En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Childhood bee

yellow spotted black velvety bee
that came buzzing at the garden
which rages with bougainvellea
of pink, red, and vermillion red

a tree of sour sop
squirrels scoured here
up there, a lumpy dangling fruit
sported a loose crevice
that exhibited the farmer's sore
some red eyed birds
had carved for midday fare

at the mishmash of cabbage leaves
robins had hopped, looked at me
wondering i were friend or foe

neighbour, bent with her frond hat
and weather beaten clothes
worked without a sound

the yellow spotted bee's
buzz still as lively as it was then
and it still looks older - than me

poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Wild Wild Party In The Loquat Tree

Out in the back by the grape stake fence
Is a place where nature makes so much sense
All the creatures livin in harmony
Its a wild wild party in the loquat tree
Fuzzies and furries run walk or fly
Havin a feast beneath a clear blue sky
Animals comin from miles around
To bounce the branch and shake the loquat down
The squirrel and the sparrow and the mouse and the bee
All havin a party in the loquat tree
Eatin all the yellow fruit they can see
Its a wild wild party in the loquat tree
Peckin at em pickin at em hidin em away
Savin em up for a rainy day
No matter how big no matter how small
Theres more than enough theres plenty for all
The squirrel and the sparrow and the mouse and the bee
All havin a party in the loquat tree
Eatin all the yellow fruit they can see
Its a wild wild party in the loquat tree
Chatter chirp squeak buzz
Chatter chirp squeak buzz
Chatter chirp squeak buzz
Chatter chirp squeak buzz
Every little loquat holds the seed
For a brand-new baby loquat tree
One o these seeds may find its way
To a place in the sun and then someday
The squirrel and the sparrow and the mouse and the bee
All havin a party in the loquat tree
Eatin all the yellow fruit they can see
Its a wild wild party in the loquat tree
The squirrel and the sparrow and the mouse and the bee
All havin a party in the loquat tree
Eatin all the yellow fruit they can see
(eatin all the yellow fruit)
Its a wild wild party in the loquat tree
(eatin all the yellow fruit)
The squirrel and the sparrow and the mouse and the bee
(eatin all the yellow fruit)
[havin a party]
All havin a party in the loquat tree
(eatin all the yellow fruit)
[in the loquat tree]
Eatin all the yellow fruit they can see
(eatin all the yellow fruit)
[havin a party]
Its a wild wild party in the loquat tree
(eatin all the yellow fruit)
[in the loquat tree]
Chatter chirp squeak buzz
Its a wild wild party in the loquat tree
Chatter chirp squeak buzz
Its a wild wild party in the loquat tree

song performed by by Indigo Girls
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Song of the Little White Girl

Cabbage tree, cabbage tree, what is the matter?
Why are you shaking so? Why do you chatter?
Because it is just a white baby you see,
And it's the black ones you like, cabbage tree?

Cabbage tree, cabbage tree, you're a strange fellow
With your green hair and your legs browny-yellow.
Wouldn't you like to have curls, dear, like me?
What! No one to make them? O poor cabbage tree!

Never mind, cabbage tree, when I am taller,
And if you grow, please, a little bit smaller,
I shall be able by that time, bay be,
To make you the loveliest curls, cabbage tree.

poem by Katherine Mansfield
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Villanelle at Sundown

Turn your head. Look. The light is turning yellow.
The river seems enriched thereby, not to say deepened.
Why this is, I'll never be able to tell you.

Or are Americans half in love with failure?
One used to say so, reading Fitzgerald, as it happened.
(That Viking Portable, all water spotted and yellow--

remember?) Or does mere distance lend a value
to things? --false, it may be, but the view is hardly cheapened.
Why this is, I'll never be able to tell you.

The smoke, those tiny cars, the whole urban millieu--
One can like anything diminishment has sharpened.
Our painter friend, Lang, might show the whole thing yellow

and not be much off. It's nuance that counts, not color--
As in some late James novel, saved up for the long weekend
and vivid with all the Master simply won't tell you.

How frail our generation has got, how sallow
and pinched with just surviving! We all go off the deep end
finally, gold beaten thinly out to yellow.
And why this is, I'll never be able to tell you.

poem by Donald Justice
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Golden Memory

When I was a young child
about five to seven years of age.
I noticed the neighbour's trees
were dirty and sooty and black.
Black with smoke chimney coal dust.

The bark was ugly dirty and black
the leaves were ugly dirty and black.
And barely green if at all in most places,
except a little on the side facing the sun.
The sun I saw as a beautiful yellow light.

Next to my father's garage grew these trees.
They were really tall shrubs, but I was but still
a young child, with much to learn in this world,
ruled by mean men. Magic and the elfin language,
still danced like sparkling stardust in my eyes.

Next to my father's garage grew these trees.
They were so sad dull black lifeless and ugly.
I took a bright yellow lively house paint.
And painted the trees yellow bright golden yellow,
in all sad places I could short armed easily reach.

But I also got paint on my hands face clothes.
In my wonderful joy I got paint on my clothes.
My apparently best going to town best clothes.
My mother punished me for painting the trees.
And the leaves a bright joyous yellow colour.

For making a small part
of this dull adult world.
A golden magical shinning
bright fairy glade place.

For painting making a small part
of this dull adult fading world.
A golden orb magical shinning
bright mystical fairy glade place.

For trying to make the tired
world a better magical place.
Thus were childhood dreamers
often beaten into submission.

By those who failed to see
the divine presence in dreams.
By those who failed to see
the magical sparkle in dreams.

poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Yellow Ribbon On The Old Oak Tree

who can forget the yellow ribbon
on that old oak tree? tell me.

tomorrow, i shall wear my yellow cap
my yellow shirt, my yellow brief,
my yellow pants.

my jaundiced eye, my golden yellow ring.
tomorrow, in my country, the sky is yellow.

all steps lead to the yellow brick road.
all fruits are ripe and mellow and yellow.

Tomorrow, the country is yellow.
Yellow for integrity, Yellow for change.
Yellow for justice. Yellow for truth.

One day more, and the sun shall rise
Yellow as ever.Yellow forever.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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September's Brought The Spring

The golden whistler whistles on the gray gum tree
And lyrebird in good mood for mimicry
And magpie piping in the morning gray
And currawong tell rain not far away.

I love the hills of Sherbrooke in the Spring
When wattles bloom and all the free birds sing
The voice of yellow tailed black cockatoo
And spotted dove utter his mating coo.

The rhododendrons flushed with bright pink flowers
And the trees look greener after cool spring showers
September brings with it rich greenery
And nest building birds prepare for family.

Were I a bard born with the gift of rhyme
I'd write a song for Sherbrooke in Springtime
And I'd sing my song that some might wish to hear
Of Sherbrooke in September of the year.

The yellow robin singing in the wind and rain
And the sky turn bright and the sun shine out again
And in Sherbrooke woods the wild and free birds sing
And September's come and brought with it the Spring.

poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Dreams on the Hillside

Last night I slept beneath the starry skies
Cloudless, warm, with fireflies
A cool summer breeze brushed over me
And crickets chimed harmoniously
And while I lay on the dark hillside
My world lit up and reality died.

In a field of paper flowers did I stand
In a world with no evil, hate, or reprimand
I looked up and saw lavender clouds curling in the sky
And watched the dragons and fairies fly

Candy grew from every tree and
The sun and moon smiled down at me
Spotted butterflies flittered here and there
While fairies placed red flowers in my hair

And blue wind painted white leaves yellow
While looking up at me was a small and happy fellow
And the teal clouds rained down golden drops of morning dew
That glistened on the green fescue*.

Chocolate bunnies hopped by the brook
So I stopped to take a look
And there I met a humble honeybee
Who kindly offered some cookies and tea

The weeping willows began to sway and shift
Causing glitter to spray from every crack and rift
While rainbows filled the blooming skies
With honeycombs that lit up my bright blue eyes.

Unicorns galloped over a distant hillside
And sugary bullfrogs hummed and sighed
On velvety bubbles and candy apple trees
Nimble elves danced atop golden leaves-

But all at once I awoke to the chilly fall air
That nipped at my nose with very little care,
I could not find the flowers or the candy apple trees,
The dragons, the bullfrogs, or the yellow-blue leaves
There I lay on the dark hillside under the starry skies
And found that my dreams had all been lies.

*fescue: type of grass

poem by Ali Vaughan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Signs of Autumn

The signs of autumn are upon us. Wow!
The Sun is heading south and harvesting
Is ready for a host of crops by now.
In early fall the days are warm as spring.
The leaves are turning yellow, some are red
And few are brown as yet. The oaken tree
Is dropping fruit and squirrels running ahead
Of other squirrels to claim a guarantee
Impending drops are won. The scent of leaves
Is carried by Septembers gentle breeze
Throughout the day bestirring memories
Of seasons past: A time of youth, who seized
The autumn moments with a measured scheme:
To laugh and play; to sing; to love and dream.

poem by Albert Ahearn
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My Drug Dealer

Today-
I asked myself.

Why are the oak tree’s purple?
And the grass blue?

Why is the sky green?
And the leaves hot pink?

Why is that gravel red?
And the rocks of that garden yellow?

Then I thought
and thought over again
a million times

and realized...

I’m high.

I’m up higher than the orange clouds in the green sky
My heart is as bright as the rocks of that garden

My thoughts are as eccentric as the hot pink color of the leaves
that fell from the purple tree

My eyelashes flutter flirtatiously like the way the wind
blows the blue blades of grass around.

Love is a drug,
and I’m high-

You happen to be my dealer.

poem by Breanna Schwartz
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Nature Trail

At the bottom of my garden
There's a hedgehog and a frog
And a lot of creepy-crawlies
Living underneath a log,
There's a baby daddy long legs
And an easy-going snail
And a family of woodlice,
All are on my nature trail.

There are caterpillars waiting
For their time to come to fly,
There are worms turning the earth over
As ladybirds fly by,
Birds will visit, cats will visit
But they always chose their time
And I've even seen a fox visit
This wild garden of mine.

Squirrels come to nick my nuts
And busy bees come buzzing
And when the night time comes
Sometimes some dragonflies come humming,
My garden mice are very shy
And I've seen bats that growl
And in my garden I have seen
A very wise old owl.

My garden is a lively place
There's always something happening,
There's this constant search for food
And then there's all that flowering,
When you have a garden
You will never be alone
And I believe we all deserve
A garden of our own.

poem by Benjamin Zephaniah
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The Yellow School Bus

The yellow school bus with the black wheels took sick children to school each day.
The yellow school bus with the black wheels was driven whether or not the sky was gray.
The yellow school bus with the black wheels went pass three streets and up a hill.
The yellow school bus with the black wheels was driven whether sunny or chilled.
The yellow school bus with the black wheels always brought a smile to little kids face.
The yellow school bus with the black wheels was filled with love and filled with grace.
The yellow school bus with the black wheels kept breathing until that final breath.
The yellow school bus with the black wheels was painted red with blood and death.
The yellow school bus with the black wheels and the little sick children were all of friends.
But the now dead children will never take a ride in the yellow school bus again.

poem by RaShawn Ince
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Wild garden

I saw rows of white,
yellow and red lilies bloom,
next to the railway tracts.

Loaded trains rattled past
and that garden,
sprang up by itself between the weeds.

With the early summer rain
rows of blue, white and pink wild flowers
bloomed next to the road that passed nearby.

Some finches nested in the trees
and red, yellow and green birds
flew past the vast garden
of earth that came alive
as far as the eye could see.

poem by Gert Strydom
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A Shift in Perception 2

I used to hate colour yellow.
It made my complexion look sallow.
And reminded me of jaundiced eyes,
Stubborn stains that won’t go despite
Trying every trick.
It used to make me sick.

Ugly yellow top cabs,
Yellow fumes in chemistry lab,
But now that I have mellowed
I have spotted beautiful yellows.

It is the colour of spring and sunshine,
That is our life line.
Bright mustard fields,
Sunny daffodils,
Cheerful sunflowers,
Clusters of Amaltas,

Marigolds and yellow roses,
Daisies and buttercups,
Elegant yellow glaidioli,
That fascinate me as I pass by
And feel compelled to stop
at the florists shop.

Butter scotch ice cream,
Mango sliced and diced.
Golden yellow apples,
And musk melons,
Pale yellow peach liqueur,
A must after dinner.

Yellow candle flames,
Brass temple bells,
Brightest colour of the spectrum
It catches everyone’s attention
It’s the colour that now lifts my mood
How could I hate it I find myself brood

Just a change in mental association
How it alters one’s perception.

poem by Mamta Agarwal
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The Sour Lemon Tree

A sour lemon tree flower attracts the bee
While its fruit is bitter not so its flower
White is its flower sweet and very pretty
Only the fruit is bitter and that's just a pity
As the beauty of its flower resist not a bee
It's the simple truth
Or see the sour lemon tree

With fruit that is bitter bears a lemon tree
But useful is its fruit good for everyday use
Once said a bee... your flower is very sweet
It carries fragrance scented out in the street
Yet bears you fruit bitter no one wants to eat
It's partly the truth
Or see the sour lemon tree

A citrus tree with fruit no other tree bears
Then out of the tree came a nice neat voice
'Twas like a voice of one who's very wise
This is what it said trees are not so free
One made a decree for every bearing tree
It's partly the truth
Or see the sour lemon tree

The Creator decides the fruit a tree bears
Whether it be bitter or whether it be sweet
The Creator decrees for every bearing tree
To bring forth fruit ordained for it to bear
Then sweet or bitter bears a tree its fruit
It's the simple truth
Or see the sour lemon tree.

poem by Clarence Prince
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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It Is Such A Beautiful Evening

Than Spring it is far more like Summer a summery warmth in the breeze
And sunshine on the old Town and Parkland and sunshine on the bushes and trees
The greeness of Spring all around me such beauty that cannot fail to please
The weather quite warm for September well over the twenty degrees.

Though early Spring few birds are singing in the warm sun of the day
They sing in the cool of the morning or in the twilight's fading gray
The Winter is finally over though Winter weather was far from severe
We may be due for an el nino a warm Spring is looming this year.

The heaths and prickly bushes are covered in their blue, pink and bright yellow flowers
They came to bloom in the late Winter in the cool and invigorating showers
The pardalotes by their nest entrance in a tiny hole in the ground
Wee wren sized birds spotted and pretty where they live small insects abound.

It is such a beautiful evening the swallows they chirp as they fly
And the sun with the warmth of Summer is glowing brightly in the blue sky
And the first brown butterflies of September are flitting in the balmy air
Alone and contented with Nature such moments are precious and rare.

poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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From The Same Tree

From the same tree
there is the good fruit
there is the bad fruit....

From the same tree
the good fruit goes to the market
the bad fruit...to the soil.

From the same tree
is the reason for the lonely farmer
to wake up each morning
to see how the fruits grow well...
and is the reason for the lonely farmer
for not winning the heart of his beloved
who prefer the city life

From the same tree
there is the good fruit
there is the bad fruit.

poem by Marites C. Cayetano
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Fall Leaves Dance

Look up and they're green,
Look up and they're yellow and green.
Then they're yellow, orange, red and green.
And then most are yellow, green, orange, brown,
Masses of moving colors, dancing up and down.

Slow, colorful dances bemuse the morning breeze,
The pace quickens with the evening wind.
It's right, it's left, it's up and down,
It's east, to west, to north, to south,
Warmed and energized by the setting sun.

Squirrels race among the leaves
Doing their dance routines,
Skimming and swaying the branches,
Weighting the limbs and twigs
With buoyant starts, stops and turns.

The new season is appearing: Fall is here!
Quietly and slowly birds hop from branch to branch
Camouflaged among the leaves
That silently fall, to carpet the ground and invite
New crushing, musical rolls from children at play.

poem by Hildred Marjorie Schloss
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Sun's yellow

Sun, s yellow grow,
yellow seedlings green;
Unless present the sun
photosynthesis not seen.

Green leaves change to
yellow in autumn;
Longer goes for rest
shorter present the sun.

Leaves paint landscape
in sun, s presence;
Chlorophyll goes green,
carotenoids orange.

Intensity of the sun
lot to bear on weather;
Land, s wetness goes
human sweats in summer.

(C) S. D. Tiwari

poem by S.D. Tiwari
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A Flower To Auroville Mother 25

Kozhakkattai Mandarai(Yellow Orchid Tree, St. Thomas Tree, Yellow Bell,
Bauhinia tomentosa)

Very much unassuming an appearance..
Sometimes plain, sometimes black throated
Plausibly to threaten a disturbance
Insects, birds when circling hunger bloated

Mandarai, but your golden smile bright
As that of sun around, why do you then droop
Indicative, medicative for sore throat
Like Shiva your blackened throat, why then stoop

Ah, your bilobed leafy claps acknowledge
While humming granny grinding chutney of them
You are how much purposeful without wastage
How much useful you're adorable optimum

So, you're my pooja flower Mandarai
Right soul linking me spacewise
Soaring me to celestials to go by
So you're handy sure in every my utterance

poem by Indira Renganathan
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Planet of Six

Six people were born:
three pink, two blue, and one yellow
like a jaundiced newborn's
ass...

There were more pink people,
rulers of this great nation,
controlling valentine's day
and cosmetics counters.

The pink had the ability to turn
blue people's offspring
somewhat purple, they could

transform the last of the surviving yellow
into agent orange.
Discouraging, especially since
the frail yellow boy sat in a corner
holding his flute between his legs.

poem by Marina Gipps
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