We are as the dew on a prairie
We are as the dew on a prairie
Flowers amongst limestone graves
Entrenched in living rock
Watered by bird song
Engulfed in nettle stings
We are but charcoal smoke rings
Fasting on a single drawn out breath
Resting on a forward moving breeze
We are a clutch of eggs
Encased in a bough of creeping ivy
Squawking franticly upwards
Up at the midnight's sun
We are the covenant…?
The rain storm afore the rainbow
Slayed by the swords of angels
We are the dewdrops on the prairie
Flowering; amidst the entire universe.
poem by Mark Heathcote
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Prairie Rose
(ferry/manzanera)
Texas thats where i
Belong
It seems to me
Texas lonesome star
Shine on
The big country
Texas with open skies
And you
For company
Texas oh prairie rose
How happy
I should be
Hey hey you can take it from me
Hey hey ill be coming, youll see
Hey hey oh what a state to be in
Hey hey youre tantalising me
Texas I will compose
In fancy rhyme
Or just plain prose
Texas a song of praise
To you
Prairie rose
Texas though im not sure
I can explain
Your strange allure
Texas prairie rose -
A crown of thorns
A scented flower
Hey hey id better leave right away
Hey hey I can hear you calling me
Prairie rose
song performed by by Roxy Music
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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mustangs race wind tossed rolling thunder
hoof beats drum prairie storm front
freedom races wild free ranging prairie wind
haiku by Terence George Craddock
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A duck's nest was found today near the trail on the dry open prairie with as far as could be seen no water or marsh near. The bird flew off but could not tell what species. The eggs nine originally.
quote by George Mercer Dawson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Midnight Song III (A Sonnet)
A spell of Monsoon and a whisper of chill are her entire orchestra
A trickle of rain and a mild gust are more than enough reason to begin a ballad
She composes a rhythm of desire which wells up from deep within
Her voice rings through the barricade and calls out to me
My windowsill rattles with urge and my door hinges creak with expectancy
My entire abode is eager to welcome the sweet music that rings through the frigid night air
My soul is no less fondled by her whispered songs than by the sensual lips from which they pour forth
When the waiting doors part urgently on the stroke of midnight, they usher in the queen of the night
The goddess of midnight whose praise is neither the sole delight of my mouth nor the exclusive prerogative of my heart
My entire being glories in her lyrical prowess when her voice is but a breath away
Now, she strides regally to her waiting audience and waves her magic all around
Goodness! The clouds in the highest heavens despair with envy at the sight of her charm!
Euphoria come and gone; bliss in place of bliss; desire, weak and worn
My enigmatic guest floats away on dawn’s breeze and leaves me with the sweet treasure of a thrilling midnight song
poem by Rafael Yaw Kumi
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Clary
Because of her soul, Fall was mild,
in hazy noons, light was extolling,
in green pasture souls were calling
she called me; and the sun smiled.
Upon the grass she sat on prairie,
one thousand rain drops of longing
and was her rainy smile imploring,
amidst flowers, daisies, and clary.
There our souls sing odes forever,
fly above Autumn calls of twenty;
we pretend the world 's not empty,
wind's blades our love won't sever.
Above the prairie fly white doves;
care to see her form amid flow'rs
and then as night adorns the stars,
consents our stares then, of loves.
Winds call me, from empty noons;
her soul sings and snow flakes toil,
flying leaves dance my siren's coil,
and wonder aimlessly in odd tunes.
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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A Hymn Of Peace
SUNG AT THE 'JUBILEE,' JUNE 15, 1869,
TO THE MUSIC OF SELLER'S 'AMERICAN HYMN'
ANGEL of Peace, thou hast wandered too long!
Spread thy white wings to the sunshine of love!
Come while our voices are blended in song,--
Fly to our ark like the storm-beaten dove!
Fly to our ark on the wings of the dove,--
Speed o'er the far-sounding billows of song,
Crowned with thine olive-leaf garland of love,--
Angel of Peace, thou hast waited too long!
Joyous we meet, on this altar of thine
Mingling the gifts we have gathered for thee,
Sweet with the odors of myrtle and pine,
Breeze of the prairie and breath of the sea,--
Meadow and mountain and forest and sea!
Sweet is the fragrance of myrtle and pine,
Sweeter the incense we offer to thee,
Brothers once more round this altar of thine!
Angels of Bethlehem, answer the strain!
Hark! a new birth-song is filling the sky!--
Loud as the storm-wind that tumbles the main
Bid the full breath of the organ reply,--
Let the loud tempest of voices reply,--
Roll its long surge like the-earth-shaking main!
Swell the vast song till it mounts to the sky!
Angels of Bethlehem, echo the strain!
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Abandoned Prairie
A house sits empty
Upon the plains,
Left so suddenly
To bear it's own pains -
The windows broken
Doors open,
Dust walks right in...
and right out again.
No other homes
Any where in sight,
It moans alone
In the darkest part of night -
Sitting isolated on the Western prairie
Holding memories too strong to bury,
It looks and longs
For all who are gone...
From this country so solitary.
The abandoned prairie
Laughs in the wind,
At those intruders
Who tried in vain to tame this indefinate land -
With their weak cattle
To replace the buffalo,
And wretched reservations to capture
The proud Indian people of long ago.
Where are these invaders now, and
How shall they be found,
Lying so still
In the cold prairie ground.
And yet, the endless wind blows on
Singing so contrary,
The only one to never
Abandon the lonesome prairie.
poem by Smoky Hoss
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An Explanation of America: A Love of Death
Imagine a child from Virginia or New Hampshire
Alone on the prairie eighty years ago
Or more, one afternoon—the shaggy pelt
Of grasses, for the first time in that child’s life,
Flowing for miles. Imagine the moving shadow
Of a cloud far off across that shadeless ocean,
The obliterating strangeness like a tide
That pulls or empties the bubble of the child’s
Imaginary heart. No hills, no trees.
The child’s heart lightens, tending like a bubble
Towards the currents of the grass and sky,
The pure potential of the clear blank spaces.
Or, imagine the child in a draw that holds a garden
Cupped from the limitless motion of the prairie,
Head resting against a pumpkin, in evening sun.
Ground-cherry bushes grow along the furrows,
The fruit red under its papery, moth-shaped sheath.
Grasshoppers tumble among the vines, as large
As dragons in the crumbs of pale dry earth.
The ground is warm to the child’s cheek, and the wind
Is a humming sound in the grass above the draw,
Rippling the shadows of the red-green blades.
The bubble of the child’s heart melts a little,
Because the quiet of that air and earth
Is like the shadow of a peaceful death—
Limitless and potential; a kind of space
Where one dissolves to become a part of something
Entire ... whether of sun and air, or goodness
And knowledge, it does not matter to the child.
Dissolved among the particles of the garden
Or into the motion of the grass and air,
Imagine the child happy to be a thing.
Imagine, then, that on that same wide prairie
Some people are threshing in the terrible heat
With horses and machines, cutting bands
And shoveling amid the clatter of the threshers,
The chaff in prickly clouds and the naked sun
Burning as if it could set the chaff on fire.
Imagine that the people are Swedes or Germans,
Some of them resting pressed against the strawstacks,
Trying to get the meager shade.
A man,
A tramp, comes laboring across the stubble
Like a mirage against that blank horizon,
Laboring in his torn shoes toward the tall
Mirage-like images of the tilted threshers
Clattering in the heat. Because the Swedes
Or Germans have no beer, or else because
They cannot speak his language properly,
Or for some reason one cannot imagine,
The man climbs up on a thresher and cuts bands
A minute or two, then waves to one of the people,
A young girl or a child, and jumps head-first
Into the sucking mouth of the machine,
Where he is wedged and beat and cut to pieces—
While the people shout and run in the clouds of chaff,
Like lost mirages on the pelt of prairie.
The obliterating strangeness and the spaces
Are as hard to imagine as the love of death ...
Which is the love of an entire strangeness,
The contagious blankness of a quiet plain.
Imagine that a man, who had seen a prairie,
Should write a poem about a Dark or Shadow
That seemed to be both his, and the prairie’s—as if
The shadow proved that he was not a man,
But something that lived in quiet, like the grass.
Imagine that the man who writes that poem,
Stunned by the loneliness of that wide pelt,
Should prove to himself that he was like a shadow
Or like an animal living in the dark.
In the dark proof he finds in his poem, the man
Might come to think of himself as the very prairie,
The sod itself, not lonely, and immune to death.
None of this happens precisely as I try
To imagine that it does, in the empty plains,
And yet it happens in the imagination
Of part of the country: not in any place
More than another, on the map, but rather
Like a place, where you and I have never been
And need to try to imagine—place like a prairie
Where immigrants, in the obliterating strangeness,
Thirst for the wide contagion of the shadow
Or prairie—where you and I, with our other ways,
More like the cities or the hills or trees,
Less like the clear blank spaces with their potential,
Are like strangers in a place we must imagine.
poem by Robert Pinsky
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Love Changes Everything
(Clint IngersollJeremy Spillman)
Before my second year of college, you were barely seventeen.
I was haulin' hay for your Daddy, an' you brought me a glass of tea.
To a farm boy from Oklahoma, you were small town Texas prize,
An' every young man's dream in cut-off jeans, with that Homecoming Queen smile.
You were makin' fun of my farmer's tan an' I was lettin' you.
An' fightin' bull in the July heat, tryin' to keep my cool.
An' the prairie wind sang while the dust devils danced.
It just got hotter as the summer passed.
An' that first kiss stole our breath away.
An' the breeze died down as our hearts surrendered.
The moonlight shattered as it crashed on the river.
We both knew we'd never be the same:
'Cause love changes everything.
I think your Daddy wondered but I know your Momma knew,
'Cause she pulled me aside one Friday night and said take good care of you.
We'd steal away after supper to our favorite place in the sand,
By the red water's edge where we'd hold hands while the sun melted into the land.
We lost more than sleep on one hot August night.
By mornin' we were seein' some things for the very first time.
An' the prairie wind sang while the dust devils danced.
Just got hotter as the summer passed.
An' that first touch stole our breath away.
An' the breeze died down as our hearts surrendered.
The moonlight shattered as it crashed on the river.
We both knew we'd never be the same:
'Cause love changes everything.
I never found my way back to college,
An' we found other loves since then.
But that first one will live forever,
'Cause I'll always remember when:
Those prairie wind
song performed by by John Michael Montgomery
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The quill worker
Plains, plains, and the prairie land which the sunlight floods and fills,
To the north the open country, southward the Cyprus Hills;
Never a bit of woodland, never a rill that flows,
Only a stretch of cactus beds, and the wild, sweet prairie rose;
Never a habitation, save where in the far south-west
A solitary tepee lifts its solitary crest,
Where Neykia in the doorway, crouched in the red sunshine,
Broiders her buckskin mantle with the quills of the porcupine.
Neykia, the Sioux chief's daughter, she with the foot that flies,
She with the hair of midnight and the wondrous midnight eyes,
She with the deft brown fingers, she with the soft, slow smile,
She with the voice of velvet and the thoughts that dream the while,--
"Whence come the vague to-morrows? Where do the yesters fly?
What is beyond the border of the prairie and the sky?
Does the maid in the Land of Morning sit in the red sunshine,
Broidering her buckskin mantle with the quills of the porcupine?"
So Neykia, in the westland, wonders and works away,
Far from the fret and folly of the "Land of Waking Day."
And many the pale-faced trader who stops at the tepee door
For a smile from the sweet, shy worker, and a sigh when the hour is o'er.
For they know of a young red hunter who oftentimes has stayed
To rest and smoke with her father, tho' his eyes were on the maid;
And the moons will not be many ere she in the red sunshine
Will broider his buckskin mantle with the quills of the porcupine.
poem by Emily Pauline Johnson
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Country Heritages Forever
The rains is came to the village without notice voice is come noise
Breeze blowing through wet leafs all of natural bloomed by bade
Couldn't really judge morning noon or evening the long moment sun is hide
But the woods trees and cultivated never feared for darkness with rain come
The black clouds among start beaming on set birds are singing like luster morning
Hanging dew from leaf sparkle like mini star sun is smiling
The leeches are stretch between grass like became new power for further living
The noise of pouring water from dame increase by rain coming
The flowers moving by breeze butterfly sucking pollen among rain
Many people walking with umbrella they never defeat rain
Someone late and thinking with looking far away sky beautiful seen
Between rain misty flare colorful rainbow near of horizontal which of beautiful seen
The fortune every dwelling place comes with rain at august summer
Every people smile and make them hope developing own country heritages forever
One song and one phrase living together one nation creative with rain summer
Every foes make hopes capture strange of heritage mix with water and flowing like glacier
poem by Inguruwatta Pushpadewa
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My last bone
I have welcomed death, his gaze
his thoughts, his valentines day kiss
his black tulips pressed against
my blood filled lustful lips
Death is not my foe, we are bed fellows
toe to toe, I am the prairie
he is a prairie dog, loyal and honest
when I am lost; he leads me home
But with wagging tail I'll savour
and unearth my last bone!
poem by Mark Heathcote
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Rainbow On A Morning
Thanks Dark - for the nightmares!
Rain bleeding all over me,
Like swarms of needling gnats
God what a night!
I parted the curtains of my ragged tent-
My little hellhole
A single crepuscular ray
Sneaked through a small rent in the filth
Of crawling clouds
I stared cynically
But yep! I admit, the rain was dying down-
My canvas yammered less
Was Nature having a tea break?
Another ray, fewer drops, lifting hope:
A winning sun!
A bird told the story on her flight;
Even she was looking over at the prism-
The over-arching schism through the gloom
Uplifted, upstanding, I even smiled;
When Nature turns and shows Her brighter side-
The one with rainbows on a morning
Dusted with a fine sprinkle of rain-
Then She has reminded us:
Catch Her at Her best
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
Rainbow=rainbow=rainbow=rainbow
rainbow rainbow rainbow prism
Rainbow=rainbow=rainbow=rainbow
rainb ow rainbow rainbow schism
rainbow rainbow rainbowism
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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My beautiful flowering trees
My beautiful flowering trees
One day I shall buy some land
Plant countless seeds
And watch them grow
Into beautiful flowering trees
A cool breeze
Will bring me
Sweet fragrances
From a thousand flowering trees
I shall listen
To the songs
From birds perched
In the tall flowering trees
I shall play
With my children and theirs
In the vast expanse of green
Amongst beautiful flowering trees
One day I shall rest
Passing into oblivion
My ashes scattered
Amidst the beautiful flowering trees
by Ash (Rishi's Dad)
poem by Rishi Menon
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The Wind
The cold breath of sage and kind
has become the light breeze,
touching the heart and soul,
The warm out hale of living things
has become the moderate breeze,
amazing the tired and trees,
The hot breath of lovers,
has become the strong breeze,
cleaned the dirt and rejoice the living.
The scotching breath of infidels,
has become the storm,
immense pleasure and thunderous crying.
The selfish breath of politicians,
has become the hurricane,
uprooted families and wasted nations.
Thank you Dave and Eric, your poems were the inspiration for me to write this poem.
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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American Prairie
10’ tall Big bluestem…
Once flourished there, now almost gone
Creamy yellow blossoms of Plains wild Indigo
White prairie Phlox and…
Bright yellow Prairie Ragwort
Tiny dark-blue Downy Gentian
Grasses fade from bluish purple
to copper-tan and wine-red.
Compass Plant leaves point only north and south
And it’s sap a natural chewing gum
Short grasses in the shadow…
of the Rocky Mountains
Tall wind shimmered grass
from Manitoba to Texas
Soil with the exotic name of Loess
Composed of glacial born rock dust
Leavened with wind borne debris.
Fields of ten foot tall Sun Flowers
Beauty and history… in land never tilled
Russets, …yellows… and purples
Dancing in the never-ceasing wind
poem by David Whalen
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Once More—To Gloriana
Girl with the burning golden eyes,
And red-bird song, and snowy throat:
I bring you gold and silver moons
And diamond stars, and mists that float.
I bring you moons and snowy clouds,
I bring you prairie skies to-night
To feebly praise your golden eyes
And red-bird song, and throat so white.
poem by Vachel Lindsay
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Midnight Rainbow.
The night's so long
Like there's no tomorrow
Gaze at the shinning
Stability of the Stars
Sky denied the Rain.
Sky's violet in its
Glory; The Moon giggles
Deeply in brightness, I
Imagine the Stars joyfully
Swimming in starry Cloud.
I was lost in awesome
I Cherish the wonder of
Jovial midnight Rainbow breeze
Because its incredible but
In reality yet, I love you
My midnight Rainbow.
poem by Babatunde Olusegun Ajayi
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Songs Of The Sky
In a sky of layered clouds,
dawn becomes a rainbow,
moving through the spectrum
toward the day.
In a sky of always blue,
no clouds ride the wind:
the sun burns brightly,
high and hot and long.
In a sky of may grays,
clouds crash, explode and roar;
rain-filled winds sweep across the prairie.
In a sky of many blues,
clouds dance on the wind;
and endless and quixotic
Rohrschach test.
In a sky of always gray,
no clouds seem to move;
overcast blots out imagination.
In a sky of cold, cold blue,
gray clouds scrape the treetops;
harbingers of winter storms to come.
Beneath a sky of darkening gray,
the prairie grasses rustle
on the small, forgotten farms
of what could've been
and was.
In a sky of mottled gray,
cold rains fall, now and then;
the seasons struggle
for control of April.
In a sky of broken gray,
cold winds precede the rains;
and before long
the darkened clouds re-gather.
In a sky as clear as glass,
and blue from top to bottom,
sultry days of August
slowly drift into September.
In a twi-lit noon-time sky,
this annular eclipse
leaves us just a
ring around the moon.
In a sky of many clouds,
sunset's an inferno;
ablaze, in this,
my father's final twilight.
In a sky that slowly burns,
the clouds of fire fade
and leave a darker beauty
to hold the night.
poem by William Kruse
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Delusion
I would live forever beneath a rainbow if I could,
But if I became a dove, I would lift my wings and fly past that rainbow,
Worship the sun, play hide and seek with
Clouds of fortune and
When evening set in I would
Dance amongst the stars, search for the moon,
Let the light of the moon guide me towards
Some other planet and there I would make my home.
The rings of Saturn are enticing, and far more mysterious than
The seas and continents of the planet earth-
Saturn has always been the foremost and intriguing planet
Within the magical ocean of my dream world-
Yesterday I awakened at dawn, to find a rainbow on the horizon-
Its vibrant colors seemed to summon me, and Inside the world of my fantasies
I became that dove and soared upward toward the sky
Until I found myself hovering amidst that rainbow-
Its colors reflecting in the stream below-
But sad to say, rainbows always disappear and
I would find myself without destination wading in that stream,
That stream that leads towards nowhere.
However when I close my eyes to reality and once again become that dove,
I ascend in flight into the universe, my eyes fixed upon Saturn and
The rings of Saturn are so like a rainbow that is spinning
About this magnificently beautiful planet I would want to make my home,
I would live beneath a rainbow if I could,
And when that rainbow disappears I would take flight and find Saturn-
Saturn is amazing in its appearance and
Is glorious and extraordinary in all tales that have been told of planets in the universe,
Doves have been correlated with peace and I can see myself in flight
Safely in my solitude as I would be the first living being on that planet-
Its rainbow-like rings about me that I know shall never fade away-
I being the peaceful dove that has escaped veracity forever and
While rainbows on earth may be lovely to see, they are short lived-
The rings of Saturn shall always be there glistening, and enlightening night's darkness.
Inside my mind I have always dreamed of an incomparable place to call home-
A unique, far away place where I can bask in my solitude-
Perhaps I shall never be a dove flying about Saturn and rainbows always fade,
But when I close my eyes I shall always see many colors, stars and the universe,
And inside of my mind, fantasy shall transform to reality until the day I die-
And the day I die my spirit shall rise past clouds of fortune and
Shall live amongst the stars, Saturn and the other planets in the universe for always…
poem by Claudia Krizay
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