A strange glimpse of remembered moments
Dozing this morning – was I awake,
or was I asleep? for many minutes,
I entered a bright and shining world,
but of my own remembered moments;
yet more than visual memories:
that state of mind, that happiness
which knows no other..
all was brightest colour:
the first Mickey Mouse Weekly
to come out in full, rich colour; (I'll swear
it smelled different, too..)
the new craft room at school,
the intoxicating smell of open tins
of bright coloured enamel paint,
the smell of fresh-cut wood…
sunlight on ancient grey-gold stone;
oh, a whole repertoire of memories
on which there was no need to dwell,
for they declared their shared totality…
but one brief, vivid glimpse I’ll share
for your amusement and what else:
slightly curled, from being rolled in the post,
a copy of ‘American Home’ from the late forties:
against a blue blue sky, white clapboard and
white picket fence; inside, a gingham apron,
a sweet-smelling pipe, proudly ruffled hair..
a gingham table-cloth, hand-stencilled furniture,
blue and white plates against a butter-yellow wall..
all radiated promise, satisfaction, happiness;
as if winter sings of Spring;
all things were possible, and live on now;
but, above all, in myself,
a glorious sense – of ordinariness…
as if I was in place; had always been;
would always be; no other place to be,
no other self to seek, no world seen alien;
our holiest, most precious,
self-sacred moments, when experienced,
have this glorious matter-of-factness;
saying, how could this be other?
The glorious, here, is ordinary…
and back in your familiar world,
the ordinary must be glorious; deserved;
and to be savoured as its truth…
I opened my eyes, eventually;
saw no reason to deny that world;
to cover it with yes but, or, maybe;
later thought, only a poem,
to share this, give this back.
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
0293 Black, white, gray, color
Black and white are the magic of the drama
in the world of film;
gray, the poetry –
silver-gray of Paris; sunshine gray;
dark tragic gray of lovers’ partings
on the symbolic bridge, while the Seine
flows inexorably, darkly past like life and love;
who needs Casablanca in full color?
But there’s another gray –
the gray of exhaustion.
In 1945, a trip to London was a trip
to another race, of gray to unhealthy white
exhausted survivors, of the bombs
and doodlebugs and rockets,
of dead husbands, wives, sons or daughters,
broken marriages; bomb-shelter life drained of all emotion,
and almost too tired to welcome peace;
gray as the soot-encrusted buildings,
of smoke and London fog;
and Eliot’s ‘Waste Land’ which we had read
before 1939 as a vision of the new poetry
was now in 1945 a vision in the mirror
of what we were, of how it was; the truth of life.
Paper – so dangerously brought across the sea in war
from Canada, in ships sharked by U-boats,
bombs, torpedoes, was reserved for
the War Effort – propaganda, booklets
portraying the British countryside, the villages, we were fighting for;
and the occasional Penguin book on brownish paper,
of the dazzling white and crisp black contours
of the Modern Architecture
in which we all, we happy all would live – this earth,
this realm, this England, this jewel set
in a silver sea, this demi-paradise...
Corbusier would house us in the sky,
reclining in our Breuer chairs,
Gropius would cosset us,
our outhouse would be Bauhaus.. in
a paradise of black and white and gray
as they and we should be
and then, as we continued to snip
our ration books, ‘restrictions were lifted’ on some things,
and from America, that magic land, where
possibility had not died, one could order through the post
the lavish world of the colour magazine; and such things as
‘American Home’ came like a rainbow zapping
through the letter-box –
like some art film, black and white and poetic gray which
suddenly printed in full Technicolor:
California sunned itself by long, low walls,
fierce cacti tamed in terracotta pots;
New England sparkled, spick and span,
white picket fences in the sunshine,
The Flag on every trim front lawn,
and at the door, She wall-to-walled her smile
which matched her frilled red-white gingham apron
and the 2.2 children looking up at her adoringly,
young Dad with his pipe in the background;
inside, the blue-white gingham table-cloth
and blue-white crockery zinged against
the buttercup yellow wall; the bright blue red green yellow
painted (do it yourself) or stencilled
Pennsylvania Dutch chairs and cupboards said,
life is good, listen to the
Hoagy Carmichael, Benny Goodman, Johnny Mercer
in the background, life is buoyant, look at all the colours,
optimism runs from every tap, it’s in the air,
we’ll think of a new word for it all – upbeat…
and the blood began to flow in our gray, exhausted cheeks:
there must be hope, for Over There, Over There,
yes, the Yanks were showing us, there was a magic land,
and it was here and now; Somewhere over The Rainbow
had arrived; Deanna Durbin sang, Nat crooned; there was, after all,
Something Worth Fighting For..
It’s a moment in history some forget,
some will never know, some few remember,
the moments of the heart which escape
the compressions of the history books,
the moral fables of a hopedry world; but
live undaunted in the memory
in full, glorious color,
the moments of the heart.
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sometimes Its As If My Childhood Days Come Back
Sometimes it's as if my childhood days come back
and it's as if the colour and texture catches me
when I am astounded by the sheer beauty of things,
by the smell of flowers hanging in the air,
where I see clouds as flakes,
and it's as if the colour and texture catches me
that is spread over the bright blue in small pieces
that brings me back to another time and place
where I see clouds as flakes,
and I am again full of joy and happiness
and the whole sky is full with specks between the blue and white
that brings me back to another time and place,
to the memories of my childhood days
when I see the summer sun rising golden
and the whole sky is full with specks between the blue and white
and the birds and insects are of the loveliness some proof.
Sometimes it's as if my childhood days come back
when I see the summer sun rising golden,
when I am astounded by the sheer beauty of things.
poem by Gert Strydom
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I Colour My World
Within the colours of this day--
I find myself recounting the days gone by...
Cherishing every blessed memory...
While gazing at the sky upon high;
I colour myself a warm shade of pink...
As i reminisce over past glorious time...
I colour myself red-with a love memory-in my head-
All collected together and written in rhyme;
I colour myself various shades of blue...
In remembering the loss and sorrows of my past...
That took a large part-of my heart...
These memories ever-engrained to last;
I colour my memories a bright yellow...
As i bask in reminders of my days 'neath the sun...
Happiness back then-and the where and the when...
All-a multi-shade of ONE!
I colour myself a rainbow...
A full spectrum of the shades of yore...
I am embraced in their true brillance--
From this day to the days of long before! ;
June 3,2010
The Essence
poem by Theodora Onken
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Now is the time of our awakening
I
Now is the time of our awakening
in world where things are beautiful,
with the first caressing touch
of the morning’s refreshment
where the sun falls bright and hot,
where birds are singing together in joy,
in the blue jewel of the universe
about the glory that summer brings,
the earth is fresh after the first summer rain
with every tree, plant and flower
that grows much more powerful than previously
in the glory of their maturity
in every touch, colour and scent
we find nature at her prime.
II
We find nature at her prime
with birds singing joyous in the branches,
and we cannot draw ourselves away
of a world intruding into us,
every morning has something glorious
that we only have got to discover
and every time that you look at me
your glance wants to draw me into depths,
the essence of love is caught
in every day hanging around us,
we celebrate our intimate connection
in every wish and urge
that we yearn for in this world;
now your smile falls brightly.
III
Now your smile falls brightly
over the darkness of my life,
shining like a glorious day,
you bring new meaning each day
when your hand folds finely over mine
you look fragile, modestly
and I see the heavenly cobalt blue colour
in the bright gaze in your eyes
your voice is pure in every sound of it,
you are prettier than the most beautiful flower,
when your arms stretch round my neck
with everything coming out of the depth of love
our existence, our summer becomes holy
with an indistinguishable bright light.
IV
With an indistinguishable bright light
in the blinding bright ardour
of Your Godly omnipotence
that breaks right through our wavering courage
we both want to see You in our foolishness
even if days, nights, times has got to shatter
where You keep the world in Your mighty hands
past seasons of summer and winter
but in no thunder or raining stars
we could really see or find You,
in silent illustriousness You come
where every flower and animal serves you out of there own
from past the age old beginning, in the shining light
in the glory of sunshine.
V
In the glory of sunshine
you are in every bright summer day,
in the stars shining at night,
in the sovereign blue sky.
To me you are the most beautiful woman
who can understand me entirely
and there’s a kind of nobility that I see in you,
with comprehension you know where my life is going.
You are given to me in this summer sun,
as if happiness is bounded to this moment,
in the things we wish for and can do
for a whole lifetime’s meaning
when nature splashes down in moments;
the smell of your hair is like sweet grass.
VI
The smell of your hair is like sweet grass
baking in the summer sun
or ripe red peaches on a branch
that is washed clean in the drizzle
and the way that you reach for me
is like the brittle fluttering
of the wind singing through the trees,
is caressing like sun on glass
and your unknown moving foot
is a butterfly fluttering between flowers,
that only touches here and there in her arrival
before it again in apprehension flies away
with brittle wings banging down;
you are my serenity of the veldt.
VII
You are my serenity of the veldt,
earthly and still noble and pure,
the sweet repeating refrain
that insects and birds keep on mentioning.
You are glittering like an awesome brooch,
with your eyes glistening like the shining stars,
with enchantment that cannot disappear
full of fire but naturally unaffected.
You are the fluttering of the wind
that rustles through the fields of grass,
with the soft touching,
the charm that you find in drops
that sieve down on you, hesitating on your cheeks;
now is the time of our awakening.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Sometimes it’s as if my childhood days comes back
Sometimes it’s as if my childhood days
comes back to me unexpectedly
where the sheer beauty of things astounds me,
water that lies glistening in a river
how water reflects my face and in wrinkles disguises it
the smell of wild flowers hanging sweet in the air
and the colour and texture catching me
as if I am walking in an overgrown garden
full of singing birds
where I see clouds spread like flakes
covering the bright blue in little pieces
with spots of blue between the white
and it is as if for short moments I can return
to a place and time
full of joy and jolliness
poem by Gert Strydom
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Future World
(m&l - hansen)
If youre out there all alone
And you dont know where to go to
Come and take a trip with me
To future world
And if youre running through your life
And you dont know what the sense is
Come and look how it could be
In future world
We all live in happiness
Our life is full of joy
We say the world tomorowwithout fear
The feeling of togetherness
Is always at our side
We love our life and we know we will stay
Cause we all live in future world
A world thats full of love
Our future life will be glorious
Come with me - future world
You say youd like to stay
But this is not your time
Go back, find qour own way
To future world
Life can be for living
Just try and never give in
Tell everyone the way of future world
One day youll live in happiness
With a heart thats full of joy
Youii say the world tomorrow
Without fear
The feeling of togetherness
Wil I be at your side
Youll say you love your life
And youll know why
Cause we all live in future world
A world thats full of love
Our future life will be glorious
Come with me - future world
Scream it out
Cause we all live in future world
A world thats full of love
Our future life will be glorious
Come with me - future world
song performed by by Helloween
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Magnificent Dream
Under the weather,
I hit the sack,
And after a spell,
I was gone,
In the glorious world of magic.
There i spot,
Sorcerers and witches,
Making potions,
And flying n brooms,
In the glorious world of magic.
Swishing wands,
Yaking with soals,
Elfs and Inferies,
All i saw,
In the glorious world of magic.
But after i rouse,
All i remember,
Were the magnificent memories,
Of the sorcerers I saw,
In the glorious world of magic.
poem by Hafsa Qureshi
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Glorious Winter
Come, oh most glorious Winter
Be quick to lay your silence down
Blanket us with your white coverlet
And i will wear my Green Christmas gown...
We will revel in your snowflakes-
Delight in a skate upon your iced over pond
Build forts and ramparts with much glee
Form a White Winter Bond...;
Come, oh most glorious Winter
We welcome your haunting White Noise...
All your white lanes all aglitter
Trees branches weighted-with White Winter Poise;
All agleaming and crisp making...
Comes thru the Decembers quick air
Completely dressed up in your Winter White
Oh, most Glorious White Winter, so fair!
poem by Theodora Onken
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In Our Black And White World...
in our black and
white world
play me a song
of the rainbow
strum me your
guitar
and let me live
on multicolored
notes
i too shall sing
the colors of
my own world
and you may listen
both of us
shall paint
this black and white world
with the shades
of our hopes
pastel blue
light green
bright red
shining gold.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Rising With The Morning
Colour me bright yellow, so I reflect the sun,
Let me sink down gently when the day is done,
Rising with the morning, summer's warmth inbue,
Shining with the happiness of always loving you.
Colour me bright amber, like the autumn's glow,
Let me sink down gently, onto falling leaves below,
Rising with the morning, misty with the dew,
Enveloped with the happiness of truly loving you.
Colour me bright silver, as in the sparkling snow,
Let me sink down gently when the cold winds blow,
Rising with the morning, winter's ice to strew,
Trembling with the happiness of warmly loving you.
Colour me bright emerald, now spring's on the way,
Let me sink down gently on our soft duvet,
Rising with the morning, seeing things brand new,
Sighing with the happiness of me just loving you.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Sunlight on white paint. For the New Year.
The house across the way is newly painted white.
Right now, that’s all my being seems to need:
this winter morning, sharp, cold, bright and clear,
the morning sunlight pours across white paint;
contains a thousand messages, in me
interpreted.. or simply left to be..
this moment, that’s as much as being craves:
this morning’s glory; and I, born for praise..
even as I write, I watch the sun’s
white paint brush move across the house’s front
and tell the eye of reason that this world
is turning, basking, in this morning sun;
already sparkling on the Bondi waves
as if the world had just been washed anew;
cast early dawn’s pearl light on Taj Mahal
as if the sun itself could never tire of beauty;
Italian villa forecourts just hosed down,
the air all fresh to meet the warming day;
the gardens of Carmel, eight hours from now,
will paint their flowers fresh with mist and dew;
as every carefree holiday yourself
recall, as proof eternal of pure soul..
and here - the witness of my silent mind
needs nothing, need go nowhere else to find
its very self, this moment without taint:
immortal sunlight shining on white paint.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Daybreak is A Glowing Bright Ball
Daybreak is a glowing bright ball
from which the fiery rays shine,
sometimes drops falling along with thunder,
with freshness embracing me when I go outside.
Early morning is a bright sun hanging in the heaven
when the colour of the bright blue
catches you with something full of mystery,
with the wind sometimes clinging to you with fingers.
Spring is flower upon flower
that is spread over fruit trees,
the beauty that astonishes you
when the garden of God stretch into the fields.
Summer is fruit that waits ripe and luring
when everything becomes adult,
sunny day upon sunny day
where the prettiest flowers are still flowering.
Autumn is coloured leaves that are everywhere,
the summer still lingering for the last time
and everything has a secret knowledge
that winter is coming, even every sunray
and nowhere I can find the words of a child,
while I am blinded by the glorious world from being young.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Boy Blue
Hey boy blue, cant you hear all the noise, its for you.
All the towns waiting there, let us go.
Theres a show like you aint seen before.
Weclome home, where you been all these years, look around.
All the crowd is in tears,
Its so good to see you in the streets of your town
Chorus
Hey boy blue is back.
Hey boy blue is back.
Hey boy blue is back.
Hey boy blue is back.
Hey boy blue is back.
Hey boy blue is back.
Ive seen bold knights, dropping down like flies,
Ive seen kings, rolling in the mire,
Ive seen god, point the finger of doom to our foes.
I have fought in the holiest wars,
I have smashed, some of the holiest jaws.
Ive been jailed, been impaled, and been dragged through the world.
One thing, I have learned through these years,
Is that no man, should be stricken with fear.
It should be that he walks with no care in the world.
So my friends, who are gathered today,
Hear this clear, for Ill not further say.
That no amn, shall cause me to take up arms again.
Hey boy blue is back.
Hey boy blue is back.
Hey boy blue is back.
Hey boy blue is back.
Hey boy blue is back.
Hey boy blue is back.
song performed by by Electric Light Orchestra
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Psalm 148
Let the heavens cry out
Let the earth give a shout
Let all the Peoples of the earth not doubt
Our glorious King forever
Let the heavenly angels praise
To our King may every hand raise
May we worship Him all of our days
Our glorious King forever
Praise Him you sun so bright
Praise Him you moon through the night
All of His enemies take flight
From our glorious King forever
Praise Him you creatures of the sea
Praise Him that you swim so free
May our praises eternally be
Of our glorious King forever
Mountains and hills fall down
Stars in the sky make a glorious sound
All ye saints cast down your crowns
Before our glorious King forever
We will praise Him for His marvelous grace
We praise Him for His warm embrace
We praise Him in the holy place
Our glorious King forever
We exalt the King of Kings
Heavenly choirs of angels sings
Of the freedom that our Christ brings
Our glorious King forever
All our praise He does deserve
Let His glory cover all the earth
We shall bow down and worship and serve
Our glorious King forever
poem by Frank McEleny
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My Happiness
(words & music by peterson - bergantine)
Evening shadows make me blue
When each weary day is through
How I long to be with you
My happiness
Every day I reminesce
Dreaming of your tender kiss
Always thinking how I miss
My happiness
A million years it seems
Have gone by since we shared our dreams
But Ill hold you again
Therell be no blue memories then
Whether skies are grey or blue
Any place on earth will do
Just as long as Im with you
My happiness
A million years it seems
Have gone by since we shared our dreams
But Ill hold you again
Therell be no blue memories then
Whether skies are grey or blue
Any place on earth will do
Just as long as Im with you
My happiness
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Their Blackness...
‘..and their blackness is incontrovertible…’
as the mind surfaced out of sleep today,
these words – matter-of-fact, authoritative –
spoke in my inner ear.
had it been a fleeting image or
the painful ending of some dream – like
struggling to catch the last train
which all the time receded –
it would have been dismissed;
but the writer’s mind seizes on such things:
this line, an Alexandrine or hexameter:
what scene had come before
this ultimate pronouncement?
was this the verdict of some shining, white-robed one
summing my mortal sins, written indelible?
what came before? had there just been
some paltry list of virtues dimly glimpsed,
good deeds half-done? or could I hope
this shining one spoke not of me at all?
was this a glimpse of what had gone from mind,
the glorious radiance of a perfect world?
or glimpse of compensatory twin mirror-world
which physicists speak of as balancing necessity
of charges positive and negative,
where all is in reverse; and so, perhaps the mind;
and black is good and God; and white is…trash…
or had the mind been in the world of art,
where, as in the etched fine lines like thinnest wire
of a Picasso or a Hockney – incontrovertibly
shaping in the finest, mindful black
a world of friends, of fears, of foes,
of loves and lives and lovely, lively things?
we know so little of the world of dream,
so close to poets' fantasies of truth;
and shall I wish, tonight – so far away this sunny dawn -
to find again that other world, where all is brightest white?
or meet that other world, where black is beautiful..
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Seasons......
Spring brings joy and revival
The world is filled with freshness,
Sprinkle and sparkle glimpse
Sky gets painted with Rainbow;
Summer is bright and colourful
Bright yellow flowers bloom afresh,
Summer has arrived with fullness,
White, yellow, red, orange and blue;
Autumn is dusty and dry
Withering and falling old leaves,
Autumn is setting in fast
Old decay for new to arise;
Winter is cool and blissful,
Snow is pleasant surprise,
Everything is painted white,
Soon it shall melt to make way;
The cycle of Seasons goes on,
World changes with its mood.
poem by Manjeshwari P MYSORE
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A Brown Study
LET them sing of their primrose and cowslip,
Their daffodil-gold-coloured hair,
Their bluebells, blue eyes, and white violets,
All the pale dreamy things they find fair;
Give me stir of brown leaves in the sunshine,
The whir of brown wings through the wheat,
The rush of brown hares through the clover,
And the light in brown eyes of my sweet!
Gold hair? Well, I never could love it,
Yet gold, I suppose, has its worth;
The head that I love is as dusky
As the breast of our mother, the earth;
With a gleam like the shine of wet seaweed,
Round pools that the tide has left clear,
And warm like the breast of a linnet,
And as brown, is the hair of my dear.
From the edge of the cliff we look downwards
On the shore, and the bay, and the town,
And brown is the short turf we lean on,
The fishing-boats' sails are all brown:
The sky may be blue--that's the background,--
But the picture itself, to be fair,
However it's shaded and varied,
Should be brown as the dress that you wear.
A lark bursts to sudden sweet singing--
That tuft of brown grass is his home--
And now, a brown speck, he is rising
Against the clear windy sky-dome;
And he sings--how I know? Love instructs me
To know all his notes, what they mean--
That it isn't the colour I care for,
But yourself, oh, my gipsy, my queen!
Ah! the lark knows my heart--I his language;
It's my heart he sings out to the skies;
It is you that I love, and what matter
The colour of hair or of eyes?
No doubt I should love you as dearly
Were your hair like an apricot's down,
And your eyes like the grey of the morning;
But I'm glad, all the same, that they're brown.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Your Self: from Plotinus' 'Enneads' 6.3
Seeing yourself - at last – so beautiful:
cease, at last, that vision to deny!
What then, to see in your so glorious self?
What qualities shine out upon the world?
Loftiness of spirit; righteousness
of life; the purity of discipline;
majestic face of courage; gravity;
fearless, tranquil, passionless modesty—
and shining down forever on all this:
that glorious light in all things known and seen;
that watches even, its own watchfulness;
your self as all things, ever known to be.
And now you are Yourself: a blazing Sun;
glorious with the radiance that is One.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Heaven
Got a picture of your house
And you're standing by the door
It's black and white and faded
And it's looking pretty worn
See the factory that I worked
Silhouetted in the back
The memories are grey
but man they're really coming back
I don't need to be the king of the world
As long as I'm the hero of this little girl
Heaven isn't too far away
Closer to it every day
No matter what your friends might say
How I love the way you move
And the sparkle in your eyes
There's a color deep inside them
Like a blue suburban sky
When I come home late at night
And your in bed asleep
I wrap my arms around you
So I can feel you breathe
I don't need to be a superman
As long as you will always be my biggest fan
CHORUS
Heaven isn't too far away
Closer to it every day
No matter what you friends might say
We'll find a way (Yeah!)
Now the lights are going out
Along the boulevard
The memories come rushing back
And it makes it pretty hard
I've got nowhere left to go
And no one really cares
I don't know what to do
But I'm never giving up on you
CHORUS
song performed by by Warrant
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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