year won't be coming to the hurling City by the Lee
Without Cork's best hurling only half dressed as hurling fans all would agree
Cork hurling fans not very happy to them hurling more than a game
Some blame the hurlers and others blame Gerald and others the County Board blame
Gerald has no notion of resigning and Cork's best under him will not play
And the loser is the game of hurling and that does seem a sad thing to say
Cork will have a hurling team in the League and All Ireland Championship but their best the red jersey will not wear
And for any hope of sporting success as we do know a team would need every top player
And in 2009 Cork will only make up the numbers though the game of hurling will go on
For hurling does live on in Ireland though great players to and from the game have come and gone
In 2009 Cork will not have their best team at least now it's looking that way
In a sad time for Cork and for hurling in Ireland and that seems a sad thing to say.

poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Mick Cashman

In the Cork County Senior Football Championship Final of 1957 I still recall the day
The last time I see Mick Cashman for his home club Millstreet Play
At the Cork Athletic grounds that day the Duhallow men were beat
The City Club St Finbarrs proved too good for Millstreet.

The Barrs fans celebrated the victory was sweet
But Mick Cashman played a great game he was gallant in defeat
In the biggest day in Cork County for the game of Gaelic Football
And though Millstreet lost to go that far they did well overall.

Mick Cashman was ordained a priest and for New Zealand he was bound
Far from Millstreet in Duhallow and Tullig his home ground
In the green and gold of Millstreet he was never seen again
But what was a loss to Ireland was surely New Zealand's gain.

Mick Cashman was a gentleman and of him 'twould be fair to say
That to help out other people he went out of his way
A Parish Priest in New Zealand where he was known far and wide
And his success in his adopted Country to Millstreet a sense of pride.

He is buried in New Zealand far south and far away
From Tullig above Millstreet Town where he first saw light of day
Last saw him in a Cork County Final for Millstreet playing Gaelic Football
A good memory till my own end that I surely will recall.

poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Sinking

You're on a wide open ocean
No one around you for miles
You're thinkin' of drinkin' on water
While you're sailing the Nile
No one to stop you on your way
Flyin' by goes a stork
You decide to bring your oars in now
But accidently knock out the cork

Row your boat to shore
'Cause it is leaking and you're still drinking
Unless you cork the hole
You won't be sailing

song performed by by No Doubt from No Doubt
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!

Eternity of my soaring

My whole life I kept for you, a reason
of annunciated dimensions, prorogued;
my turned to the winds hands, a mizzen,
account on dusks of a bitter monologue.

All of my soul's children hunt storms
first sight of our sun, repleted light's wit;
amid winds of ghostly-dreamy forms,
sounded the Bells of our morning reached.

My pulse yon spreads, on church bells,
rhythm of waves inscribed on time's embers,
escorting me on Sundays, a name I spell,
marked with your return, my dream enters.

When friends, on Sundays invite me to feast,
I see the river of our uprising morning,
You are in dim light, adorning my mist
to love me in the eternity of my soaring.

poem by Giorgio Veneto
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Valor is abraded

Soldier of oddities, autumnal fog
aborning valor, confer to overfly
recalling his home, in misty bog
counting raindrops, of a gray sky..

Valor is abraded, functions a log,
his red diluted, in drizzle complies

Maiden of oddities, autumnal rain,
recalls his dark uniform, and rank,
he smiled departing, in dark train,
acclaiming prowess, his eyes sunk..

Rain drops fall from skies above,
adorning a smile, clouds to assay,
he stares in solitude, a courtly love,
her sweet glance, upon their quay..

Friendly raindrops. of a gray sky,
form splendid, in clouds ascends,
staring at cumulus, a mizzle nigh,
sweetly waving, amid his friends..

Honor is abraded, beckons away,
his crimson diluted, in rain amends.

poem by Giorgio Veneto
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

What Poetry Mean To Me

What does poetry mean to me

Poetry is the air I breathe

Poetry is the words that feed
My soul
To make me whole

Poetry is what makes me blossom
In the middle of spring

Poetry is what grows my garden
And makes it flourish with nature
Beauty

Poetry Is

My magical whim's that supply all my
Fantasy and fills my hopes and dreams

Poetry is the strong desire that keep the
Flames of love burning

In the midst of the hour

And lights up the sky
With beautiful hues of colours

Spreads from one globe to

Another

To swim the ocean deep

Just because of love

Poetry is that and more, which I
Hate to carry this on and on

But

Poetry is the love of our life that visit
Us in our dreams

Poetry is

Me and the worlds that wakes every
Morning to bloom and blossom

Even after the death has played it last
Song that breaks our hearts

Poetry is tears and moans
Grief and pain that Hunt's the
Soul

Poetry is the rain crying from
The sky
The sun the moon with the golden
Light
Poetry is a child laughter at play
The tears a child shreds in sadness
They cry

Poetry is just a book of songs you
And I write down in our journal
Each and every day

We

Mix them together again and again
That is poetry

Poetry is life woes
Life happiness

Poetry is life
Here now and after

Poetry is you and I

poem by Carolyn Sears
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Christy Ring

I'll tell you about a great hurler he hurled his way into renown
And his fame spread distant from Cork City through many a village and town
He inspired the poets to write of him and the song writers his praises did sing
And he was the hurler of all Seasons the one and only Christy Ring.

He was born in the year nineteen twenty and he died in nineteen seventy nine
And he played from the thirties until the late sixties and as he aged he matured like good wine
He won eighteen Railway cup medals a record that will never be beat
Yet he was a down to earth fellow a man who was free of conceit.

Of him there has been many stories his imprint in hurling he made
As long as hurling is played he will be remembered for the many great games that he played
In Cork, Limerick, Thurles and Killarney and in Dublin in famed Croke Park
In his three marvellous decades of hurling the wizard from Cloyne left his mark.

When I was a boy in the fifties Christy Ring in his mid thirties then
Yet still one of Ireland's best hurlers he helped Cork and Glen Rovers to many a win
He revelled in fierce competition and even in his forties played against the best
And he always worried his opponents the hurler who always impressed.

The Cork and the Glen Rovers wizard his fame spread beyond Ireland's shore
his name will live as long as the game of hurling and that will be forever more
He inspired the poets to write of him and the song writers of him did sing
And he was the hurler of all Seasons the legendary Christy Ring.

poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

In the night sky

In the night sky you can find me
With full confidence with sun with rat
And with all paraphernalia and paraphrase
And I was not on parole to cooperate you
In all works within and outside the house.

I saw my father here I see my son here
I see you equally same when I hold bottle
And hold cork and I am going to see cosmos
That is with us and I feel pain while
Going higher and higher with some madness.

I Thank all here for they extend me help
And I have reasons to called the cat cruel
In the rain and in the sun and in the ice field
I want to steal but what and from whom
I do not know and I have not decided to start as yet.

poem by Gajanan Mishra
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Paddy Casey

When Paddy Casey left the Clara road forever
The feeling was widespread he would be back
For he could never be happy in heaven
If heaven did not have a greyhound track.

Three times a week to Cork track he did journey
From Inchaleigh just out of Millstreet Town
Sometimes through Macroom and sometimes on the narrow high road
That winds along by Mushera up and down.

I doubt that he could feel happy in heaven
If he could not watch two greyhounds course a hare
In January at the Millstreet Coursing Meeting
In the Town Park I fancy he's still there.

He is one I still remember Paddy Casey
I knew him since I was a five year old
He was a cheerful and kindhearted fellow
And you well might say he had a 'heart of gold'.

I recall his renowned track bitch Rainbow Lady
Duhallow's fastest greyhound in her prime
At Cork track she won many open races
And bettered thirty seconds every time.

He had so many friends around Cork County
And the feeling was widespread he would be back
For Paddy could not be happy in heaven
If heaven did not have a greyhound track.

poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Back There In Millstreet County Cork

Back there in Millstreet County Cork the frosted fields are gray
And old Clara wears his hat of snow on this cold January day
And cattle in the farmyard shed are bellowing for hay
Back there in Millstreet County Cork far north and far away.

Through old fields west of Millstreet Town the Finnow bank high flow
Through Inchaleigh, Coomlogane and Claragahatlea by many a bare hedgerow
Robins, blackbirds and sparrows by back door eat crumbs of bread
Before the Spring for them some hard and hungry times ahead.

Back there through Millstreet County Cork harsh winds of January blow
The days and nights are wet and cold quite cold enough to snow
In Duhallow I was born and raised though far from there I may die
And that I still feel nostalgia for the place of that why should I lie.

Back there in Millstreet County Cork the wintery winds blow chill
Across the bleak unsheltered face of Clara's bracken hill
And on the high fields by the hill beneath a darkened sky
The hungry fox out hunting utters forth a wild shrill cry.

poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

All Her Days

All her days are softly going by
With some dreams to be forgotten
Like clouds that are always in the sky
Only to drift away and be forgotten

Sunshine and rain each day sunshine and rain

Life is sometimes a dream rising high
With every opportunity coming to be
Or some loneliness that cannot die
Only to become an inside part you and me

Sunshine and rain each day sunshine and rain

There are dreams that cannot be hidden away
In the mirrors of glasses that make a day

Every love song
is rising in high
With the times
that come with new spring
And its hopes
with the dreams still lie
Bringing worth
to recollections of old gone thing

Sunshine and rain each day sunshine and rain

*(Thanks go to the late John Denver, for his song ‘Fly Away’, for without, this could not have happened) .

poem by Peter S. Quinn
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Sky gathered stratus

Your eyes are holding the rain, shy to explain,
our shore of Spring waited, dreams invaded.
Soul expiated eluded, accepting death pain,
spiraling in void, extending, in a feast equated..

Then it was a past to glean oceans of margin,
our reasons stayed on windy, gray thresholds,
to become dreams, skies of solitude to wean,
a flow of tears in causes dear and cast molds..

I bestow honors up where heaven's borders,
expected me to shelter, world of a dim decry,
gray clouds and a fire of soul, and embers,
disdaining parallel lives, my ancestry to deny..

My hymn of sky gathered stratus, and cumuli,
a route to testify, to cry, in rain, my dark bride,
flying sole nimbus, my strophes, rules to apply,
a lonely cause, a solemn ebb of ocean tide.

Guarding, surmising, insights, to eliminate,
portray, invent, deify and cry in a cause of pride,
strive, trace dark horde dreams, to accentuate,
an opposition to Styx black, a light to guide.

poem by Giorgio Veneto
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Setanta O Hailpin

He played hurling for Cork just a few years ago
And as an an Aussie Rules footballer his legend now grow
He now plays full back for Carlton for him a remarkable feat
Young Setanta O Hailpin is an amazing athlete,
Truth is stranger than fiction some are known to say
And in Setanta's case it does seem that way
A top hurler who has become a top player in Australian rules football
What did seem impossible not impossible at all,
The hurler who made it playing Australian Rules Football
In decades from now sports writers will recall
To the young man from Cork credit is only due
He followed his dream and his dream did come true
And though such a fairy tale story may not happen again
A huge loss to Cork hurling is the Carlton's Blues gain.

poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Independent Man

Now who could take you off to tiny life
In one room or in two rooms or in three
And cork you smartly, like the flask of wine
You are? Not any woman. Not a wife.
You'd let her twirl you, give her a good glee
Showing your leaping ruby to a friend.
Though twirling would be meek. Since not a cork
Could you allow, for being made so free.

A woman would be wise to think it well
If once a week you only rang the bell.

poem by Gwendolyn Brooks
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Alter Nigh

Guiding mizzen, curved, waves,
my route beyond gray horizon,
spells dim, sails unfold to dawn
my soul is dull and misbehaves..

Weedy paths spiral in distance
spirits broken expend to waste,
eschew encomium for instance
lost lives-souls in caves, etiolate.

Sea streams, envy my cause,
a twinge starts on mistral whiffs,
poems will describe fall leaves,
lonely is the reason to applause..

Delphian paths do know so well,
a lissome figure in winds to cry,
the mist will sink in a sip of rye,
beyond horizons I shall dwell..

A man must know if he is chosen,
to quill darkness in nocturnal fog,
villages are distant in this bog,
and his remote death is frozen.

Solitude feelings up proudly fly,
a bitter freedom, to winds offer,
my poetry books, in an old coffer,
your away stars shine alter nigh..

poem by Giorgio Veneto
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Sonnet In Bee Flat

There must be a place (but I've yet to find one)
beneath the Sol-drawn dawn of autumn skies
where cut-throat trout still find the heart to run
and the fullness of Summer's life never dies.

There, as if Earth had changed rotation,
Instead of honey, nature gathers dew
and composes a world without notation.
Unlike the life of old, this work is new.

Despite the nearing gray cold wintry blast,
the twisted fir tree keeps her dreams of green,
of a chamomile welwitschian past,
and buzzing yellow flights of friends less seen.

But bees still dance their flower pollen-aise,
a song of haze gold mid-October days.

(mindbringer,19 October 2009)

poem by Thomas Holderfield
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

A Poet's Song

~♥ ♥ ♥ ~

I have read
Works of great men and women
Simple poems and stories
I also have written
This is the song of a poet
The song of my soul

I love poetries
So too are stories
They are simple daisies
Filling my fantasies
This is the song of a poet
The song of my soul

It is my refuge
When in sorrow
My hopes and dreams
In my unknown tomorrow
This is the song of a poet
The song of my soul

I am a poetess
With the dream of sharing
And with my knowledge and skills
Tomorrow, my dreams I will be fulfilling
This is the song of a poet
The song of my soul

I and my works
May never be great
But I will never lose hope
In God, I place my faith
This is the song of a poet
The song of my soul

I will never surrender to failure
I shall never retire until I reach my goal
I will read and write literature
I will hear the cry of my hoping soul
This is the song of a poet
The song of my soul

~♥ ♥ ♥ ~

poem by Belleza Edella Marian SwanCullen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

On The Passing Of Dan Leary

Dan Leary was a legend of old Millstreet but he'll never more be seen in Millstreet Town
Or in the Townpark on a Summer's evening With a pair of greyhounds walking up and down
He was a sterling corner back in his prime a stalwart of Millstreet Gaelic Football
Fearless and hard but fair he never shirked a challenge as those who played against him do recall.

For many years he was a Millstreet butcher the Learys of the West End were well known
And Dan the Millstreet schoolboys of the fifties did look up to we were so proud he was one of our own
In Cork County Championship Games in Coachford and in Macroom Dan Leary at his best was often seen
One of his Club's greatest defensive players it was with pride he wore the Millstreet green.

It was with sadness I read of his passing in the flesh one that we never more will see
But for as long as I have the power to remember he surely will live in my memory
He was so down to earth and unassuming and to his friends he always remained true
'Tis not because he's dead I sing his praises in words I only give the man his due.

Dan Leary a legend of Duhallow Gaelic Football now with the dead of Millstreet Parish lay
'Tis sad to think we never more will see him but good memories of him with us bound to stay
The best forwards in Cork Gaelic Football against him always found it hard to score
It was with pride he wore the green of Millstreet and may he rest in peace forever more.

poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!