The Sisters
In the vine-shadows on the veranda;
under the yellow leaves, in the cooling sun,
sit two sisters. Their slow voices run
like little winter creeks, dwindled by frost and wind,
and the square of sunlight moves on the veranda.
They remember the gay young men on their tall horses
who came courting; the dancing and the smells of leather
and wine, the girls whispering by the fire together;
even their dolls and ponies, all they have left behind
moves in the yellow shadows on the veranda.
Thinking of their lives apart and the men they married
thinking of the marriage-bed and the birth of their first
child,
they look down smiling. “My life was wide and wild,
and who can know my heart? There in that golden jungle
I walk alone,” say the old sisters on the veranda.
poem by Judith Wright
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Related quotes
As The Master Suggests
Wasn't it just yesterday,
It was said...
He was too incompetent to lead.
And today they hope he succeeds,
To keep them protected...
From experiencing total economic devastation.
And yes,
The situation is a mess.
But guess who's gotta clean up...
After they have treated themselves,
Less than guests.
Guess who's left to paint the veranda,
As the master suggests?
Then joke...
Sitting from a chair,
Known to be the master's favorite seat.
Overlooking the cleanup.
And sharing jokes with similar minds...
About eating fried chicken,
Watermelon.
And who commits all the crime!
Producing babies 'they' can't feed.
And guess who's left to paint the veranda?
Me!
Wasn't it just yesterday,
It was said...
He was too incompetent to lead.
And today they hope he succeeds,
To keep them protected...
From experiencing total economic devastation.
And yes,
The situation is a mess.
But guess who's gotta clean up...
After they have treated themselves,
Less than guests.
Guess who's left to paint the veranda,
As the master suggests?
And guess who's left to paint the veranda?
As the master suggests.
Guess who's left to paint the veranda?
As the master suggests.
And guess who's left to paint the veranda?
As the master suggests.
And guess who's left to paint the veranda?
As the master suggests.
Guess who's left to paint the veranda?
As the master suggests.
And guess who's left to paint the veranda?
As the master suggests.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sitting On The Veranda
Sitting on the veranda
watching the world go on its way.
The sun is out and the sky is blue,
you can see forever
as you rest back in your chair
with not a worry in the world to bother you.
Just sitting on the veranda
watching the world go on its way.
A gentle breeze rustles the leaves
that is in front of you,
a gentle breeze to ease
the weariest of souls
as you sit and relax on the veranda
leaving the rest of the world
a million miles away.
21 September 2008
poem by David Harris
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A Veranda Without You
gone were the days
when the veranda keeps a man
to fill its empty space
to watch again those countless
stars in the heavens
at night
when everyone is gone
to sleep
it is those books
those black and white letters
those rules and laws
they are those that took the man
away from it
how can this veranda sing again tonight?
how can an evening rain retain its meaning?
all these laws
unromantic and so unkind
all these men
have since then
become schemers
of cunning
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Yellow Love Bird
that early morning
the yellow love bird
perhaps tired or
perhaps lost
perched on the
steel railing of
the veranda, and i
approached it
with my arms stretched
my hands open
i flew away on a rush
perhaps thinking
that i will catch and put
it in a cage, it
got me wrong, all
i wanted is to see it fly
yes, i want it to fly away
where it must really belong
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sixty Years Ago
I
The double-blossomed peach-trees with rosy bloom were gay
When grandpa rode beneath them upon his courting way,
From the white gate to the homestead they stretched in stately row,
And showered his path with petals, just sixty years ago.
His riding suit was spick and span, his jingling bridle rein,
Was polished to the limit, his top-boots shone again;
A mass of youthful vanity, from curly head to toe,
Was my darling gay young grandpa – just sixty years ago.
Upon the broad veranda, demure my grandma sat,
And hid her girlish blushes beneath her garden hat,
Her dainty flowing muslins enfolded her like snow;
Ah! Very sweet my grandma was, just sixty years ago.
With sweeping bow and fluttering heart he told his hopes and fears,
And grandma gently said him ‘Yea’, mid blushes, smiles and tears.
When the double-blossomed peach-trees with fruit were bending low,
Good Father Flynn united them – just sixty years ago.
II
There’s a sound of mirthful revel in the dear old home to-night,
Where the merry young folk frolic ‘neath the incandescent light,
Jazzing on the broad veranda, listening to the radio,
Knowing wonders quite undreamt of in the days of long ago.
On the vine-enclosed veranda, sits my grandpa in his chair,
And the flower-scented night winds stirs the white locks of his hair;
Grandma sits and smiles beside him, happy in the young folks glee,
Such a dainty dear old lady, ever young at heart is she.
And the harvest of their labours in the moonlight stretches wide
All the land they’ve won and toiled for as they struggled side by side,
In their brave old eyes no shadow from the griefs of gone-by years,
For their hearts beat high within them – dauntless breed of pioneers.
Hand in hand they sit together, while the angels smile above,
On their long unbroken record of faith, sacrifice and love;
From the double-blossomed peach trees come the petals falling slow,
Bringing sweet and fadeless memories of Sixty Years ago.
poem by Alice Guerin Crist
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the plaintain at the veranda's edge
unfolds its coiled leaves,
its jewels,
and veils the water basin
in five feet of green
tanka by Masaoki Shiki
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A mag-pie-robin
A mag-pie-robin
Is hopping in veranda
On this rainy day
poem by Asif Andalib
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The pigeons
In the afternoon
Some pigeons are taking rest
In the veranda
poem by Asif Andalib
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a picture of roger Y.
he falls asleep
rocking himself on
a molave
chair
he is the model
of life in
old exhaustion
his mouth is open
the wind enters freely
his hands on the arm
of a chair
his feet on the marble
railing of the
veranda of the house
hard and cold.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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What is life? Let us talk about it
ok, let us talk about life
my cat Kuting has just given birth
to three kittens
she must have loved their fathers
too much
three for i love you
the bitch in the house is pregnant again
we are sad
she is having a relationship with a native
dog
the one that takes trash for breakfast
no definite master
and house
a vagabond
she loves
i think and that is what we too believe
a cat has nine lives
and with her three kittens she gets
an extended twenty-seven lives
wow, that is amazing
cats indeed know how to live a longer time
than us
people who is into
birth controls
life is an early morning tea
a view from the veranda to the sea
a sunrise
a run to take the dip of the salt of the sea
closing your eyes
and see everything that this world is offering
life is a march of the ants
keeping an empire stable
feeding the queen
to ensure a birth of a hundred or more
soldiers
life is what we are here for
who thinks about death tomorrow? Nobody.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Moon On The Veranda Of The House
the moon tonight
is a river of light
slowly flowing on
the wooden floor
of the veranda of
my house...
i bathe
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Basket Dance
Dance!
Dance!
The priest is yellow with sunflower meal,
He is yellow with corn-meal,
He is yellow as the sun.
Dance!
Dance!
His little bells are ringing,
The bells tinkle like sunlight,
The sun is rising.
Dance!
Dance!
Perhaps I will throw you a basket,
Perhaps I will throw you my heart.
Lift the baskets, dancing,
Lower the baskets, dancing,
We have raised fruits,
Now we dance.
Our shadows are long,
The sunlight is bright between our shadows.
Do you want my basket?
Catch it!
Catch it!
But you cannot catch me,
I am more difficult.
poem by Amy Lowell
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In The Valley
Said the yellow-haired Spirit of Spring
To the white-footed Spirit of Snow,
“On the wings of the tempest take wing,
And leave me the valleys, and go.”
And, straightway, the streams were unchained,
And the frost-fettered torrents broke free,
And the strength of the winter-wind waned
In the dawn of a light on the sea.
Then a morning-breeze followed and fell,
And the woods were alive and astir
With the pulse of a song in the dell,
And a whisper of day in the fir.
Swift rings of sweet water were rolled
Down the ways where the lily-leaves grew,
And the green, and the white, and the gold,
Were wedded with purple and blue.
But the lips of the flower of the rose
Said, “where is the ending hereof?
Is it sweet with you, life, at the close?
Is it sad to be emptied of love?”
And the voice of the flower of the peach
Was tender and touching in tone,
“When each has been grafted on each,
It is sorrow to live on alone.”
Then the leaves of the flower of the vine
Said, “what will there be in the day
When the reapers are red with my wine,
And the forests are yellow and grey?”
And the tremulous flower of the quince
Made answer, “three seasons ago
My sisters were star-like, but since,
Their graves have been made in the snow.”
Then the whispering flower of the fern
Said, “who will be sad at the death,
When Summer blows over the burn,
With the fierceness of fire in her breath?”
And the mouth of the flower of the sedge
Was opened to murmur and sigh,
“Sweet wind-breaths that pause at the edge
Of the nightfall, and falter, and die.”
poem by Henry Kendall
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Meditating Like Mencius
Seemingly mummified in
the huge bamboo chair
upon his veranda,
he stares at
the blazing orange sunset,
heart/mind focused perfectly,
until both he
and the sunset
disappear.
poem by David Kowalczyk
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Old Fires
The fire burns low
Where it has burned ages ago,
Sinks and sighs
As it has done to a hundred eyes
Staring, staring
At the last cold smokeless glow.
Here men sat
Lonely and watched the golden grate
Turn at length black;
Heard the cooling iron crack:
Shadows, shadows,
Watching the shadows come and go.
And still the hiss
I hear, the soft fire's sob and kiss,
And still it burns
And the bright gold to crimson turns,
Sinking, sinking,
And the fire shadows larger grow.
O dark-cheeked fire,
Wasting like spent heart's desire,
You that were gold,
And now crimson will soon be cold--
Cold, cold,
Like moon-shadows on new snow.
Shadows all,
They that watched your shadows fall.
But now they come
Rising around me, grave and dumb....
Shadows, shadows,
Come as the fire-shadows go.
And stay, stay,
Though all the fire sink cold as clay,
Whispering still,
Ancestral wise Familiars--till,
Staring, staring,
Dawn's wild fires through the casement glow.
poem by John Freeman
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Okaerinasai
this is the stranger
dusty face and muddy
feet
caulked
he still holds the key
to the old room
his room
opens it
he was away for months
his dog is dead
inside the bathroom
the whole house
stinks
all lines are cut off
it is dark
he arrives at night
dogs are howling
the trees have no leaves
the winds are cold
the path is
grassy and wild
the squirrels left
when he arrives
nuts
the rats stand at
the door watching
his every move
there is a mirror
at the veranda
at the side of the
door
it is hazy
it could be me
in this
horrible
thought
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Will Take You To Crabhouse
two parallel roads
sandwich by pines
long can't see end
golf balls astray
lying on needles
same in deep pond
house by riverbank
candle lit windows
veranda, both sides
love overlooking green
at water edge of pain
swirling; lofting wind
poem by Manonton Dalan
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At 55
she sleeps with the
tv on
at 6 o'clock in the morning
in the kitchen the
breakfast is
cold
he walks upstairs
waiting for the sunrise
sparrows are busy
feeding the fledgelings
he sits on a chair
by the veranda overlooking
the sea
there alone.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sisters Of Avalon
Felt someone calling me into the howling of the wind.
I heard the reflection of a sound echoing through my skin...
and a distant drum rumbling under ground gently guides me on...
through my wild heart... whispering to me
the Sisters of Avalon... Sisters of Avalon... Sisters of Avalon... Sisters of Avalon
She is awakening in dark swells and mystery.
Unbridled night mares powerful and running free.
You could still hear her cries
reverberating through the trees...
for the trampled flowers
song performed by by Cyndi Lauper from Sisters Of Avalon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Vic 4
OUTSIDE the house
the rain pours
heavily,
nothing disturbs
the settings on the table
and on the veranda
fronting the window
is the tree filled with
fruits
you gaze at it
you hear the loud pouring of the rain
inside
the setting is still perfect
now you don't really care
about how the placements
affect you
you feel the slow movement
of the red blood cells in your wrist
the fingers relax
the heart rests upon
the closed door
of the bone.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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