Paradise Lost for M 'lady Tara
This used to be a woodland place
when I was young long years ago
but now there’s very little trace
no trees at all. You’d never know
this used to be a woodland place.
New bungalows in row on row
their window panes all screened by lace.
Replace the trees which were laid low.
This used to be a woodland place
where any upset child could go
if they were troubled, in disgrace.
An ideal spot for lying low.
This used to be a woodland place
but that was many years ago
How sad that passing years erase
the secret havens children know.
30-Mar-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Related quotes
Doongalla
From recent rains the woodland path was greasy up along the wooded hill
And the freshening winds of mid afternoon blew with a wintery chill
And in Doongalla east of Melbourne the white cockies did call
In that quiet old mountain woodland where the stringybarks stand tall.
When I last was in Doongalla six or seven years ago
Across the wooded hillside the wintery winds did blow
And the currawongs were calling as through the woodland they did fly
And from memory I remember that too was in July.
The laugh like calls of the kookaburra in Doongalla's woodland ring
And around his invisible borders the grey shrike thrush whistle and sing
And the pleasant fluting of the beautiful crimson rosellas sweet music to the ear
In the woodlands east of Melbourne them one can see and hear
The chilly winds of the high country blow across the wintery sky
And the yellow robin is chirping on the sixth day of July
And the majestic stringybark gums touch the low lying clouds 'twould seem
In Doongalla by the Basin where Mother Nature reign supreme.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Trespasser for M lady Chitra
Lost deep in thought my footsteps strayed
And brought me to a woodland glade.
Wherein there stood an altar stone
erected to some God unknown
Erected in pre history.
The stone will stand eternally
as evidence of worship here
of some forgotten deity..
The altar stone is still pristine
It’s surface completely free
of lichens which should have been
thriving on it visibly.
Perhaps the worshippers still meet
Creep through the woods on silent feet
to carry out their ancient rites.
Beneath the moon on summer nights
When new gods drive he old gods out.
I am convinced I have no doubt
There still remains a faithful few
who worship as they used to do.
Perchance they still worship here
That is the reason that the stone is clear.
Quite suddenly I feel oppressed
and I decide its for the best.
To take again my homeward way
hurriedly without delay.
I feel that I must leave this place
and quicken up my walking pace
I wonder still uneasily
did I offend some deity.
Albeit inadvertently
who might decide to punish me
Though years have passed I’m still afraid.
I trespassed in that woodland glade.
Although in fact by accident
perhaps I earned some punishment.
Perhaps I’m being paranoid.
I try my hardest to avoid
Walking woodland paths alone
they might lead to that altar stone.
10/10/2009
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Shyrene
Once upon my nocturne sorrow,
As I delineate the morrow,
Of a dream, flourishing in might,
To fizzle in the morning light,
Such when the waves swept me ocean,
Of glum, beneath skies, cerulean,
As my memory holds serene,
The fairest woodland nymph, Shyrene;
As queer apparition, wandered,
Seems my sanity, it squandered,
When gayly danced on my window,
A pallid dew and a rainbow,
Through the night, and half my bottle,
All my memories they scuttle,
Except one that I held serene,
That of my woodland nymph, Shyrene;
Here's that last dropp of oblivion,
In this outpouring of passion,
Towards sea of nepenthe borne,
Among vile flotsam, it's been thrown,
With enduring squall, still raging,
And the seething swell, rampaging,
Yet, in my memory serene,
Plays my fair woodland nymph, Shyrene.
poem by Reyvrex Questor Reyes
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My Secret Place
Words and music by joni mitchell
Im going to take you to
My special place
Its a place that you
Like no one else I know
Might appreciate
I dont go there with anyone--but
Youre a special case
For my special place
For my secret place
People talk to tell you something
Or to take up space
Guess Im only talking
To be talking to
Your pretty face
I dont talk much to anyone--but
Youre a special case
For my special place
My secret place
I was born and raised
In new york city
Im just getting used to colorado--
Oh street bravado
Carry me
Why did you bring me to
A place so wild and pretty?
Are there pigeons in this park--
Muggers after dark--
In these golden trees--
In the secret place?
Im going to take you to
My special place
Its a place no amount of hurt and anger
Can deface
I put things back together there
It all falls right in place--
In my special space
My special place
Once I saw a film
In new york city
That was shot in colorado--
Girl meets desperado
In the trembling mountain trees
Out of all of the girls that you see
In bleachers and cafe windows
Sitting--flirting with someone
Looking to have some fun
Why did you pick me?
For the secret place
song performed by by Joni Mitchell
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Within The April Woodland Grow
Within the April woodland grow
The bluebells of the dawning spring,
A sea of blue like waves that flow
Upon the breeze they softly sing.
As now the boughs begin to leaf
The sun does shine with gentle beam,
To light the flowers there beneath
And glisten on the restful stream.
That through the woodland winds its way
And follows me where'er I tread,
For love has come to me this day
As to this land I now am wed.
My heart is filled with gladdened cheer
To see the sight and hear the sound,
To me the greatest time of year
When they adorn the barren ground.
Each one to me a lover's kiss
Upon my lips that waited long,
For now I feel a sense of bliss
That lifts me like the throstle's song.
Within the April woodland grow
The bluebells of the dawning spring,
A sea of blue like waves that flow
Unto the shore they softly sing.
poem by Andrew Blakemore
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A Place From Our Childhood
There is a place from our childhood;
we like to visit now and then,
to recapture our youth,
through the years that has slipped away.
A place that has a magic touch,
even through the years it has changed.
A place where sunshine,
still dances on the water
of rippling waves.
Where the wildlife still gather,
free from harm.
A place of solitude,
where you can find
a little peace of mind.
A place within a city that has not
been strangled by any human hand.
Somewhere you can while time away,
with dreams of another day.
poem by David Harris
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October’s fingers
Slip the golden gowns of trees
To woodland carpet
haiku by Adeline Foster
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A Home (revised)
no matter what there is
always a place called home
at least you finally decide
to call it that way,
you have been away from
this home
for many years
those were the years of the
struggle of
what you are and what they think you are
which is the place
and this is not where
you want to die
you want to live somewhere else
though you do not really know
where
but it has always been a dream
of somewhere
a house by the river
a place where hills grow into
mountains
your hair turns white
and ankles ache and names become
hazy and places become
smoky
you stop, right here, you declare
this is home
this moment when you do not
give yourself the right to choose anymore
it is here
right here
you place yourself like a backpack
and mark a spot with
your bamboo cane
and then
you claim the right to be here
your home
yourself.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Home
no matter what there is
always a place called home
at least you finally decide
to call it that way,
you have been away from
this home
for many years
those were the years of the
struggle of
what you are and what they think you are
which is the place
and this is not where
you want to die
you want to live somewhere else
though you do not really know
where
but it has always been a dream
of somewhere
a house by the river
a place where hills grown into
mountains
your hair turns white
and ankles ache and names become
haze and places become
smoky
you stop, right here, you declare
this is home
this moment when you do not
give yourself the right to choose anymore
it is here
right here
you place yourself like a backpack
and mark a spot with
your bamboo cane
and then
you claim the right to be here
your home
yourself.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Perfect Place (live)
Recession - a perfect fit,
Makes no difference where he sits,
Not since they cut the ties,
Put some sadness in his eye.
Promises - come and go,
Soak the sun in drifts of snow,
A qualified butt-collector,
Working for the private sector.
Hes seen them go,
Without a trace,
This could be it,
The perfect place.
They took the plans from up my sleeve,
By an architect, on new years eve,
There it goes, a new bronze tower,
Washed away with an april shower.
Hes seen them go,
Without a trace,
This could be it,
The perfect place.
But, when youve gone,
Im still here, the only one,
My eyes and my ears,
Will be here til Im gone;
And its still the perfect place,
To rest a tired and weary face,
And its still the perfect place,
To lose your soul with a trace.
A lived-in face, with a root,
Of matted hair, a smiling tooth,
A dirty hand, a pixies nose,
Scratches underneath his clothes.
Hes seen them go,
Without a trace,
This could be it,
The perfect place.
Hes seen them go,
Without a trace,
This must be it ...
song performed by by Madness
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Perfect Place
Recession - a perfect fit,
Makes no difference where he sits,
Not since they cut the ties,
Put some sadness in his eye.
Promises - come and go,
Soak the sun in drifts of snow,
A qualified butt-collector,
Working for the private sector.
Hes seen them go,
Without a trace,
This could be it,
The perfect place.
They took the plans from up my sleeve,
By an architect, on new years eve,
There it goes, a new bronze tower,
Washed away with an april shower.
Hes seen them go,
Without a trace,
This could be it,
The perfect place.
But, when youve gone,
Im still here, the only one,
My eyes and my ears,
Will be here til Im gone;
And its still the perfect place,
To rest a tired and weary face,
And its still the perfect place,
To lose your soul with a trace.
A lived-in face, with a root,
Of matted hair, a smiling tooth,
A dirty hand, a pixies nose,
Scratches underneath his clothes.
Hes seen them go,
Without a trace,
This could be it,
The perfect place.
Hes seen them go,
Without a trace,
This must be it ...
song performed by by Madness
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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After All The Years In The Study Of Black And White
after all the years of studying black and white
two exclusive colors in the place where you live and thrive
for 48 years
you suddenly come accidentally to a place that your heart
had always known but had never been there
perhaps only in its wildest dream
it is the place of the leaf where it can become a river
the haven of the stars where they can turn into butterflies
the space of the fish where they wish to become dragons
and many more
the place of your imagination
where you can be anything in anywhere at anytime
all those white and black years have turned you into a stone
now you must start to recall how to grow a pair of eyes
to see the brighter shades of every color there
the place of your imagination
and be color blind no more
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Sylph
I saw you and I named a flower
That lights with blue a woodland space,
I named a bird of the red hour
And a hidden fairy place.
And then I saw you not, and knew
Dead leaves were whirling down the mist,
And something lost was crying through -
An evening of amethyst.
poem by Francis Ledwidge
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To My Sister
It is the first mild day of March:
Each minute sweeter than before
The redbreast sings from the tall larch
That stands beside our door.
There is a blessing in the air,
Which seems a sense of joy to yield
To the bare trees, and mountains bare,
And grass in the green field.
My sister! ('tis a wish of mine)
Now that our morning meal is done,
Make haste, your morning task resign;
Come forth and feel the sun.
Edward will come with you;--and, pray,
Put on with speed your woodland dress;
And bring no book: for this one day
We'll give to idleness.
No joyless forms shall regulate
Our living calendar:
We from to-day, my Friend, will date
The opening of the year.
Love, now a universal birth,
From heart to heart is stealing,
From earth to man, from man to earth:
--It is the hour of feeling.
One moment now may give us more
Than years of toiling reason:
Our minds shall drink at every pore
The spirit of the season.
Some silent laws our hearts will make,
Which they shall long obey:
We for the year to come may take
Our temper from to-day.
And from the blessed power that rolls
About, below, above,
We'll frame the measure of our souls:
They shall be tuned to love.
Then come, my Sister! come, I pray,
With speed put on your woodland dress;
And bring no book: for this one day
We'll give to idleness.
poem by William Wordsworth
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Who Goes Amid the Green Wood
Who goes amid the green wood
With springtide all adorning her?
Who goes amid the merry green wood
To make it merrier?
Who passes in the sunlight
By ways that know the light footfall?
Who passes in the sweet sunlight
With mien so virginal?
The ways of all the woodland
Gleam with a soft and golden fire -- -
For whom does all the sunny woodland
Carry so brave attire?
O, it is for my true love
The woods their rich apparel wear -- -
O, it is for my own true love,
That is so young and fair.
poem by James Joyce
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June At Woodruff
Out at Woodruff Place--afar
From the city's glare and jar,
With the leafy trees, instead
Of the awnings, overhead;
With the shadows cool and sweet,
For the fever of the street;
With the silence, like a prayer,
Breathing round us everywhere.
Gracious anchorage, at last,
From the billows of the vast
Tide of life that comes and goes,
Whence and where nobody knows--
Moving, like a skeptic's thought,
Out of nowhere into naught.
Touch and tame us with thy grace,
Placid calm of Woodruff Place!
Weave a wreath of beechen leaves
For the brow that throbs and grieves
O'er the ledger, bloody-lined,
'Neath the sun-struck window-blind!
Send the breath of woodland bloom
Through the sick man's prison room,
Till his old farm-home shall swim
Sweet in mind to hearten him!
Out at Woodruff Place the Muse
Dips her sandal in the dews,
Sacredly as night and dawn
Baptize lilied grove and lawn:
Woody path, or paven way--
She doth haunt them night and day,--
Sun or moonlight through the trees,
To her eyes, are melodies.
Swinging lanterns, twinkling clear
Through night-scenes, are songs to her--
Tinted lilts and choiring hues,
Blent with children's glad halloos;
Then belated lays that fade
Into midnight's serenade--
Vine-like words and zithern-strings
Twined through ali her slumberings.
Blessed be each hearthstone set
Neighboring the violet!
Blessed every rooftree prayed
Over by the beech's shadel
Blessed doorway, opening where
We may look on Nature--there
Hand to hand and face to face--
Storied realm, or Woodruff Place.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Loveliest of Trees, the Cherry Now
Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.
Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.
And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.
poem by Alfred Edward Housman
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The Old Lane Through The Woods
There’s a track through the trees from the White to the Black
that I walked as a kid and I often went back.
Now the years slip away and the distances grow,
but if time gives us time and we get to change tack
if the notion should take you then I’d gladly go:
in wildest November before winter’s trance,
at the height of the spring when the daffodils dance.
We could stand on the bank where the rhodies convene,
like the first of our kind who looked down on that scene,
on a loch with no name, with no castles around,
or old burial ground of the meek and the mean;
though the rich bled the poor, by the sod they’re all bound.
Or we’ll maybe just stay on the old woodland road
and head north to the Black with the odd jumping toad.
There a whole constellation of things we can view.
In the summer there’s herons and sometimes deer too,
and there’s dodging and weaving through armies of leaves.
Though the foxgloves are rare I’ll find one just for you,
and then swing on the Ivy through Sycamore trees.
If you ever have time we could wander off down
that old lane through the woods whether wintry or lown.
But I know all too well that this life is a crush.
There’d be too much to do if we didn’t all rush.
And I wonder sometimes how it all went so wrong;
but they’re calling it progress with hardly a blush -
in a world where rich hippies can still sing along.
There’s a place where that craziness doesn’t hold sway;
if you’re ever back home we could go there some day
14 12 11
Don Quixote
Through the woodland, through the valley
Comes a horseman wild and free
Tilting at the windmills passing
Who can the brave young horseman be
He is wild but he is mellow
He is strong but he is weak
He is cruel but he is gentle
He is wise but he is meek
Reaching for his saddlebag
He takes a battered book into his hand
Standing like a prophet bold
He shouts across the ocean to the shore
Till he can shout no more
I have come oer moor and mountain
Like the hawk upon the wing
I was once a shining knight
Who was the guardian of a king
I have searched the whole world over
Looking for a place to sleep
I have seen the strong survive
And I have seen the lean grown weak
See the children of the earth
Who wake to find the table bare
See the gentry in the country
Riding off to take the air
Reaching for his saddlebag
He takes a rusty sword into his hand
Then striking up a knightly pose
He shouts across the ocean to the shore
Till he can shout no more
See the jailor with his key
Who locks away all trace of sin
See the judge upon the bench
Who tries the case as best he can
See the wise and wicked ones
Who feed upon lifes sacred fire
See the soldier with his gun
Who must be dead to be admired
See the man who tips the needle
See the man who buys and sells
See the man who puts the collar
On the ones who dare not tell
See the drunkard in the tavern
Stemming gold to make ends meet
See the youth in ghetto black
Condemned to life upon the street
Reaching for his saddlebag
He takes a tarnished cross into his hand
Then standing like a preacher now
He shouts across the ocean to the shore
Then in a blaze of tangled hooves
He gallops off across the dusty plain
In vain to search again
Where no one will hear
Through the woodland, through the valley
Comes a horseman wild and free
Tilting at the windmills passing
Who can the brave young horseman be
He is wild but he is mellow
He is strong but he is weak
He is cruel but he is gentle
He is wise but he is meek
song performed by by Gordon Lightfoot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Kid Fears
Pain from pearls -hey little girl
How much have you grown
Pain from pearls - hey little girl
Flower for the ones youve known
Are you on fire
From the years
What would you give
For your kid fears
Secret staircase, running high
You had a hiding place
Secret staircase, running low
But they all know, now youre inside
Are you on fire
From the years
What would you give
For your kid fears
Your kid fears
Skipping stones, we know the price now
And any sin will do
How much further, if you can spin
How much further, if you are smooth
Are you on fire
[are you on fire]
From the years
[from the years? ]
What would you give
For your kid fears
[what would you give]
[what would replace the rent with the stars above]
(replace the rent with the stars above)
[replace the need with love]
(replace the need with love)
[replace the anger with the tide]
(replace the anger with the tide)
[replace the ones, the ones, the ones, that you love]
(replace the ones, the ones, the ones, that you love)
Ah the ones that you love
Are you on fire
(replace the rent with the stars above)
[are you on fire]
From all the years
(replace the need with love)
[from the years]
What would you give
(replace the anger with the tide)
[what would you give]
For your kid fears
(for the ones that you love)
(the ones that you love)
Hold on now
Are you on fire
(replace the rent with the stars above)
[are you on fire]
From all the years
(replace the need with love)
[from the years]
And what would you give
(replace the anger with the tide)
For your kid fears
[what would you give]
(for the ones that you love)
What would you give
(the ones that you love)
For you kid fears?
[what would you give]
What would you give for your kid fears
Your kid fears
Hey kids
Hold on
song performed by by Indigo Girls
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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