Marco Polo
READING how Marco Polo came
By bridle-path to Kanbalu,
Forgotten fibres wake to flame,
And smoke old memories anew . . . .
For in a bygone life of mine
I watched the carven rampart shine,
Where Kublai's five-clawed dragons glowed
Like painted wyverns, line on line.
And past those plaster dragon-heads,
Those frescoes cut with curious flowers,
In verdigris and lilac-reds
Old tiles gleamed on the crusted towers,
While bridges cleft of serpent-stone
Bowed by their side, like branches blown
From some high granite Tree of Life
Whose roots were coiled round Kublai's throne.
O myrtles on the Jasper Mount,
O forest-towered elephants,
And fire-fish in the topaz fount
With red fins blown like water-plants,
And green cornelian tortoise-rows
Below the aqueduct, and those
Gold-feathered cranes, I saw them all,
How many ages gone, who knows?
I saw tall gilded Tartars pass
Behind their marble balustrades,
With maces made of beaten brass
And turquoise-hafted sabre-blades.
I heard the little golden bells
Blow faintly down the citadels,
And spied those ivory courts within
Through windows of transparent shells.
But past the fountain-pools I peered,
Beyond the birds, to that divan,
Where, fingering his tawny beard,
In silence dreamed the splendid Khan.
Green china bowls of wine were there,
And oranges and milk-of-mare,
While, stamping on his jewelled wrist,
A falcon climbed with eyes aflare.
He's gone; and with him, flowers and birds,
And old Venetians too, have died;
Yet burnt in Marco Polo's words,
Those unforgotten splendours hide . . .
And, tired of life's new-fashioned plan,
I long to be barbarian.
I'm sick of modern men, I wish
You were still living, Kublai-Khan!
poem by Kenneth Slessor
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Related quotes
But which is the stone that supports the bridge?
quote by Kublai Khan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Why do you speak to me of the stones? It is only the arch that matters to me.
quote by Kublai Khan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Green Roads
The green roads that end in the forest
Are strewn with white goose feathers this June,
Life marks left behind by someone gone to the forest
To show his track. But he has never come back.
Down each green road a cottage looks at the forest.
Round one the nettle towers; two are bathed in flowers.
An old man along the green road to the forest
Strays from one, from another a child alone.
In the thicket bordering the forest,
All day long a thrush twiddles his song.
It is old, but the trees are young in the forest,
All but one like a castle keep, in the middle deep.
That oak saw the ages pass in the forest:
They were a host, but their memories are lost,
For the tree is dead: all things forget the forest
Excepting perhaps me, when now I see
The old man, the child, the goose feathers at the edge of the forest,
And hear all day long the thrush repeat his song.
poem by Edward Thomas
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California Saga/big Sur
Do do do do do do do do do
Cashmere hills filled with evergreens
Flowin from the clouds down to meet the sea
With the granite cliff
(big sur mount)
As a referee
Crimson sunsets and golden dawns
A mother deer with their newborn fawns
All under big sur skies
(big sur mount)
Thats where I belong.
Big sur Ive got plans for you
Me and mine are going to
Add ourselves to your lengthy list of lovers
(big sur mount)
And live in canyons covered in springtime green
Wild birds and flowers to be heard and seen
And with my old guitar
Ill make up songs to sing.
Where bubbling springs from the mountainside
Join the big sur river to the oceanside
Where the kids can look for sea shells at low tide
Big sur my astrology it says that I am made to be
Where the rugged mountain meets the water
And so while stars shine brightly from up above
The fog rolls in through a redwood grove
And to my dying fire I think Ill add a log.
From time to time I must go away
The thoughts of big sur wont let me stay
Away from big sur
Oh big sur
song performed by by Beach Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Big Sur
Do do do do do do do do do
Cashmere hills filled with evergreens
Flowin from the clouds down to meet the sea
With the granite cliff
(big sur mount)
As a referee
Crimson sunsets and golden dawns
A mother deer with their newborn fawns
All under big sur skies
(big sur mount)
Thats where I belong.
Big sur Ive got plans for you
Me and mine are going to
Add ourselves to your lengthy list of lovers
(big sur mount)
And live in canyons covered in springtime green
Wild birds and flowers to be heard and seen
And with my old guitar
Ill make up songs to sing.
Where bubbling springs from the mountainside
Join the big sur river to the oceanside
Where the kids can look for sea shells at low tide
Big sur my astrology it says that I am made to be
Where the rugged mountain meets the water
And so while stars shine brightly from up above
The fog rolls in through a redwood grove
And to my dying fire I think Ill add a log.
From time to time I must go away
The thoughts of big sur wont let me stay
Away from big sur
Oh big sur
song performed by by Beach Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Brought From Beyond
The magpie and the bowerbird, its odd
predilection unheard of by Marco Polo
when he came upon, high in Badakhshan,
that blue stone’s
embedded glint of pyrites, like the dance
of light on water, or of angels
(the surface tension of the Absolute)
on nothing,
turned, by processes already ancient,
into pigment: ultramarine, brought from
beyond the water it’s the seeming
color of,
and of the berries, blooms and pebbles
finickingly garnishing an avian
shrine or bower with the rarest hue
in nature,
whatever nature is: the magpie’s eye for
glitter from the clenched fist of
the Mesozoic folding: the creek sands,
the mine shaft,
the siftings and burnishings, the ingot,
the pagan artifact: to propagate
the faith, to find the metal, unearth it,
hoard it up,
to, by the gilding of basilicas,
transmute it: O magpie, O bowerbird,
O Marco Polo and Coronado, where do
these things, these
fabrications, come from—the holy places,
ark and altarpiece, the aureoles,
the seraphim—and underneath it all
the howling?
poem by Amy Clampitt
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Now I Understand Marco Polo
You have no idea how difficult it is.
To awaken.
Determined to seek,
Fresh inventive ways...
To sustain controversy.
And to resist,
Mainstream acceptance.
Oh, the agony endured.
Updating those used insults.
The ones that manifested some attention,
With ease and applied intention.
Today...
There seems to be an obsession,
To be as disgusting as possible.
And I remember those times,
When being respectable was encouraged.
I know I 'date' myself with those fading visions.
I kept my sights upon new adventures!
Or so I thought!
I grow distraught as I think about it!
Yet keeping up to date,
Seems a task rapidly unachievable.
Especially when I have made it known...
I had been one of the those to market obnoxiousness,
Years ago.
And not one celebration for my efforts have taken place.
You have no idea how this upsets me.
Now I understand Marco Polo too well!
He is all but forgotten.
I am the Marco Polo of my time.
It ain't my fault I wasn't born in Venice.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A Song of Enchantment
A song of Enchantment I sang me there,
In a green-green wood, by waters fair,
Just as the words came up to me
I sang it under the wild wood tree.
Widdershins turned I, singing it low,
Watching the wild birds come and go;
No cloud in the deep dark blue to be seen
Under the thick-thatched branches green.
Twilight came: silence came:
The planet of Evening's silver flame;
By darkening paths I wandered through
Thickets trembling with drops of dew.
But the music is lost and the words are gone
Of the song I sang as I sat alone,
Ages and ages have fallen on me -
On the wood and the pool and the elder tree.
poem by Walter de la Mare
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Music
I
MUSIC, on the air's edge, rides alone,
Plumed like empastured Caesars of the sky
With a god's helmet; now, in the gold dye
Of sunlight, the iron cloak, the Tuscan stone,
Melt to enchanted flesh—a voice is blown
Down from the windy pit, like a star falling.
Men think it is a lost eagle calling,
But the fool and the lover know it for Music's cry.
He is running with the Valkyrs on a road of manes,
Darkness draws back its fur, the stars course by,
Fighting the windy beaks of hurricanes
To keep their stations in the sky—
Away, away! The little earth-light wanes,
The moon has drowned herself, cold music rings,
The battering of a thousand Vulcanals
Hammers the blood; a thousand horsemen fly
Belly to air, away! Now Music sings
Harshly, like horns of Tartars blown on high.
II
A SHIP in hell marooned;
He lies under the mast,
Caked with the sticky unguents of the sun.
Sluggishly at his wound,
The rat Pain, biting with bloody teeth
And broken nails, is fed at last,
The tale is done.
Let the shell of bleeding flesh remain,
This crusted finery is nothing worth.
He flings his body carelessly to Pain,
Meat for the earth.
Trumpets of godhood! The voice of Music sings,
Lost in the dark forest, riding out,
Louder and nearer, with triumphant wings,
Music and his eternal cavaliers—
Now Tristan rises with a mighty shout.
Nobody hears.
III
O, SILENT night, dark beach,
Drowning like lovers, each in each,
Uncharge thy musky boughs, unbend
Thy mouths of air, and give them speech—
Then, like a nest of thieves,
The golden, tattling leaves
Will sell their mask for bravoes' love,
Or cry their fruit to stranger Eves,
And voices ride
By foam and field
Of drowsy lovers, lips unsealed,
Blown to the lazy tide—
'With love we put the planets out,
With kissing drowned the bells,
And struck the clambering moon to ice;
Now we shall sleep and hide . . . '
I sang with Nonie, side by side,
Sunk in a drift of tumbled laces,
Till Music breathed his enormous flute
Over our small, upturned faces.
IV
IN the pans of straw-coned country
This river is the solitary traveller;
Nothing else moves, the sky lies empty,
Birds there are none, and cattle not many.
Now it is sunlight, what is the difference?
Nothing. The sun is as white as moonlight.
Wind has buffeted flat the grasses,
Long, long ago; but now there is nothing,
Wind gone and men gone, only the water
Stumbling over the stones in silence—
Nothing but fields with roots gone rotten,
Paddocks unploughed and clotted marshes.
Even the wind that stirred them has vanished,
Only the river remains with its water,
Shambling over the straw-coned country.
Nothing else moves, the sky lies empty,
Only the river remains with its water,
And droughts will come . . . .
V
IN and out the countryfolk, the carriages and carnival,
Pastry-cooks in all directions push to barter their confections,
Trays of little gilded cakes, caramels in painted flakes,
Marzipan of various makes and macaroons of all complexions,
Riding on a tide of country faces.
Up and down the smoke and crying,
Girls with apple-eyes are flying,
Country boys in costly braces
Run with red, pneumatic faces;
Trumpets gleam, whistles scream,
Organs cough their coloured steam out,
Dogs are worming, sniffing, squirming;
Air-balloons and paper moons,
Roundabouts with curdled tunes,
Drowned bassoons and waggon-jacks;
Tents like flowers of candle-wax;
'Buy, buy, buy, buy!
Cotton ties, cakes and pies, what a size, test your eyes, hairdyes,
candy-shies, all a prize, penny tries, no lies, watch it rise,
buy, buy, buy, buy!'
So everybody buys.
Gently the doctor of magic mutters,
Opens his puppet-stall,
Pulls back the painted shutters,
Ruffles the golden lace.
Ha! The crowd flutters . . .
Reddened and sharp and small,
O, Petroushka's face!
VI
TORCHES and running fire; the flagstones drip
Like a black mirror, wet from killing. Smoke goes up,
Clouding the gilded rafter-birds, and the flying cup
That floats with magic wine to Konchak's lip.
Then the Khan claps his beard, and harps are brushed
Clear in the darkness; dancers' bells far off
Blab at their ankles. Now, from the gold trough,
We have dipped bowls of mare's milk; all is hushed.
Suddenly, dull bubbling drums uprise, grow thicker,
Split with a scream of metal—glazed in the flare,
Tartar girls rapidly whirl in storms of animal hair,
Spinning in islands of movement, quicker and quicker.
In the middle of the dance, smiling at his whim,
Khan Konchak rose, and left the golden hall.
Soon there was silent darkness over all.
One of the dancers was sent after him.
VII
IN the apple-country, in the apple-trees,
The boughs are bubbling with pink snow
To frost the fields. A thousand birds fall crying,
Sharp and sweet, like morning-stars, in seas
Deeper than air. A thousand blossoms blow,
Drops of gold blood, like flowers gone flying,
Drowning with foam the drowsy girls below.
These country-girls, in hats of straw,
Take kissing as a natural law,
Put up their cheeks, like rosy saucers,
Gravely on tiptoe waiting.
They plainly do not know the dangers
This practice breeds from courteous strangers,
Who find, on airing their politeness,
Such local customs captivating.
As for my part, under the trees,
I found a girl with tawny knees,
Pretty enough, at a hurried view.
We lay on blossoms, glassed with dew.
I didn't notice her till we kissed.
How pleasant, a sentimentalist!
VIII
OPEN! It is the moon knocking with fists of air
To break thy doors down, it is the lusty moon
More clamorous than hunting-cries, come tramping
With lanterns to uprouse thee, drown the fields
In drifts of crystal, waken the farms with light,
And lovers call to buffet the rough smoke
From valleys rising up—then, like the juice
Of Juno's apples, the rich, Indian glow
Shall cast them out of Time, and all be running,
Dancing and kissing, in this headlong, breathless moon,
This moon pulling at old hinges, bawling through keyholes,
Crying out 'Siegmund! Siegmund! Siegmund!'
The door flies open.
In this house, there is anger, in the forest, night,
But love is under my laughter, and under my cloak, flight.
O, hast thou not yet woken?
In night, there is bitterness, in sorrow, tears to weep,
But love is under my music, and under my cloak, sleep.
O, Lady, hast thou spoken?
In tears, there is remembering, in memory, no release,
But love is under my kissing, and under my cloak, peace.
O, hide beneath my cloak!
So shall we steal into the deeps of Spring,
Clasped each to each, and swim the merry tide,
Rounding the world, on the green floods astride,
Till, drowned in a bubble of flowers, too dazed to cling,
We're thrown up, pink and naked castaways,
On some old beach, where Time is put to rout,
And the world a buried star, not talked about—
So shall we daunt the gods, conceal their gaze.
IX
ONCE, at your words, I would have struck to flame
The ground I strode on, all the hives of blood
Gone bursting mad—but now, congealed and thick,
Anger, the wine, chokes me, hoods me with stone,
Clogs and corrodes me with its marish flood.
Suddenly, as though to metal grown,
I stand immovable, feel strangely sick,
And hear your voice far off, crying my name.
The clouds dissolve. Now I can see your face,
Immense and sweating; the room has fallen in,
Tiny beside it—your face, immense and sweating,
Blurred into mockery at the words that fill you.
Come, then. You wish to crush me. Let us begin;
Since it is obvious I shall have to kill you,
Have done with useless voices and regretting.
I want to get it over, and leave this place.
Then, like some god on a stone pedestal
Who stirs by night with unfamiliar limbs,
I turn to an automation, upraise
Half-wondering an arm I find in the air,
Clammy with grappled iron. Everything swims,
Fogged in the coughing gas-light. Blindly I stare,
And stab once or twice . . . stabbing in a daze . . . .
No need for more. He is dead, this animal.
Dead, dead. There was no need to strike
So many times, there is no need to hide—
It's nothing to be ashamed of nowadays.
He was my enemy. Now he has perished,
Charred in the smoking ovens of my pride.
Why should the splendid fury that I cherished
Seem now to be a cold and fruitless blaze?
Good God! Can't I kill my enemy if I like!
X
NOTHING grows on the stone trees
But lanterns, frosty gourds of colour,
Melting their bloody drops in water
Over the dark seas.
These peaks of stucco, smoking light,
These Venice-roads, the pools and channels,
Tunnel the night with a thousand planets,
Daubing their glaze of white,
Where belfries glitter, spire on spire,
Shining on men with paper faces,
And boats, in the glass billow fading,
Beetles of cloudy fire.
Faintly the dripping, crystal strings
Unlock their Spanish airs, their festival
Which, far away, resolves to emptiness,
Echoes of bitter things,
Far away music, cold and small,
Which, like a child's delight remembered,
Falls to mocked effigy for ever,
Melancholy to recall.
XI
COME in your painted coaches, friends of mine,
We'll keep the stars night-company with wine,
Morning shall find us bending to the flute,
And daybreak mock us at our candleshine.
Pile all thy jewelled berries in a heap,
Almonds and musk and sweetmeats, all for thee—
We'll rest on silk a thousand cushions deep,
Wake up and shake the cassia-tree,
And eat a sticky cake, and sleep,
And slee—..
XII
Look up! Thou hast a shining Guest
Whose body in the dews hath lain,
His face like a strange wafer pressed
Secret and starry, at thy pane;
And he shall sing with human tongue
Old music men have never sung
Since Orpheus on earth was young,
And shall not sing again.
But life and all its lies of stone
Shall crack to fumes and disappear,
Thy little golden shells be blown
Like stars in water, far and near,
And thou shalt wake behind the Glass,
In stone dissolved, and phantom brass—
O, deaf! The bells of Music pass,
Not can, but darest, thou hear!
poem by Kenneth Slessor
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I Am
I am a tree,
Amongst many,
Growing in the backwoods,
As a person lost in a world of millions-
I stand proudly, and
Strong against the wind,
Bearing flowers in the spring and
Leaves, so green in the summertime…
In the autumn my foliage
Transforms to oranges, reds and browns an then fall,
Leaving me barren in the wintertime,
The storms that arrive so unexpectedly, I fear-
And even more so,
The forest fires that rage and that I have no power to stop-
Losing my branches, when lightening strikes I fear,
Or losing myself in an upsurge of flames-
I never know when my life could end,
Or when I would become none but a
Pile of sticks or logs
To which someone could light a match-
I am a tree, amongst many,
Though in some ways stronger than the others,
I am a special one, bearing flowers of a different color and
Branches that appear thinner and weaker
Than surrounding trees,
Though mine have yet to fall-
Someday a hurricane shall sweep through the forest and
Every tree shall be fallen to the wind-
Though I shall remain standing alone-
Fires may burn and storms shall come and go-
But my greatest fear is that
I shall never grow tall and scrape the magnificent blue sky,
Where angels sing and stars scintillate, and
That glorious sunrises and sets-
So much like those people who are angry and are
Always in the darkness-
It hurts sometimes to be special, even though unique-
As everyone fears those that are different-
Even if one is none but a tree, for
A tree that is different could be harmful and inevitably-
Someone will cut you down- and the flowers that once adorned you
Shall perish and be forgotten…
poem by Claudia Krizay
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Happy Farewell
The city of dreams
In conspiracy with nature
Too long indulgence
When it lay bare
In sunny days and dark nights
In snow and morose evenings
In cold breeze hissing sounds
In pine trees and green flowers
In the air in warm feelings
Memories of the bygone years
On the steps of that entrance
In the coziness of surroundings
In the sweet company of friends
Hopes and frustrations
After long travels long sleeps
I have made friendship
With the air and the birds
With the moon and with the sun
The air shall bring me the aroma
The birds the stories of the loves
The moon and the sun shall shine
On my footsteps and the evening
Remember me with longing
No farewell I doubt the moves
Some whispering voices preparing
For the night to say me good bye
Just make it another gathering
No words of departure no hurry
On the long way the vibes
Telling me of my last visit
With yearning today I look
Every rock, tree, and peak
My sad eyes have left
Their signs here
Will again shall I pick them
Happy farewell to the beauty
So indifferent and eloquent
(On my transfer from Abbottabad)
19/2/2009
poem by Sadiqullah Khan
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So Tired
Scent on a postcard
A memory left behind
Warm hand, cool look but no time...
Winsome lose some
Hung up on old flame
My heart depends on fire
So who am I to make demands on love?
...relax and walk on by
So tired
So tired
Beaten like a drum
So tired
Living life alone
So tired
Beaten like a drum
Kiss the right faces
And tap the party line
Short measure of cheap skate pleasure
Easier said than done
Sip the night water
But not too drunk to say
Well just who am I to ever hope to love you?
Id turn and shy away
So tired
So tired
Beaten like a drum
So tired
Living life alone
So tired
Beaten like a drum
Once upon a bed
You said you loved me
Once upon a bed
Those eyes of blue
Now what am I supposed to do?
So tired -
So tired
Beaten like a drum
So tired
Live my life alone, so alone
Once upon a bed
You said you loved me
Once upon a bed
Those eyes of blue
And what am I to rhyme with you?
Now I lie alone and so defenceless
Dream of love in sunny daze with you
So tired...
song performed by by Haircut 100
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In some fields of grass under the hills (sestina)
This afternoon the peaks throw a big shade
with the black cliffs shining up on the hills,
while we lay together in the long grass,
I look in your eyes that are amber-green
while under my head there is a small stone
and you smile at me like the prettiest lady.
I had once known another charming lady;
that part of my life is now left in shade,
bad churchmen were casting stone upon stone,
while I had to flee from them to the hills
to pastures were everything is green
to find the Lord in divine fields of grass.
Under your head there is a crown of grass
and your mother is a gracious, kind lady,
around us everything is lovely green
while we are still resting in the cool shade,
we are softly chatting about life’s hills,
about walls of very hard granite stone.
Your eyes are much brighter than emerald stone
while all of your words are softer than grass,
reaching higher and beyond all the hills,
the high mountain which is dangerous lady,
while from our pain nothing gives any shade,
nowhere is a place of rest that is green.
Your summer dress is lovely, is bright green,
suddenly all our ails have turned to stone
I follow you further; see your small shade,
I am seen as one that woos any lady,
we walk past some flowers growing in grass,
climbing up higher into the foothills.
Bright streams are splashing down some of the hills,
with water transparent, sometimes cold and green,
love and lust burns like in a youthful lady
while I at that moment feel cold as stone,
we notice a deer feeding on lone grass
while our garments lie under a tree’s shade.
Far into the hills you want love till dusk’s shade,
where you peep like some green moss from the grass,
are tossing me with a stone like no lady.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Yesterday is stuck in my thoughts
Although I feel battered,
spent and chased away
yesterday is stuck in my thoughts.
Where we had breakfast
on the porch,
watched birds
pecking up seed and crumbs
and the lovely setting sun
caught in different colours
on the clouds,
but now I am alone
and have a view
of pink hollyhocks
on long green stems
protruding next to and over
a sawn down tree
of which the trunk
is like modern art
fingering up
out of a rock-garden
and some birds peck
against the mirrored windows
of my bedroom / study
and the big old brown Labrador
and the little golden Cocker Spaniel
lie stretched out on the lawn
watching the road
and I do not know
what happened to us
or why I am still
battling to get a job
and why the expenses
of life shattered
us apart
and yet after every thing
that happened between us
I love you still
and are amazed
that you are gone.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Lover's Quarrels
JOIN hands, my dear, clasp long and close and fast,
Even this present we shall soon call past,
And lay among the unforgotten days,
Not the less loved because they could not last.
Make haste to put our hasty words away,
And hide them with dead leaves of yesterday,
Cast them aside among forgotten things,
Keep the love warm that turns to green life's grey.
Each little thorn that pricks these present hours
Is sure to hide under our memories' flowers,
Till we shall say, turning the dry wreath over,
'How sweet they were--these dear dead days of ours!'
poem by Edith Nesbit
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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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The Mirror of Madmen
I dreamed a dream of heaven, white as frost,
The splendid stillness of a living host;
Vast choirs of upturned faces, line o'er line.
Then my blood froze; for every face was mine.
Spirits with sunset plumage throng and pass,
Glassed darkly in the sea of gold and glass.
But still on every side, in every spot,
I saw a million selves, who saw me not.
I fled to quiet wastes, where on a stone,
Perchance, I found a saint, who sat alone;
I came behind: he turned with slow, sweet grace,
And faced me with my happy, hateful face.
I cowered like one that in a tower doth bide,
Shut in by mirrors upon every side;
Then I saw, islanded in skies alone
And silent, one that sat upon a throne.
His robe was bordered with rich rose and gold,
Green, purple, silver out of sunsets old;
But o'er his face a great cloud edged with fire,
Because it covereth the world's desire.
But as I gazed, a silent worshipper,
Methought the cloud began to faintly stir;
Then I fell flat, and screamed with grovelling head,
'If thou hast any lightning, strike me dead!
'But spare a brow where the clean sunlight fell,
The crown of a new sin that sickens hell.
Let me not look aloft and see mine own
Feature and form upon the Judgment-throne.'
Then my dream snapped: and with a heart that leapt
I saw across the tavern where I slept,
The sight of all my life most full of grace,
A gin-damned drunkard's wan half-witted face.
poem by G.K. Chesterton from The Wild Knight and Other Poems (1900)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Summer
The year rejoice with grass
that sprouts out bright green everywhere
and leaves covering
plants and trees.
Life blooms in fruit
that dazzles red, yellow and green on branches
and insects fly swept away,
while the birds sing joyful songs
and the bright white hot sun
hangs high up in the sky.
Lord, give that the fruit coming out of my words
and deeds are not out of conceit
and centred around the I and self, but also stand as a sign
of Your infusion and flower full-blown and great.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Women I
They are like life to human
And they can contain life in them
They can replicate life
and put a smile in someones face
Women! you are amazing!
Like food to souls
And worm to birds
Water to flowers
And glow beyond flowers
Women? you are pillars too every family
Props and posts to all nations
Women? you can give life and take life
Women everywhere life anywhere
Women! you can hide away your sorrows
And make world happy in your worries.
Silence is not always golden
Break away your silence
Women? your troubles are heard by the world
And you strength admired by your virtue.
poem by Jacques Sprenkie Mateya
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Green Planet
Green Planet
By Lori Triggs
Copyrighted July 17 2008
At one time our planet was colorful as lush with plants even flowers
And towering trees beautiful I can see,
The planet was filled with animals even birds more species that was plentiful
While the mammals and fish filled the oceans even waters majestic,
The oceans with lakes even rivers as the waters where aqua or
Torques blue lovely green was a fantasy.
Now our planet is filled with tons trash on the streets even
At the garbage dumps filled to the top to no end,
The planet not colorful or lush with plants even flowers
And towering trees it becoming a waste land of dirt and mud,
Even homes plus businesses filled with humans to see
The animals even birds is getting scarce means no food or wildlife,
While the mammals and fish are finding up dead in the waters
Or land means no food or sea life.
The oceans with lakes even rivers as the waters are brown,
Or nasty green will be unsafe to drink this is not a fantasy.
We should help the planet even ourselves by recycling
bottles, paper, cardboard, cans even glass in recycling centers,
Make green homes by using reused materials granite, tiles, wood,
Bottles, paper, cardboard, cans even glass solar tubes, & solar energy
Plus solar water, everything energy officiant,
The cars we use should be hydrogen, solar, electric or hybrid
So go green not brown if we keep what we are doing we are all dead!
poem by Lori Triggs
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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