En.Citatepedia^®.ro

At crack of dawn...! ! ! ! ! ! ! !

Through chinks in roman blinds, I wake and see
Its dawn, stretch out my hand for the remote;
Switch off air conditioner, jarring sound
Drowned the musical notes of flitting birds,

And the song of first pre monsoon showers
All summer, I had waited and longed to hear.
Languorously inhaled the soft fragrance
Of the now wet earth, that stirred up per chance

A longing for you; just then mobile rings,
I laughed out loud and said, great timing!
Perplexed, you asked, tell me, what I did now.
Oh, you just caught me red handed, somehow…

After a shower, hair wrapped in a towel,
Stepped into the kitchen, to make waffles.
Your parting shot, woman- a mystery
Tickled, I quite relished my coquetry.

poem by Mamta Agarwal
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Thanks Happenstance

I sat counting up all the blackeyes
i'd ever got
All the broken bones bloody noses
from all the battles i'd ever fought
Then I looked down at the top of my hands
With all their scars and scrapes
subway system of veins
Worn out skin from washing someone else's
greasy dish pans

And I laughed 'till I cried
cried 'till I laughed
Either way its all the same
for I was neither happy nor sad
Just thankful for all I'd ever had
And even though
I've not done much with it
I'm just thankful for the chance

So thank you God, thanks Allah
Thank you Buddah
Thanks Dad and Mom
Thanks luck, thank you chance
Thanks timing
Thank you kindly happenstance
Thank you all for a shot
I thank you all
I thank you so much for the chance

I sat counting up all the broken hearts
I'd ever got
All the broken dreams unrealized things
I'd ever sought
Then with my fingertips
I gently touched my face
I could feel the lines of worry, wrinkles of time
that no potion could ever hope to erase

And I laughed 'till I cried
cried 'till I laughed
Either way its all the same
for I was neither happy nor sad
Just thankful for all I'd ever had
And even though
I've not done much with it
I'm just thankful for the chance

So thank you God, thanks Allah
Thank you Buddah
Thanks Dad and Mom
Thanks luck, thank you chance
Thanks timing
Thank you kindly happenstance
Thank you all for a shot
I thank you all
I thank you so much for the chance

I sat counting up all the bad news
i'd ever got
All the losing hands flus and colds
i'd ever caught
Then I reached down
put my hand upon my heart
And though battered tattered broken
sometimes torn apart
I was just thankful through it all
Never once did it ever just give up
and stop

And I laughed 'till I cried
cried 'till I laughed
Either way its all the same
for I was neither happy nor sad
Just thankful for all I'd ever had
And even though
I've not done much with it
I'm just so thankful for the chance

So thank you God, thanks Allah
Thank you Buddah
Thanks Dad and Mom
Thanks luck thank you chance
Thanks timing
Thank you kindly happenstance
Thank you all for a shot
I thank you all
I thank you so much for the chance

poem by Cin Sweet Fields
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Ticklish Tom

Did you hear 'bout Ticklish Tom?
He got tickled by his mom.
Wiggled and giggled and fell on the floor,
Laughed and rolled right out the door.
All the way to school and then
He got tickled by his friends.
Laughed till he fell off his stool,
Laughed and rolled right out of school
Down the stairs and finally stopped
Till he got tickled by a cop.
And all the more that he kept gigglin',
All the more folks kept ticklin'.
He shrieked and screamed and rolled around,
Laughed his way right out of town.
Through the country down the road,
He got tickled by a toad.
Past the mountains across the plain,
Tickled by the falling rain,
Tickled by the soft brown grass,
Tickled by the clouds that passed.
Giggling, rolling on his back
He rolled on the railroad track.
Rumble, rumble, whistle, roar-
Tom ain't ticklish any more.

poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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Summer Chimes and Summer Wines

Listening to the summer chimes,
Of summer sounds of summer time,
Bringing all that nature is,
That shows and sounds like,
Summer chimes,

Chimes of soft winds,
Chimes of soft river streams,
Sounds that say of that time and season,
That summer time sounds so sweet,
It rings the sounds of summer chimes,
With rays of sunlight streaming by,

Summer chimes with summer wines,
Can be the momentum interludes of summer times,
When summer time is to be,
There in natures places,
Full of bloom and hidden places,
Where,
Listening to the summer chimes,
Of summer time,
And sitting and drinking,
A summer wine,

With the summer chimes,
And summer wines,
With summer and its nature sounds,
Bringing out the musical chimes,
Of summer sounds,
Along with summer chance,
And the per chance that evolves,
Bringing summer chimes,
With summer wines,
Of true summer chance,
With love intwined,
And summer wine,

So if per chance,
To meet again,
That evolves and begins,
From summer meets,
Bringing that summer chance,
To summer chimes,
With summer wines,
That begins and lasts,
Within in the hearts of those,
That let per chance happen,
And fall in love,

Then it will continue all year long,
For those that took the chance,
In summer chance,
And let the per chance,
Take it course,
And win,
For love to hear,
The summer chimes,
Sipping summer wine.

poem by Ellen Ni Bheachain
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The Drying of Hair.

Jane's mother gave you both
a towel from the airing cupboard

after you had been caught
in the rain

running from the church porch
to the parsonage

and then she went off
to carry on

with her pie making
and Jane took you

along the hallway
to her bedroom

and opened the door
and after you had entered

she closed the door
with a soft click

and you both stood there
in the quiet room

rubbing you heads
with the towels

pushing away
the wetness

from your hair
and you smelt the room

the smell of polish
the lavender scent

the smell
of fresh linen

and smell of the flowers
outside caught still

in the rain
and Jane said

You are only here
because she trusts you

she seems to see through
people's veneer

and weighs them
in the scales

in her mind
and you stood still

rubbing your hair
looking at her

the way she had
the towel in her hands

over her hair
the hair all messed up

and she having
that sparkle in her eyes

like the first spear
of the sunshine

pushing through
the window at dawn

and she gazed at you
with her eyes

like polished marbles
and her words

hung there
on the air

like musical notes
on an invisible stave

and you said
I'm glad she trusts me on

just the one look
and Jane smiled

and kissed your lips
her flesh on yours

and the pressing
of skin on skin

and she gently
moved away

and pointed to the sky
and said

Looks like more rain
and you just nodded

wanting her to kiss you
once again.

poem by Terry Collett
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Walking bare feet in the Park! ! ! !

Walking bare feet on grass
At a early morning hour
Spring… its March.

Mist tickled,
Wind giggled,
Tiny grass flowers
Looked up at dawn
Child like innocence,
Bright colours, no fragrance
Yet a manifestation
Of His aspiration.
In awe, watched
have charisma...

Birds flitting merrily
My eyes chased
Butterflies, painted
In colours so gay.

I came home smiling.
‘Hey, did you meet somebody’
Asked my kin.
Oh, yes I was in
Exalted company…

poem by Mamta Agarwal
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A Child's Laughter

ALL the bells of heaven may ring,
All the birds of heaven may sing,
All the wells on earth may spring,
All the winds on earth may bring
All sweet sounds together---
Sweeter far than all things heard,
Hand of harper, tone of bird,
Sound of woods at sundawn stirred,
Welling water's winsome word,
Wind in warm wan weather,

One thing yet there is, that none
Hearing ere its chime be done
Knows not well the sweetest one
Heard of man beneath the sun,
Hoped in heaven hereafter;
Soft and strong and loud and light,
Very sound of very light
Heard from morning's rosiest height,
When the soul of all delight
Fills a child's clear laughter.

Golden bells of welcome rolled
Never forth such notes, nor told
Hours so blithe in tones so bold,
As the radiant mouth of gold
Here that rings forth heaven.
If the golden-crested wren
Were a nightingale---why, then,
Something seen and heard of men
Might be half as sweet as when
Laughs a child of seven.

poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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No remote is available

I have remote for my television
To change the channels and enjoy various programs;

I have remote also to change the stations
In World Space satellite radio to enjoy melodious music;

I can switch on my air conditioner to
Cool my room and myself using a remote;

But no remote is available with me
To operate my mind and moods

So that I can change and channelize them
To be peaceful and blissful always

poem by Varanasi Ramabrahmam
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Between the Dusk of a Summer Night

Between the dusk of a summer night
And the dawn of a summer day,
We caught at a mood as it passed in flight,
And we bade it stoop and stay.
And what with the dawn of night began
With the dusk of day was done;
For that is the way of woman and man,
When a hazard has made them one.
Arc upon arc, from shade to shine,
The World went thundering free;
And what was his errand but hers and mine --
The lords of him, I and she?
O, it's die we must, but it's live we can,
And the marvel of earth and sun
Is all for the joy of woman and man
And the longing that makes them one.

poem by William Ernest Henley
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A Song No One Wants To Hear

Shall we make a song for all man's sins
that no one wants to hear?
Shall we sing it loud and boisterous,
sing it loud and clear?

We could twist the notes and bend them
so they would bring a tear
to atone for all man's sinful ways
and sing it every year.

On days we mourn
On days we fear
On days we hate
when sins are here.

A song to wake up sinful minds
and teach them love prevails,
a song to reach out 'til it finds
the hurt that sin unveils.

Shall we make a song for all man's sins
that no one wants to hear?
Yes, I say, 'Let's make one up
and sing it loud and clear.'

poem by Edwina Reizer
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A dance with Chopin

i hate it when they mangle your
bubbling notes at hotel lobby
cafe, and parks when you have to
give way to the staccatos of stilettos,
tinkering of glasses, chatterings and slurpings
of japanese on their steamy noodles
or two italian men loud about their just
concluded summer holidays
it is like drinking tea with a mix of whisky

you are finest at the break of dawn
as scintillating streams of sunshine
and piano notes work hand in hand
to tune up the day with a good allowance
of morning mist touching up your favourite
bed of roses the soft breeze lifting ever so wildly
the strands of hair over your forehead they
move like your fingers a maestro over the ivory bars
the music drives us wanting for more as the day
dawn crisp and clear to spill all its goodness
sparkling like metaphors of your riveting pieces

poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Clouds with lightening

Sudden movement of clouds with lightening,
Flash lights all over with sound frightening,
Days scorching heat and pleasant evening,
Pouring of water from relentless raining,

Is there any relation with earth and sky?
We see the horizons meet but not why?
Clouds feel bad when earth make cry,
Make loud noise with love and imply

Love birds can’t hide their emotions,
Feeling loneliness even in motions,
As if something wrong has taken place,
Intense love making to feel out of race,

Sun God shower heavy rays with heat,
Make their love deep and eager to meet,
Separation they feel even good and sweet,
Still to long for each other even tumble the feet,

Eyes wide open with stretching hands,
Invitation with grace to lovely friends,
Saying to self “Come soon, I am alone”
Tsunami, thunder or any form of cyclone,

I will greet you with my vast stretch,
Ponds, wells, rivers will have enough catch,
Rest I will carry to deep sea.
But you come soon is my only plea,

Cuckoo is ready with sweet voice,
Peacock is dancing with equal rejoice,
Dray, dray noise and frogs also dance,
Perfect timing and only chance,

Your forceful invasion may remove dryness,
Happy reunion and no more shyness,
Start of year with breeding ground,
New lives, trees and birds found

poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Birds Who Sing The Same Song

Once upon the hunter's lifetime
He entered the forest with his hound
As he waited for animal senses,
He heard the same sound

The sound came from above
It was the sound of birds
Though they were very different,
They had similar words

The birds were of two colors
They were either brown or green
They sang on top of their voices
The song of a queen

First, the hunter watched them sing
He did not understand the words
He set a trap on the tree
And caught some green birds

He brought them home
Thinking he has caught something good
After preparing the meal,
He realizes their meat is not right for food

Again, he watched them sing
He did not understand the words
He set a trap on the tree
And caught brown birds

He brought them home
Thinking the browns would not taste the same
After preparing the meal,
He realizes the meat was worse in the bowl of shame

He now understood the words
And watches them as they sing
The same song, one meaning
A song to get trapped in a ring

The birds sing the same song
A song of the soul
They sing in a competition
They compete for a common goal

They look attractive on the tree
They sing the same song

Understanding their words is the key
They sing the same song

They sound very kind
They sing the same song

They have a motive in mind
They sing the same song

They sing and fly from the leaves to the stem
But the hunter desires none of them

The hunter would now find other creatures
With the best of all features
Because the birds sing the same song

poem by Mark Nyamekye Boadi
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A Poem On A Lonely Monsoon Night

Each dropp of rain
Oozing joy unbound
Contains within itself
The seed, the sapling
Followed by flowers
Whispering petals
Gushing waters
Paper boats
And damp clothes

Time for monsoon fun
If you wake up with drizzle
On your face
Cool breeze tickling
Through the pores

Verging on summer's finale
And smiling monsoon
July is a strange month
Of expectation
And disappointment alike

Longing spreads as a bed spread
On lonely monsoon nights

poem by Indira Babbellapati
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Jeanie with the Light Brown Hair

1 I dream of Jeanie with the light brown hair,
2 Borne, like a vapor, on the summer air;
3 I see her tripping where the bright streams play,
4 Happy as the daisies that dance on her way.
5 Many were the wild notes her merry voice would pour.
6 Many were the blithe birds that warbled them o'er:
7 Oh! I dream of Jeanie with the light brown hair,
8 Floating, like a vapor, on the soft summer air.

9 I long for Jeanie with the daydawn smile,
10 Radiant in gladness, warm with winning guile;
11 I hear her melodies, like joys gone by,
12 Sighing round my heart o'er the fond hopes that die: --
13 Sighing like the night wind and sobbing like the rain, --
14 Wailing for the lost one that comes not again:
15 Oh! I long for Jeanie, and my heart bows low,
16 Never more to find her where the bright waters flow.

17 I sigh for Jeanie, but her light form strayed
18 Far from the fond hearts round her native glade;
19 Her smiles have vanished and her sweet songs flown,
20 Flitting like the dreams that have cheered us and gone.
21 Now the nodding wild flowers may wither on the shore
22 While her gentle fingers will cull them no more:
23 Oh! I sigh for Jeanie with the light brown hair,
24 Floating, like a vapor, on the soft summer air.

poem by Stephen C. Foster
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Woven Little Mouths Many

You emerge
from the bath
reaching for the
towel, soft, obeying
daily habit, wipes you dry,
each cleft, the pit of my
longing rubbed without
caution.

I am caught up in this
vision without glasses
squinting for what is
real or not though you
are faced to mine as I
obediently move my
shaking hand to your
belly, the scar there,
edges still hot
to the touch.

Much there is I will
make of this moment,
drying your back as I
have daily done - once
began the rite
first night, gathering
now the last one
o when
the towel easily un-
folded, drank

woven
little mouths many

deeply
into what
has become
natural in me
with the wiping.

In this
I am become
free now of
thinking intent
to this my task
to last, this minute
or two, to linger,

each is
become a touch
this one.
and this,

without
decimals.

poem by Warren Falcon
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Spring

Wake up again, sad heart, wake up again !
(I heard the birds this morning singing sweet.)
Wake up again ! The sky was crystal clear,
And washed quite clean with rain ;
And tar below my heart stirred with the year,
Stirred with the year and sighed. O pallid feet
Move now at last, O heart that sleeps with pain
Rise up and hear
The voices in the valleys, run to meet
The songs and shadows. O wake up again !

Put out green leaves, dead tree, put out green leaves t
(Last night the moon was soft and kissed the air.)
Put out green leaves ! The moon was in the skies,
All night she wakes and weaves.
The dew was on the grass like fairies' eyes,
Like fairies' eyes. O trees so black and bare,
Remember all the fruits, the full gold sheaves;
For nothing dies,
The songs that are, are silences that were,
Summer was Winter. O put but green leaves!

Break through the earth, pale flower, break through the earth !
(All day the lark has sung a madrigal.)
Break through the earth that lies not lightly yet
And waits thy patient birth,
Waits for the jonquil and the violet,
The violet. Full soon the heavy pall
Will be a bed, and in the noon of mirth
Some rivulet
Will bubble in my wilderness, some call
Will touch my silence. O break through the earth.

poem by Lord Alfred Douglas
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Divine Bird

i would skp the best musical concert
to listen one more time to this morning bird
it makes me regret for not having been
a bird watcher and getting to know the name
of every bird and how every bird makes sure
they shine their best in voice rather than feathers
for feathers are just for a show of form but the
voice how well they have cultivated themselves
with the bountiful freedoms strewn below their wings

it was only two mornings ago, i first heard him
sing in among the many trees lining the boulevard
outside my condominium, the Crescent Court
the enchanting haunting notes of his song shocked
me into wondering whether it was really a bird that
sang those pristine notes, notes that seemed to have
streamed out of the sacred sanctum of God, so many
diverse notes, so well handled, they sounded
like a song written by the Divine for one special bird
one most holy entree to the dawn of a new day

i prayed to the Divine to allow me hear that bird
again, a bird that has sung his way into my my poem,
a bird probably from another realm where birds could
understand the workings of the heavens better than men

poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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The Spirit Of St. Louis IV

In my consortium,
In my realm,
Born on Friday the 13th;
But i broke my right hand in primary three,
And today i am a left handed.

Thanks to my teacher who taught me to switch to the other hand,
And like the freat men and women in the land of plenty!
For my gifted talent had made me who i am today,
And like great men and women who were left handed.

A typical example if 'Albert Einstein' who brought about the Energy Theory,
And the world had come along with it!
Because, E=mc².

Bill Gate of the Microsoft fame is a left-handed,
President Obama of the U.S.A. is a left-handed,
Like the Day of the Left-Handed celebrated on the 13th of August;
So the dedication of this poem is for the left-handed.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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What Is Woman But A Song!

There was love, and there was beauty,
In the face upturned to me;
And her hair was long and golden,
Soft to touch and good to see;
Her blue eyes were full of laughter
As they burned into my own,
Glowing like a priceless diamond—
Fascinating as that stone.

What is life but love, devotion!—
What is woman but a song—
But a lyric caught from Nature—
But an echo sounding long—
Filling all the earth with gladness—
Filling all the earth with madness—
What is woman but a song!

poem by Timothy Thomas Fortune
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Bega

FROM the clouded belfry calling,
Hear my soft ascending swells;
Hear my notes like swallows falling;
I am Bega, least of bells.
When great Turkeful rolls and rings
All the storm-touched turret swings,
Echoing battle, loud and long.
When great Tatwin wakening roars
To the far-off shining shores,
All the seamen know his song.
I am Bega, least of bells:
In my throat my message swells.
I with all the winds a-thrill,
Murmuring softly, murmuring still,
'God around me, God above me,
God to guard me, God to love me.'

I am Bega, least of bells,
Weaving wonder, wind-born spells.
High above the morning mist,
Wreathed in rose and amethyst,
Still the dreams of music float
Silver from my silver throat,
Whispering beauty, whispering peace.
When great Tatwin's golden voice
Bids the listening land rejoice,

When great Turkeful rings and rolls
Thunder down to trembling souls,
Then my notes like curlews flying,
Lifting, falling, sinking, sighing,
Softly answer, softly cease.
I with all the airs at play
Murmuring sweetly, murmuring say,
'God around me, God above me,
God to guard me, God to love me.'

poem by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
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