Spring afternoon
A spring morning – well,
I only need to say the words?
I’ll picture mine, you picture yours –
champagne bubbling in the blood and in the mind,
hopes and possibilities flooding freshly in..
but a spring mid-afternoon… like today, like now:
a subtle balance of the elements;
the sunlight bathes the room, but gently,
with its promise; yet,
there’s a timeless peace with it
that’s like a life surveyed; yet
free of thought, of comparison, or of regret:
the six loved paintings that adorn the walls
bought for a song, when art was like a song –
they love the gentle sunlight, and it in turn loves them;
five artists painting their sunlit peace, their happiness;
(two very different ones from the man
who lives so humbly halfway up
the mountain hills he rambles every day):
three oils; one gouache; one watercolour; and one pastel;
they all but two have clouds in them
as they’re all landscapes;
one that hasn’t, has a haze as if
the painter’s painting the summer wind, in those high hills..
the other is a cloudless morning’s peace,
the bend of a river in mid-France;
the river…it cannot be, just painted oil?
it’s water seen as by a pure clear soul…
and the clouds – caught in an impossibility of time,
play out an endless drama of the elements;
timeless in the peace of, now, a slightly later
springtime afternoon; almost with a touch...
but how could perfection ever regret
its own departure?
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Related quotes
A view of spring turning into summer (hybridanelle)
From the time that the first sunlight hit me
I was surrounded by heat like a cocoon
and I saw the clear blue sky and felt free
while the early morning breeze
kissed my cheek
with an early morning freeze
and there were clouds escaping from my mouth that I could see
evaporating like steam or gas from a balloon.
From the time that the first sun light hit me
some dust tickling my nose made me sneeze
and glorious bright rays
kissed my cheek,
buds opened on every plant and tree,
ants marched to and fro like in a platoon
and I saw the clear blue sky and felt free
and I was experiencing days
of spring leading into summer
and glorious bright rays
and nature’s decree
summoning new seasons, made me feel like a tycoon
from the time that the first sunlight hit me
and the wind like a drummer
sweeping through sand, leaves and branches whistling its song
of spring leading into summer
and you my love, had to agree
that an awesome summer would be here soon
and I saw the clear blue sky and felt free
as if this freaky wind was blowing me along,
turned part of me into nature and I saw it
sweeping through sand, leaves and branches whistling its song
and even you were in its spell and we
were both smitten with summer and spring that afternoon.
From the time that the first sunlight hit me
and I saw the clear blue sky and felt free
it was like standing on a high summit
while the early morning breeze,
turned part of me into nature and I saw it
with an early morning freeze.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Finlandia
This is my song
Oh God of all the nations
A song of peace
For lands afar and mine
This is my home
The country where my heart is
Here are my hopes
My dreams my holy shrine
But other hearts
In other lands are beating
With hopes and dreams
As true and high as mine
My countries skies
Are bluer than the ocean
And sunlight beams
On clover leaf and pine
But other lands
Have sunlight too and clover
And skies are everywhere
As blue as mine
Oh hear my song
Oh God of all the nations
A song of peace
For their land and for mine
song performed by by Indigo Girls
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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What A Beautiful Sound
beautiful sounds
that stir the heart
free awakening soul
lift flight sky spirit
sound of river running wide unified flowing
sound of creek running downhill leaping splashing
sound of stillness crisp haunting in still mountain morning
sound of wind timeless moving over through forest trees growing
sound of whispers retracting as first soft snow flutters falling
sound of soft rain tender kissing warm earth embraces water waiting
sound of rain heavy droplets embracing dancing love symphony greeting
sound of storm clouds fast running painting sky black spiraling
sound of thunder freedom singing vibrating through poet laughing
sound of morning awaking to gentle joy of my young daughters laughing
a beautiful sound is bliss joy of young daughters happiness laughing
a beautiful sound is healthy children fed soul wonder bliss laughing
a beautiful sound is our well fed children in joy mind song laughing
a beautiful sound is God smiling with me in child mind song laughing
poem by Terence George Craddock
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The Days of Spring Are Near
The days of spring are near
With the flowing water around
In every heart of youth to steer
That still with the winter's bound
So lovely as each loneliness
And black as rocks in the hills
These condense come with caress
As water splashes and spills
The youth of new springtime's here
Is in every life and brawl
Where the falls shall touch and bear
In its freshness of its early call
And bring mystics wind to blow
While the leaves are becoming green
Away is then all winter's snow
With the life's sullenness between
The days of spring thoughts steer
Into the young days fairly bright
And become here free everywhere
With returning of our summer light
To lift the hearts to higher grounds
And there bring us peace of mind
Fill up the air with springtime sounds
Leaving the dusky diffuses behind
(*never since the middle summer's spring, met we— Shakespeare [I could also use 'freedom' instead of 'spring'])
poem by Peter S. Quinn
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All We Want Is Peace (Please)
Peace, Peace, Please,
Please, Peace, Please,
There’s something we should do
That’s not been done
Something we can win
That’s not been won
Something we can SHOUT OUT
To end all their brutal war games
We Want Peace
Case for war was fake,
Don’t let it fade
More lives can be saved
Got to be brave
Something we can shout out,
We want peace, and we want it right now
Talking is Free
All we want is Peace
All we need is Peace
All we ask is Peace, Please
Peace is all we want
All we crave is Peace
All we miss is Peace
All we lack is Peace
Peace is all we want
Something we can ask,
Before it’s blown
Something we can grow
Before it’s grown
Small green shoots of Peace
To educate next infancy
Believe me
All we want is Peace
All we crave is Peace
All we wish is Peace, please
Peace is all we ask
It’s not a big task
Believe me
It’s easy.
All we want is Peace, All we want is Peace,
All we need is Peace, All we need is Peace.
Peace is all we want,
Peace is all we want
Peace is all we need,
Peace is all we need………………
poem by Gordon David
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Finlandia (live)
Finlandia" is a Sibelius composition, which the girls recorded on
their 1986 EP. Live versions are VERY infrequent, but they have
performed it as recently as last March.
Finlandia.
This is my song, O God of all the nations
A song of peace for lands afar and mine
This is my home, the country where my heart is
Here are my hopes and dreams, my holy shrine
But other hearts in other lands are beating
With hopes and dreams as true and high as mine.
My country's skies are bluer than the ocean
And sunlight beams on clover leaf and pine
But other lands have sunlight, too, and clover
And skies are everywhere as blue as mine
O hear my song, thou God of all the nations
A song of peace for their land and for mine
song performed by by Indigo Girls
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The eyes of impressionism
Saints.
Like swans, gliding untroubled so it seems
to us, lazing on the river bank
of a Seurat summer Sunday afternoon,
gliding over the surface of the waters
as love perhaps, on that first day;
they as floating symbols
of the beauty beyond beauty;
their work, invisible to us who watch
Painters.
Like waterlilies, resting in perfection
on the surface of the waters
as love rests, sure of their own beauty;
painting just the sunlight
falling on things, moving on
more slowly than we see;
the depth of the waters
in the painter’s mind and heart;
his work invisible to us who watch
his dabbing at the canvas
as a dabchick bobs in the water, his mind
moving as time moves;
for him, sitting at the canvas,
always time present,
in the water-garden already on his palette
Cataracts.
How far a word from
the stillness around him as he sits,
his beard a little yellow from the nicotine,
seeing the waterlilies as if for the first time,
but each year the water seems to tell
more about time itself… like Proust;
where is time going in this painting?
Eyes.
Cataracts, yes; but perhaps over time
they too have sought to serve him,
become themselves, impressionists,
presenting him with images
prepared like canvasses are prepared;
gently watering inner gardens
between the eyes and mind
yes, that’s Monsieur Monet over there;
don’t disturb him; but if you stand
a little way behind him, you just may
enter the stillness around him,
enter the stillness of his mind,
see with his eyes, that work
invisible to those of us who watch
which swans and saints and artists know.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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I Love Time Out With Nature
I love time out with Nature and I love peace and quiet
To walk along the gravel path in the evening sunlight
When the wild birds are singing and Spring is in her prime
And even memories of such inspire the soul to rhyme.
I love time out with Nature a brief release from care
For Nature she is generous her gifts with all she share
We drink of her clear spring waters and we breathe in her life sustaining air
And Nature's splendid beauty is around us everywhere.
I love time out with Nature the only God I know
Her stream from the high country down to the river flow
The skylark from the rank grass in the mood for song he fly
One of Nature's feathered minstrels he carols in the sky.
In time out with Mother Nature from life's cares I find ease
The sounds of the leaves rustling in the freshening evening breeze
And we much like the Seasons to life we come and go
But Nature lives forever the only God I know.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Painted Dreams...
As sleep envelopes the mind, dreams commence,
The artist within paints the landscape of my dream.
A fantasy land of lush green grass and fresh summer blooms,
My spirit warmed by the golden rays of sunlight.
It is neither night nor day, but a timeless twilight,
A time that exists between the waking and the sleeping world.
My lifes story unfolds upon this canvas of painted dreams,
My hopes and fears, my lonliness, my dreams and all my desires.
All I have ever been, all that I could ever be,
A timeless portrate of a dreamers deepest desires...
Spread the love... The peace will follow...
poem by Cosmic Dreamer
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Its A Jungle Out There
(scream) I just gotta get away
Cant stand it
Children suffer every day
Tell me baby
Whats it for
Fighting daily
For the turf
Were still killing each other
In the name of the lord
Theres a brand new graffiti
With blood on the walls
Peace... are you that far away?
Now you can feel it
Other peoples pain
Love can heal it
Gentle as the rain
Oh, the united nations drag their feet on the floor
All they do is spend your money
They dont tell you what for
Peace... what price we have to pay
Peace... theres gotta be a better way
People tell me its useless to look for a way
I believe that tomorrow starts right here, today
Peace... are you that far away
Peace... theres gotta be a better way
Peace... are you that far away
Peace... theres gotta be a better way
Peace, peace
Theres gotta be a better way
Peace, peace oh oh oh peace
song performed by by Santana
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Aubade
Mystical Morning Song came whispering
It's melodious rhythmic sounds
For the spring time lays in the Garden's
Of lovers floral bouquet abed in the ground
Waiting for your happiness in your love to grow
You continue to wonder in absolute awe
While prolonging whispers of lover's musical breeze
That embraces The Spring and welcomes Winter's thaw
The warmth of the sun rays come in loves burning
Filling all nature and you with serene
Allowing all new Spring buds of love to open
Tantalizing aroma's of new memories to be made
Come the Mystical Morning Song Spring
Dedicated to: Jeri, Aka, Morning Song
With love
A Morning song is an Aubade
Or the regret of lovers that Dawn
Has come too soon
il n'est mie jors,
Saverose au corps gent
Si me consent Dieus
L'aloete nos ment
Transalation:
It is not daylight
O sweet one with the gentle body
So God help me
The Lark lies to us
(-Provencal, twelfth or Thirteenth Century)
poem by Theodora Onken
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Devil's Lake
Iceberg carved, beautiful sculptured
nature's beauty, many years in the making
humungous hills, cliffs carved in the sides
a gorgeous lake below, river feed
many creatures habitability in park, free to roam
birds flying, squirrels running, vulture circling
a sense of peace and heaven to view.
crafty trails, steep hills to climb
breathe taking views, picture perfect
the woods so colorful and thick
spring many shades of green
fall the painters colors of reds, yellows, orange
walking the heavenly trails, seeing nature all around
from the smallest stone to the big boulders
the lake so clear, to see the fish, the current so gentle
you see the water flow
the wind blows, a steady one from the north
seeing people enjoying nature's heaven
it brings tears of joy and warmth that they respect the land
hundred of years in the making, yet so breathe taking
It always different each time you come
nature painting a new landscape for all to enjoy
Devil's Lake is Wisconsin heaven
poem by Michael Peterson
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Longlive Peace
Peace is all we want
Peace is all we need
Peace is all we ask
Peace is all we desire
There’s something we should do
That’s not been done
Something we can win
That’s not been won
Something we can shout out
To end all the brutal war games
We Want peace
Case for war was fake,
Don’t let it fade
More lives can be saved
Got to be brave
Something we can shout out,
We want peace, and we want it right now
Talking is Free
All we hunger is Peace
All we miss is Peace
All we lack is Peace
Peace is all we want
Peace is all we ask
It’s not a big task
Believe me
It’s easy.
Peace is all we want
Peace is all we need
Peace is all we want
Peace is all we need
All we wish is peace..., please
0021 Under the bridge of time
Oui, c'est beaux, le jardin... at this time of year;
mais... for myself,
a little too overgrown – but Monsieur
prefers it that way… you see him down there
by the lily pond, the nymphées?
He’s nearly blind now, yet he’s out all day
and nearly every day. He draws life from the garden,
je crois; and though there are some who laugh
and say, his paintings are now
mere daubs, when I see them
and then go out into the garden,
there’s a truth there, beyond what we see…
what passes, what floats serene and unaffected...
what floats on time itself...
You may find this fanciful, but I’ve watched Monsieur
over the years: first he had the garden made,
when he could afford it, and the bridge and then the pool
that slows the river… then he painted the lilies which we planted,
floating on the water, all the colours
of sunshine as you see it through a prism…then he painted
the sunlight on the water… then
he seemed to paint the flow of the water
as it passed… and then he seemed to be painting
time itself, passing under the bridge
where we’re standing here, as if
outside time… and now,
qu’est-ce qu’on dit? I think
he’s painting the philosophy of time –
Monsieur Bergson le philosophe
agrees with me – in paint; perhaps
one might say, painting
the future of painting…
yet, the flow of time and death came first, they say:
Monsieur began to paint his water-lilies
after he had seen the photos of the solemn river
of corpses in the trenches
in that terrible war; even, it's said,
the same colours of the unburied dead who putrify
are the same colours that he sees
in the water-lilies...c'est étrange, n'est-ce-pas?
a sort of redemption in the painter's palette...
this, I feel, gives these pretty paintings
the vision that drives Monsieur
to find beauty in its opposite...
but it’s cooling now; Monsieur
likes to enjoy that glowing light of early evening,
the precious departing of the light…
the light of life itself...
I’ll fetch his rug…these artists seem to
lose themselves in what they see…
they don’t seem to notice passing time,
it’s as if they think they live where time is space;
or perhaps, time’s so precious for Monsieur
that he paints it running out…
but I mustn’t keep you, M’sieur Proust –
it was so kind of you to find the time
to visit, and you too, M’sieur Debussy –
it has been quite a day to remember, n’est-ce pas? …
and now for Monsieur’s rug…
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Misty River
This morning
Me in this Misty River
All the happiness
I am feeling inside myself
Misty River
The mist is coming
From this Misty River
There are clouds
In the sky
And the mist
Is caused by the condensation
Of the heat mixed in the cold water
Misty River
I am in a fishing boat
That boat is moving slowly in this
Misty river
It is early in the morning
I am eating my breakfast in the fishing boat in the middle of this
Misty River
I hear the birds singing early in the morning
In this Misty River
There must be trees because the sound of the birds is coming from the Branches
Misty River
So peaceful
It looks so different with the mist
No one is around but me
With my fishing boat
And the beautiful sound of the birds
It is so nice
To have a place to come to
Where I can
Hear the sound of the birds
And be left alone
With no one disturbing me
Misty River
This is my special place
And by afternoon
No clouds I will see
The birds are beautiful
Their song is just beautiful like mother nature intended it to be
If nobody else appreciates this Misty River
I do
Misty River
I will die for you
Misty River
I will shed my tears for you
I have been coming here for so long now
Misty River
poem by Aldo Kraas
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I just want peace
I just want peace
All i want is peace
Why i can't have peace
everywhere i go is nothing
but drama and negative
I want peace in my life
I am tied of living life
having to deal with drama
and negative
Why when people see me
doing good and happy
they come right through and mess it
all up...
I just want peace
I see the only way im get
peace is when im dead
I don't want no more drama
and negative in my life
I want peace why can someybody
tell me why i can't have peace in
my life..
I just want peace that's all i want.
Pain
Enough
Angry
Cant
End my life with angry and drama
I want to die in peace not
unhappy and feel with drama and
angry
I just want peace
poem by Angel Wade
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Evening Prayer
Wind stirs in expectation; it
softly strokes my face.
The March sun reassures me,
warms pale flesh
through layers of thick sweater
and winter coat.
Under indigo hills
new grass flows,
yellow and green,
as past distant ranges,
to the sky-bright, rounded sea
he flees and sends
a gift of clouds,
aflame
in glory.
Peace to the grass of the fields!
Peace
to dark hills and drifting clouds,
and to the sacrificial sun
peace!
poem by Steven Federle
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A Mystery
The river hemmed with leaning trees
Wound through its meadows green;
A low, blue line of mountains showed
The open pines between.
One sharp, tall peak above them all
Clear into sunlight sprang
I saw the river of my dreams,
The mountains that I sang!
No clue of memory led me on,
But well the ways I knew;
A feeling of familiar things
With every footstep grew.
Not otherwise above its crag
Could lean the blasted pine;
Not otherwise the maple hold
Aloft its red ensign.
So up the long and shorn foot-hills
The mountain road should creep;
So, green and low, the meadow fold
Its red-haired kine asleep.
The river wound as it should wind;
Their place the mountains took;
The white torn fringes of their clouds
Wore no unwonted look.
Yet ne'er before that river's rim
Was pressed by feet of mine,
Never before mine eyes had crossed
That broken mountain line.
A presence, strange at once and known,
Walked with me as my guide;
The skirts of some forgotten life
Trailed noiseless at my side.
Was it a dim-remembered dream?
Or glimpse through ions old?
The secret which the mountains kept
The river never told.
But from the vision ere it passed
A tender hope I drew,
And, pleasant as a dawn of spring,
The thought within me grew,
That love would temper every change,
And soften all surprise,
And, misty with the dreams of earth,
The hills of Heaven arise.
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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With a Peace
On the last day
When all souls
Are called
By God
To account,
I
Shall be called
By the Vagabond Spirit
For mine.
With a peace...
With a peace...
With a peace...
The hills shall be filled
With a peace.
The sun shall go down
With a peace.
And my heart shall burst
With the joy of life
To smithereens.
And the drops of blood
Shall fly
Into
The night-time sky
Then dance
In a brilliant display
Of sparks
For all men
To see
Then fall
Falling down
Into
The new Earth.
Then from each one
A new
Magnificence
Shall grow.
poem by Sadia Arman
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Clouds
Overhead I see the clouds
and know that they see me.
I sometimes wonder when I see them
how it feels to be so free?
Billowy shapes of cotton
that change within my sight
also tend to change my mood
when their movement hides sunlight.
I'm caught up seeing how they change
and always try to view
what object they remind me of
and where they travel to?
I must admit I also love
to see a cloudless day.
Then the clear blue picture of the sky
I wish could always stay.
But if there must be clouds overhead
then let them all be puffy white.
Then maybe I'll see those traveling clouds
in my dreams at night.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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