Still to Show an Afterglow
Through the meadow swift.
With picked twigs and fresh selected sticks...
We run.
Having fun,
Under moss green sunlit trees.
Young!
And full of 'come-and-get-me' glee.
We played in times lasting forever then.
Back when her tresses flowed...
As we played hide 'n seek,
With agreeing youth peaking.
Feeling the magic,
Of a blooming Spring season...
Free as breezes.
Teasing to go!
To leave us sparkling,
As blossoms bright...
Still to show an afterglow.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Related quotes
Blooming
Spring already
Flowers blooming
Birds humming
Sing their sweet
Sweet song
The air
Full of blossoms
Blooming flowers..
Blooming plants…
Blooming love
Spring is clean..
Spring is fresh…
Spring is that new beginning
We pray for in the end
poem by Alexsis Daniels
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When We Were Young
When we were young
we thought we were immortal.
We played at recess, and after
school, ran all the way home.
Barefooted, we moved over
rocks and sticks.
The only stop was at the bakery
and since we were children
we got fresh bread for less.
When we were young
there were no cell phones.
We lived in a rural district,
there were no phones at all,
except the ones we made,
out of empty milk cans
and a piece of cord.
When we were young
we made cars
out of sardine tins
and before we played house,
underneath the cellar,
we carried water in pans.
When we were young
nothing scared us,
besides the reflections
on the banana trees,
on the way to the out-house,
on a dim-lit night.
poem by Buxton Shippy
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Sweet Death
The sweetest blossoms die.
And so it was that, going day by day
Unto the church to praise and pray,
And crossing the green churchyard thoughtfully,
I saw how on the graves the flowers
Shed their fresh leaves in showers,
And how their perfume rose up to the sky
Before it passed away.
The youngest blossoms die.
They die, and fall and nourish the rich earth
From which they lately had their birth;
Sweet life, but sweeter death that passeth by
And is as though it had not been:—
All colors turn to green:
The bright hues vanish, and the odours fly,
The grass hath lasting worth.
And youth and beauty die.
So be it, O my God, Thou God of truth:
Better than beauty and than youth
Are Saints and Angels, a glad company;
And Thou, O lord, our Rest and Ease,
Are better far than these.
Why should we shrink from our full harvest? why
Prefer to glean with Ruth?
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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Oh Ellen To Play Fun Sticks With You.
What a love and joy to see you,
Your blond hair shines in the sun,
Your smile doth capture my heart strings,
We are going to have such fun
Gran dad walkies you say to me,
As you tightly hold my hand,
Let’s go play hide and seek,
Under this tree I will count and stand,
A bridge over the stream in the wood let’s look,
I will gather some twigs for Fun sticks we will play,
We both throw our Fun sticks into the brook,
Whose twig will be first under the bridge this way?
Such fun and so delightful,
We have had such a lovely day,
We are so exhausted,
And you are so tired and need your sleep,
I feel we are so lucky,
To have a grand daughter like you,
And also such a daughter,
Who made sure we got to know you,
Such a love so overwhelming,
So sure so strong so true,
One thing I will always remember,
Is when I played Fun Sticks with you?
(Ref Winnie the Pooh)
poem by Anthony Foster
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In Songs of Harmony
The leaves are budding so fresh and green.
On trees,
That come to life in Spring.
Thin blades...
'You've already composed that one.
Remember?
'Of New England Springs'
A few years ago.'
I know it had a familiar quality to it.
A certain flow that felt comfortable.
Listen to this,
And tell me what you think!
Chestnuts roasting on an open fire.
Jack Frost nipping...
'At your nose? '
How did you know I was going to say that?
'It is already one of the most famous Christmas songs sung.
Ever.
I'm quite surprised you have not heard of it.'
I thought it was something my father made up!
Pretending he was Nat King Cole.
'That's who made that song famous! '
Oh!
Who knew?
'Just a few million people.
That's all.'
Yeah...right!
'Seriously.'
Here it is!
I've got it.
Check this out...
~Gifts picked I'm wrapping.
Are meant for you to get.
Selected to spread love...
And delivered with happiness.
Just to keep you smiling.
Joyfully with glee...
So please,
Think of blessings given.
As blessings to you are received.
In this season full of merriment.
Don't forget the love that's sent...
With expressions to you so meant,
To keep them in your memory...
Forever,
As they should be kept as sentiments...
That cling,
In songs of harmony.~
And that's what I'm going to call it too.
'In Songs of Harmony'
Well?
What do you think about it?
The title, I mean?
'I'm speechless.
I am thrilled I provided you with the inspiration.'
Excuse me?
You did what?
'You know...
Gave you the motivation.'
Yeah, right.
Whatever!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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When We Were Young
as i talk to you,
i start to wonder,
have you always been sensitive,
or have you always hide it,
i remember when we were young,
i looked up to you as my prince,
you protected me and cared for me,
it was young love,
you picked on me,
i picked on you,
always saying 'eww'
when somebody would say
'if you like her so much,
why don't you kiss her? '
always played the tough boy,
but when times got hard,
you hid from me,
afraid i wouldn't see you the same way,
i didn't care,
through the times you seen me at my worse,
crying, hurt, pain,
you remained by my side,
untill i felt like i needed to push you away,
everything changed,
you no longer the boy who use to live across the street,
you no longer by my side when i need you the most,
you got married, i stayed mostly single,
no matter how much time when on between us,
it seems like our connection and feelings remain the same,
i hear it in your voice when i talk to you,
and it always ends the same,
us enjoying our time back when we were young.
poem by Mona Martinez
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The Rush-Bearing At Ambleside
SUMMER is come, with her leaves and her flowers—
Summer is come, with the sun on her hours;
The lark in the clouds, and the thrush on the bough,
And the dove in the thicket, make melody now.
The noon is abroad, but the shadows are cool
Where the green rushes grow in the dark forest pool.
We seek not the hedges where violets blow,
There alone in the twilight of ev'ning we go;
They are love-tokens offered, when heavy with dew,
To a lip yet more fragrant—an eye yet more blue.
But leave them alone to their summer-soft dream—
We seek the green rushes that grow by the stream.
Away from the meadow, although the long grass
Be filled with young flowers that smile as we pass;
Where the bird's eye is bright as the sapphires that shine
When the hand of a beauty is decked from the mine.
We want not their gems, and we want not their flowers.
But we seek the green rush in the dark forest bowers.
The cowslip is ringing its fairy-like chime,
Sweet bells, by whose music Titania keeps time;
The rose-bush is covered with cups that unfold
Their petals that tremble in delicate gold.
But we seek not their blossoms in garlands to blend,
We seek the green rush where the willow-trees bend.
The green rush, the green rush, we bear it along
To the church of our village with triumph and song;
We strew the cold chancel, and kneel on it there,
While its fresh odours rise with our voices in prayer.
Hark the peal from the old tower in praise of it rings,
Let us seek the green rush by the deep woodland springs.
poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
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Choka Sonnet
nature’s beauty show.
near Tokyo in the spring
guaranteed to please.
avenues of cherry trees.
soft spring breezes blow
setting pink blossoms dancing
on the cherry trees
their sweet perfumes they release.
lovers stroll below
unaware completely free
to just wander to and fro.
all that they can see
their own private paradise
where the blossom never dies,
10-Apr-08
Choka sonnet
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Time Spent In Pursuit Of Love Meant
No season seems more anticipated,
Than Spring.
No other time does life seem more appreciated,
Than Spring.
With flowers blooming, birds singing....And leaves,
Beginning to bud on barren trees...
Turning green.
And in Spring...
Time spent in pursuit of love meant,
By those young...
Reminds those that are not,
How blessed we are...
To witness another Spring to come.
No season seems more anticipated,
Than Spring.
No other time does life seem more appreciated,
Than Spring.
And in Spring...
Time spent in pursuit of love meant,
By those young...
Reminds those that are not,
How blessed we are...
To witness another Spring to come.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Weekend Blues Session
Three days and three nights
playing the guitar blues of life
my mind and body taken back
I can see
the old streets and the seats
where the blues players of old
used to meet
They'd sing of the pain
and the hate
and we'd respect what they
had to say
All these memories coming back
as we played for the times
when blues was our life
We played for the joy
we played for our minds
we played for our souls
we played until the monday morning blues
poem by Dave Alan Walker
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On this day of Spring Original by Rabindranath Tagore
So many flowers bloom
On this day of Spring
So many flutes are played
So many birds sing
On this day of Spring
On this day of Spring
My friend's heart is as soft
As a little flower
Whose negligence makes it
So terribly suffer
Why do you come to her
And try to make her laugh
The one who used to come
Now doesn't care enough
So many flowers bloom
On this day of Spring
So many flutes are played
So many birds sing
On this day of Spring
On this day of Spring
God please keep the happy
People always happy
And let the Spring season
Of joy pass by smoothly
God don't let the happy
People see her in tears
Since they overlook her
And want to live in cheers
So many flowers bloom
On this day of Spring
So many flutes are played
So many birds sing
On this day of Spring
On this day of Spring
poem by Asif Andalib
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Rushing To Enter An Empty Playground
The familiarity,
Of the same game played...
By those who do it,
With routine.
Begins to lose its appeal,
When some of the participants...
Find other interests.
To leave those aging and not gracefully,
Rushing to enter an empty playground.
And with not a clue as to why,
Those who once played hide and seek...
Have sought and found,
A maturity with them to keep.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The moss that loves the stone
It is the moss that loves the stone
Most. No matter what or when, the
Moss somehow manages to stay
Even without a why, they say.
But the moss keeps on sticking
To the body of the stone that
Keeps its nonminding stiffness.
It is cold, it is hard, it is unfeeling
At all. It is the moss that keeps its
Love. It sticks with it, rain or shine.
It rolls with it. It stays with it even
In the desert, even it if means its
Own death. It is the moss that sticks
To the stone. It is its true lover.
In the river, the water has ordered
The moss to leave. It ordered the stone
To crush it. The moss cannot be
Removed. It covered the stone.
It is loving it whole.The stone has
Become the moss, and the stone
Is gone.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Earth Waxeth Old.
When yellow-lock'd and crystal ey'd
I dream'd green woods among;
Where tall trees wav'd from side to side,
And in their green breasts deep and wide,
I saw the building blue jay hide,
O, then the earth was young!
The winds were fresh and brave and bold,
The red sun round and strong;
No prophet voice chill, loud and cold,
Across my woodland dreamings roll'd,
'The green earth waxeth sere and old,
That once was fair and young!'
I saw in scarr'd and knotty bole,
The fresh'ning of the sap;
When timid spring gave first small dole,
Of sunbeams thro' bare boughs that stole,
I saw the bright'ning blossoms roll,
From summer's high pil'd lap.
And where an ancient oak tree lay
The forest stream across,
I mus'd above the sweet shrill spray,
I watch'd the speckl'd trout at play,
I saw the shadows dance and sway
On ripple and on moss.
I pull'd the chestnut branches low,
As o'er the stream they hung,
To see their bursting buds of snow--
I heard the sweet spring waters flow--
My heart and I we did not know
But that the earth was young!
I joy'd in solemn woods to see,
Where sudden sunbeams clung,
On open space of mossy lea,
The violet and anemone,
Wave their frail heads and beckon me--
Sure then the earth was young!
I heard the fresh wild breezes birr,
New budded boughs among,
I saw the deeper tinting stir
In the green tassels of the fir,
I heard the pheasant rise and whirr,
Above her callow young.
I saw the tall fresh ferns prest,
By scudding doe and fawn;
I say the grey dove's swelling breast,
Above the margin of her nest;
When north and south and east and west
Roll'd all the red of dawn.
At eventide at length I lay,
On grassy pillow flung;
I saw the parting bark of day,
With crimson sails and shrouds all gay,
With golden fires drift away,
The billowy clouds among.
I saw the stately planets sail
On that blue ocean wide;
I saw blown by some mystic gale,
Like silver ship in elfin tale,
That bore some damsel rare and pale,
The moon's slim crescent glide.
And ev'ry throb of spring
The rust'ling boughs among,
That filled the silver vein of brook,
That lit with bloom the mossy nook,
Cried to my boyish bosom: 'Look!
How fresh the earth and young!'
The winds were fresh, the days as clear
As crystals set in gold.
No shape, with prophet-mantle drear,
Thro' those old woods came drifting near,
To whisper in my wond'ring ear,
'The green earth waxeth old.'
poem by Isabella Valancy Crawford
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Gibar Magic
A young magic man saw there was
no mountains left by this
land cos of man’s destruction
So he blow magic and said
Bajeirjeir jungamu
be there a mountain in front of me
And there was a great mountain
where people gather at the body
of it, to dance from grass
trees and animal lives
So it rained and water came
down from the mountain creating
a foundation of harmony
Then after many years a
big storm come rushing
flood flowed over every hut
and lightning hit trees causing
fires, everything was like
a bombed land where people
are helpless and the mountain
was dying, then the young
magic man came back
from his travels and sang
out to the people, here here
live in a Nala Nala
it is a hole, where you will be
safe for a while
Now here the magic man
gave a powerful blowing
magic that all storm wind
and flood waters lightning
disappeared and cool air
became fresh cleaner and
the people and animals came
out giving thanks to this
young magic man.
And he heard their thanks and
smiled and a smile you will
see in any Aboriginal
poem by Lionel Fogarty
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Orange blossoms on a tree
Orange blossoms on a tree
catches my eye,
where it stands alone
in the inner city
and there’s a blinding bright sun
that is already hanging quarter height
in a cloudless sky.
It’s Wednesday and half week
and it’s spring with green leaves,
trees full of blossoms
and almost summer
because the sun’s bright rays
are already early hitting my eyes
There’s a woman with a pink blouse
and purple skirt,
that crosses the street
and are not looking out
for the oncoming cars and taxis.
Doves crowd around a man
that throws pieces of bread
on the ground next to him,
at the art museum
and the sun is now rather
bright white than red.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter
Soft fluffy Snow fresh on frozen ground,
Green grass, and newly blue blooming buds bulging from all around,
Days becoming longer, heat growing stronger,
Birds and animals making their beautiful sounds.
Trees becoming bald and brittle,
Swaying in the wind like evil puppets,
Children dressed in creepy, costumes.
The feeling of death creeping over everyone.
Lying on a frozen landscape,
Looking up at the falling white oblivion,
Millions marching in all working together to drowned the green army,
Giving up and going dormant realizing there is no escape,
Plants and animals, wrapped, chained, and bound.
Every Year, season, month, week, day, hour, minute, second, leading into the next, all the way till that last tick on the clock, when my pulse goes numb and faith is lost in an endless internal dark void.
Stop! Go back!
Every year, season, month, week, day, hour, minute, second, I will get to spend with the most beautiful girl in the world! Beauty unimaginable. Every second, minute, hour, day, season, year, decade, century, spent happily with her till the day my pulse goes numb and I drift off into a bright, white, light for eternity with my sweet lover in my arms!
That's my life season by season, spent in happiness, bliss, and virtue forever and ever! Forever and always! And I wouldn't have it any other way.
poem by Jacob Gifford
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Spring,2004
Spring is bursting
In the Air,
Flowers budding
Everywhere...
Magnolia Blossoms
Open wide,
Daffodills
Both yellow & white...
Spring is Special
Every year,
A Lilac fragrance
In the air...
Dogwoods blooming
Over night
Hyacinths,
So purple and bright...
Spring is here,
It's plain to see
Squirrels scampering
In the trees...
Birds are chirping
From above
Spring Miracles
We Share With Love...
poem by Carmen Strawn
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I Feel Like A Leaf In Autumn
I feel like a leaf in Autumn borne along by flooded rill
Running down the silent valley down along the moonlit hill
Down to join the flooded river towards it's final destiny
To it's deep grave in salt water in the bosom of the sea.
I felt like that leaf in Springtime on it's lovely mother tree
With it's brothers and it's sisters one big happy family
A bright green leaf in a green World dancing in the wind and rain
Give me back what's gone forever give me back my youth again.
I felt like that leaf in Summer when the sun shone in the sky
And the world was full of colour and wild songbirds piped for joy
And bright wildflowers in green meadow fit home for fair butterfly
Oh but all that's young and beautiful has one day got to die.
I feel like a leaf in Autumn borne along by flooded stream
Running down the moonlit valley that was once so very green
Down to join the flooded river towards it's final destiny
To be gone and lost forever in the bosom of the sea.
poem by Francis Duggan
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I think Jim Taylor was very underrated, never hear much about him. We played Green Bay every year in exhibition, and generally we played them every couple of years in regular season. And I always thought he was a fierce competitor.