0031 Autumn's wild, rough days
These wild, rough autumn days
as cooling Northern hemisphere
shudders towards its equinox
with gales and rain and blown-off leaves,
all the elements stirred up, and
bringing strange emotions;
everything is between;
but for children living by the sea,
days of joy and awe –
the sea, no longer blue
but savage brown-red, even emerald green,
which all the year
has bashed and nibbled at the cliffs
like kitchen-boy at pantried half-cut cake,
throws all its might as if it hated the whole idea of earth;
knowing that in one night,
it may do mighty things once in a while
that change the maps themselves – blocking estuaries
that have served ports for a thousand years,
with shingle banks; throwing new beaches
across bays, with stones so exquisitely graded
from rock to pebble, that it’s said,
night fishermen thrown onto such a beach without the moon
know exactly where they are by size of stone…
but for the child, a magic time:
the air’s a gift for lungs, like breathed champagne;
the sea after the gale is calming down;
but the beach is new: new toys thrown up,
seaweed of many shapes, still wild when wet,
along a new high tide line; stuff off ships, carved wood,
deck-mats, green globes that buoyed up nets,
boxes with some foreign words
to remind us that this same neighbour sea
has other foreign shores across the world..
and every stone and pebble, which yesterday
had muted, dusty-coloured, matt-textured anonymity,
now, wet with salty water, are translucent, shining jewels each one,
glass, white marble (and how far has that pebble come,
hassled and scoured across the ocean’s floor..) ,
rough granite of so many shades, hard serpentine,
purple, green, some striped; slate-blues, brick-reds, all
fit for a palace; gathered in an eager hand
which sees nothing in the world but gifts and miracles;
this lovely, wild, wild-hearted shore.
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Beach after storm
The largest stones are piled against the sea-wall
since that huge storm, a hundred years ago.
For the sea will never leave the beach alone –
might you think it would fling
the smallest stones the furthest?
No – to re-assert its power,
it challenges the heftiest resistance,
with inexhaustible, ruthless determination
rolling, thrusting, flinging in impatient storm
the largest, furthest; then grading with such patient delicacy
over the years, the smooth but fine-scratched stones
of so many colours – how can it have found,
how long for it to find, so many lucent colours of wet stone?
These sometime finds – searching with a child’s fine eye –
of purest pebbled marble - how many thousand miles
has the sea rolled these from southern shores?
And these smooth stones of reddest brick,
or rubbed, etched glass? Or ancient serpentine,
bright green?
Then after a night of wildest storm,
the air intoxicating with its ozone,
new treasures thrown up on the beach:
green glass globes from fishing nets,
cork mats, boat wood, torn seaweed
in thick chunks like beached, exhausted octopods;
the beach re-shaped; even some parabolas of sand
while the seethe… keesh… of the dying storm
draws incessantly, then spews the finest shingle
in its maw like a hungry concrete-mixer.
The beach spreads out its shining, wet
new treasure for the child-bright eye.
This afternoon, the rock pools will be full;
all will be new; sea-god a child again.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Jewels of the beach
Plash…keesh… plash…keesh
the waves throw themselves
onto the pebbly beach,
but as if they regret their own angry generosity,
pull back a sieved undertow of finer pebbles
mixed with rogh toe-grating sand;
their generosity the swathe of larger pebbles
which gleam like jewels, before the salt-water
dries them into centuries of scratched, scoured surface,
dull as familiarity.
That swathe of jewels – magic to a child;
but now I’m older, yields a mental miracle
of nature ceaselessly at work:
green bottle-glass pebble – rounded to a smooth, safe shape
for the child to spot and pick up –
that’s easy to trace: from fishermen’s magic globes, the net-floats,
or bottles thrown carelessly overboard
on some romantic cruise..
white chalk – that’s easy too: final shape
whose roundness may resist at last the restless sea
chewing away at Dover’s so emotive cliffs;
just the right size for a tiny fist
to write on concrete; it could write but scratch
that slate or blackboard with its ABC.
a gorgeous mottled red: as if from pillar
of some exotic Eastern temple; a closer look
suggests some mighty compression of the earth
that’s left a substance just about halfway
between soft Devon clay and harder granite;
and here a softer red; shaped from some brick
the sea has stolen from some poor defence;
but that will write too, stir a first artistic effort
setting off the white; but leave a trace of itself
on that small, tight fist;
now the shades of green – the hardest stone,
serpentine, which glows when wet or waxed:
how long did this stone take
to shape – and then to roll on ocean floor
from distant shore and ancient mountain range?
a whole range of semi-transparent yellow-browns,
agate and suchlike, best when wet; their structure
easily breaks down, too small for fun;
but here’s a slatey grey, veined with white, as if
some modern sculptor had seen its possible potential,
smoothed it with a loving hand; nature,
says the aesthete, meeting art..
the occasional alabaster sparkler just survives;
so dull now, that you’ll need to smash it first;
but here’s the pride of all this sea-tossed mile of treasure trove:
a ravishing, smooth, moon-white marble, maiden aristocrat;
how long, how far, to roll and sieve this
like some ageless prospector sieving for gold or diamond?
what Greek palace tipped by an earthquake
into a blue Aegean sea? Into the crummy pocket of the shorts
that one goes, to line up with its kinsfolk
on the window-sill..
a sea-shore (you can hear it in the word itself..) ,
a beach, a child with blowing hair and eager eyes;
these two spell happiness; live nature’s most compatible.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Beach Pebble
Everyone has
at one time or other,
picked up a pebble on the beach,
turned it over in their hands,
sensed something of its uniqueness,
how millions of years have gone to the splitting
and the smoothing of the rock,
to the perfect shaping of the pebble.
Few of us stop and think for longer.
It is a momentary glimpse into an eternal process,
but we dropp the pebble and carry on walking along the beach.
poem by Howlin' Dervish
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Pebble Justice
he picks up a pebble
and throws it into the sea
from a cliff
he asks: this is not a place
for pebbles
so this is not a pebble
i will return it to the sea
and be with the sands
and shells and
waves and winds
and seaweeds
and crabs
does he not wonder at all
if he has the power to decide where a pebble must be?
sometimes people assume so much
behaving like a god
must he think a little deeper and realize
that what is proper for the people is not proper for a pebble
that pebbles too have minds of their own
and who know if the same pebble to thinks
that the cliff is not the place of man
assuming to be its own god?
must he be considerate enough that pebbles too have
their own invisible feet
and well developed brains
and that when the man throws it into the sea
on the ground only of
impropriety
that the pebble may have objected it vehemently and could have
used its own hidden powers
but only that it did not show it
by reason of pity that this man
is so dumb
and so limited
in the flesh of its
own selfish
understanding?
does he not know that a pebble too demands respect
have privacy
and soon shall take its
inevitable revenge?
'bury mankind! they have thrown us away
without our consent' that is their clamor now
in their own
Pebble Court using their Pebble law
to be judged later
by their Pebble Magistrates.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Voice On The Wind
I
She walks with the wind on the windy height
When the rocks are loud and the waves are white,
And all night long she calls through the night,
'O my children, come home!'
Her bleak gown, torn as a tattered cloud,
Tosses around her like a shroud,
While over the deep her voice rings loud,-
'O my children, come home, come home!
O my children, come home!'
II
Who is she who wanders alone,
When the wind drives sheer and the rain is blown?
Who walks all night and makes her moan,
'O my children, come home!'
Whose face is raised to the blinding gale;
Whose hair blows black and whose eyes are pale,
While over the world goes by her wail,-
'O my children, come home, come home!
O my children, come home!'
III
She walks with the wind in the windy wood;
The dark rain drips from her hair and hood,
And her cry sobs by, like a ghost pursued,
'O my children, come home!'
Where the trees loom gaunt and the rocks stretch drear,
The owl and the fox crouch back with fear,
As wild through the wood her voice they hear,-
'O my children, come home, come home!
O my children, come home!'
IV
Who is she who shudders by
When the boughs blow bare and the dead leaves fly?
Who walks all night with her wailing cry,
'O my children, come home!'
Who, strange of look, and wild of tongue,
With wan feet wounded and hands wild-wrung,
Sweeps on and on with her cry, far-flung,-
'O my children, come home, come home!
O my children, come home!'
V
'Tis the Spirit of Autumn, no man sees,
The mother of Death and of Mysteries,
Who cries on the wind all night to these,
'O my children, come home!'
The Spirit of Autumn, pierced with pain,
Calling her children home again,
Death and Dreams, through ruin and rain,-
'O my children, come home, come home!
O my children, come home!'
poem by Madison Julius Cawein
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Hard Rock Kid
(tom lang/additional lyrics by myles goodwyn & mike stone)
Published by goody two tunes, inc./additional publishers - bmi
The boy inside the man, looks hard into the night
The neighborhood cant get to sleep
The stereo is playing something hard and fast
The boy is tough, he plays for keeps
No ones gonna tell him hes too wild
Everybody knows hes a problem child
Hes a hard rock, hes a hard rock, hes a hard rock kid (kid)
Its a hard time, its a fine line, for a hard rock kid
Hes a hard rock, hes a hard rock, hes a hard rock kid (kid)
Leave him alone, hes in a hard rock zone
In the shadows, theres a heart thats beating strong
And through the night, he feels the heat
Hes like a stranger as he dances on the stage
Hes made a promise that he cant keep
But no ones gonna tell the boy hes wild
Everybody knows hes a hungry child
Hes a hard rock, hes a hard rock, hes a hard rock kid (kid)
Its a fine line, its a hard time, for a hard rock kid
Hes a hard rock, hes a hard rock, hes a hard rock kid (kid)
Leave him alone, hes in a hard rock zone
She watches as he turns, pretending not to care
And yet she knows the way he feels
The need for love so strong, together they can win
For now the musics all thats real
But no ones gonna tell the boy hes wild
Everybody knows hes a problem child
Hes a hard rock, hes a hard rock, hes a hard rock kid (kid)
Its a hard time, its a fine line, for a hard rock kid
Hes a hard rock, hes a hard rock, hes a hard rock kid (kid)
Leave him alone, hes in a hard rock zone
Hes a hard rock, hes a hard rock, hes a hard rock kid (kid)
Its a hard time, its a fine line, for a hard rock kid
Hes a hard rock, hes a hard rock, hes a hard rock kid (kid)
Leave him alone, hes in a hard rock zone
song performed by by April Wine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In Excelsis
It is half winter, half spring,
and Barbara and I are standing
confronting the ocean.
Its mouth is open very wide,
and it has dug up its green,
throwing it, throwing it at the shore.
You say it is angry.
I say it is like a kicked Madonna.
Its womb collapses, drunk with its fever.
We breathe in its fury.
I, the inlander,
am here with you for just a small space.
I am almost afraid,
so long gone from the sea.
I have seen her smooth as a cheek.
I have seen her easy,
doing her business,
lapping in.
I have seen her rolling her hoops of blue.
I have seen her tear the land off.
I have seen her drown me twice,
and yet not take me.
You tell me that as the green drains backward
it covers Britain,
but have you never stood on that shore
and seen it cover you?
We have come to worship,
the tongues of the surf are prayers,
and we vow,
the unspeakable vow.
Both silently.
Both differently.
I wish to enter her like a dream,
leaving my roots here on the beach
like a pan of knives.
And my past to unravel, with its knots and snarls,
and walk into ocean,
letting it explode over me
and outward, where I would drink the moon
and my clothes would slip away,
and I would sink into the great mother arms
I never had,
except here where the abyss
throws itself on the sand
blow by blow,
over and over,
and we stand on the shore
loving its pulse
as it swallows the stars,
and has since it all began
and will continue into oblivion,
past our knowing
and the wild toppling green that enters us today,
for a small time
in half winter, half spring.
poem by Anne Sexton
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The Wild Hills
Fly me across the wild hills in autumn,
With soft amber shades, brown, russet and brick,
Peach, copper and bronze all blending together,
A carpet of sadness, in this sight so tragic.
Fly me across the wild hills in winter,
With amethyst shades, puce, purple and grey,
Blue, ebony and pewter, all fusing together,
A carpet of starkness, in this scene of decay.
Fly me across the wild hills in springtime,
With pale emerald shades, sage, olive and lime,
White, yellow and silver, all mingling together,
A carpet of lushness, in this new view sublime.
Fly me across the wild hills in summer,
With magenta bright shades, pink, dark mauve and red,
Lemon, orange and gold all in harmony together,
A carpet of richness, in this panorama spread.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Colour Studies {At Dieppe}
The grey-green stretch of sandy grass,
Indefinitely desolate;
A sea of lead, a sky of slate;
Already autumn in the air, alas!
One stark monotony of stone,
The long hotel, acutely white,
Against the after-sunset light
Withers grey-green, and takes the grass's tone.
Listless and endless it outlies,
And means, to you and me, no more
Than any pebble on the shore,
Or this indifferent moment as it dies.
poem by Arthur Symons
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At Dieppe
The grey-green stretch of sandy grass,
Indefinitely desolate;
A sea of lead, a sky of slate;
Already autumn in the air, alas!
One stark monotony of stone,
The long hotel, acutely white,
Against the after-sunset light
Withers grey-green, and takes the grass's tone.
Listless and endless it outlies,
And means, to you and me, no more
Than any pebble on the shore,
Or this indifferent moment as it dies.
poem by Arthur Symons
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On This Beach...
Life is a beach.
There are jellyfish. And sea urchins…the painful bumps along the road that we all encounter in life. On this beach.
In life..and on a beach there is warm water-like times, when we are happy, and have good times and enjoy living. On this beach.
We also have times, like a beach, when we have cold water times; when we are sad, or upset about losing someone or something. On this beach.
There are rough times, the same way the sea has rough water that pounds angrily against the shore. On this beach.
Life, like the sea, has high and low times, or tides. There is low tide when you think u can no longer go on, that life has done too much damage to you. Then the tide comes back in…and you are reminded that life goes on. Life gets better. You cannot give up on life, like you can’t give up on a beach because of a rough day or low tides. On this beach.
Life has sharks. Maybe not the same sharks from a beach, but they are there. They are the people that thrive on your pain and tears and hardship, the same way a shark sustains itself through brutal killing of unaware seals who don’t know what is coming or how bad it is. The sharks are there. Waiting. For someone…for you…like an unsuspecting seal, to come along and unknowingly become trapped in their lies and hurt. On this beach.
Life…has good times. Wonderful times where the only thoughts you have are about how much life is worth living and how much you love life. It is like the clear, cool blue water on a beautiful day at the beach. On this beach.
Life has those amazing people….akin to the beachgoers on a sandy shore…just along for the ride…to enjoy the good…and pack up and leave when it rains or something goes wrong. But there are the surfers..the daredevils…going back into the fear and love of the sea….of life. They risk the sharks, and jellyfish, and rough water and low and high tides, not because they are invincible, but because they know about the good that is to be had in this world. On this beach.
Life is so comparable to a beach…most importantly in that it has sand like a beach. Billions upon billions of unique grains of sand, like the 7 billion different people in this world, on this beach.
poem by Dark Fallout
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The Wild Geese
Wild geese fly overhead
In the wild Autumn weather.
Souls of the newly-dead
Crying and flying together.
Home from the last great fight,
The souls of the Irish farin'
With a wild heart in the night,
A grey eye turned to Erin.
High and high in the sky,
From the red fields of slaughter
Ever they fly and cry
For the brown bog, the grey water.
Wild geese in the wild even,
Steady and strong their flight,
Their beds are made in Heaven,
All of the down white.
They have forgone that bliss
Till they have seen once more
The little land of peace,
Green and bright as of yore.
High o'er the sheep and cattle,
The bogs and the mountains lone,
The souls new-home from the battle
Cry their love and are flown.
poem by Katharine Tynan
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The Coast Of Barbary
My lad is on the water and far away from me,
And I pray God be good to him wherever he may be,
Up the sea and down the sea,
And along the coast of Barbary.
Oh, night and day ships come in, the ships both great and small,
But never one among them brings a word of him at all,
From Port o' Spain and Trinidad, from Rio or Funchal,
And along the coast of Barbary.
If I must think he comes no more across yon seas forlorn,
If I must think there is no tide may bring him night or morn,
I'd curse the light that I look on, and the day that I was born,
And the cruel coast of Barbary.
But well I know that soon or late he'll come back blithe and brown,
When the fire's a good thing to see, and the dark drawing down,
From many a wild and stormy sea, and many a foreign town,
And along the coast of Barbary.
With a green silk handkerchief and a parrot red and green,
And shells and bits o' things to show from the places where he's been,
Up the sea and down the sea,
And along the coast of Barbary.
poem by Cicely Fox Smith
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Wild Eyed Southern Boys
Its a hot night at the juke joint
And the bands pumpin rhythm and blues
Gonna spill a little rock and roll blood tonight
Gonna make some front page news
And the ladies hate the violence
Still they never seem to look away
Cause they love those
Wild eyed southern boys
Wild eyed boys
Wild eyed southern boys
Its a southern point of honor
You got a get right in on the action
You can hear the outlaws holler
Fight for the lady in black
And she's just one in a million
But she's all I need tonight
Cause she loves those
Wild eyed southern boys
Wild eyed boys
Wild eyed southern boys
Wild eyed boys
Oohhh yeah
Wild eyed boys
A man of wealth and power
Is out on the dance hall floor
He got a champagne Eldorado parked outside the door
And he's looking for a honky tonk angel
But he don't stand a chance in hell
Cause he ain't no wild eyed southern boy
Wild eyed boy
Wild eyed southern boy
Wild eyed
Wild eyed southern boy
Wild eyed southern boys
Wild eyed boy
Wild eyed southern boy
Wild eyed boy
Wild eyed boy
Wild eyed southern boys
Wild eyed boys
song performed by by 38 Special
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Wild fire in your eyes
The wild flame of your lovely green eyes
has still not been extinguished, my love,
has still not been extinguished!
In nights without stars, they glisten as two Venuses
in the immensity of the night, lighting my destiny.
Although, with the implacable passing of time,
the brightness of the fire of your lovely green eyes
became tinged with sadness, and the wild thing became fondness,
they still smile with sweetness every time they meet with mine.
My love, the wild fire of your pretty green eyes
still warms my heartbroken being in cold mornings,
when the morning nostalgia rides hopelessly,
looking for restless souls like mine.
My love, the wild fire of your beautiful green eyes,
a long time ago they found, by chance,
the hidden fire of my sad, sad eyes,
and they melted it in love fire for an eternity.
The wild fire of your lovely green eyes
has still not been extinguished, my love,
has still not been extinguished!
poem by Enrique Alberto Hurtado Minotta
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What The Stone Said
This stone: scraps of wet earth
still clinging to it;
rounded, greyish; large enough
to fit into my palm as if,
cradled there, it’s enough part of me
to tell me that it’s more than
inert matter without consciousness..
its pleasing roundness – warming
in my hand – tells me a little
of its history:
once it was one of many, jostled
over years or centuries in
a river or an ocean bed;
to be thrown up, again and again,
from the maw of breaking, angry wave
onto a beach; then at some high tide,
pulled back again;
it’s covered with its history:
a mass of scratches where a fiercer sand
from the hierarchy of stone’s hardnesses,
scratched it; to be soothed and smoothed
by its fellow sufferers on the watered bed.
Warm in my cradling palm, it shares
or so it seems, my own consciousness:
the same consciousness as all Creation’s wonders,
but here in supreme, uncomplaining,
inexpressive, yielding pure obedience:
a sermon in a stone; awaiting future call
to be raised up a man..
no wonder - as all children know –
‘beach’ (and can’t you hear there,
tread of feet on hard, resistant, partially
yielding stones?)
and ‘shore’ (and can’t you hear there
the waves smoothe the sand,
then draw back to crash again
like a drawn breath of astonishment?
- as children know: beach and shore
full of their shared consciousness;
God’s playground which he shares with them.
That was what the stone said.
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Leaves That Are Green
I was twenty-one years when I wrote this song
I'm twenty-two now but I won't be for long
Time hurries on
And the leaves that are green turn to brown
And they wither in the wind
And they crumble in your hand
Once my heart was filled with the love of a girl
I held her close but she faded in the night
Like a poem I meant to write
And the leaves that are green turn to brown
And they wither in the wind
And they crumble in your hand
I threw a pebble in a brook
And watched the ripple run away
And they never made a sound
And the leaves that are green turn to brown
And they wither in the wind
And they crumble in your hand
Hello, hello, hello, hello
Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye
That's all there is
And the leaves that are green turn to brown
And they wither in the wind
And they crumble in your hand
song performed by by Simon & Garfunkel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Wild Wild Life
Im wearin
Fur pyjamas
I ride a
Hot potata
Its tickling my fancy
Speak up, I cant hear you
Here on this mountaintop
Woahoho
I got some wild, wild life
I got some news to tell ya
Woahoho
About some wild, wild life
Here comes the doctor in charge
Woahoho
Shes got some wild, wild life
Aint that the way you like it?
Ho, ha!
Living wild, wild life.
I wrestle, with your conscience
You wrestle, with your partner
Sittin on a window sill, but he
Spends time behind closed doors
Check out mr. businessman
Oh, ho ho
He bought some wild, wild life
On the way to the stock exchange
Oh, ho ho
He got some wild, wild life
Break it up when he opens the door
Whoahoho
Hes doin wild, wild life
I know thats the way you like it
Wo ho
Living wild, wild life
Peace of mind?
Piece of cake!
Thought control!
You get on board anytime you like
Like sittin on pins and needles
Things fall apart, its scientific
Sleeping on the interstate
Woah ho ah
Getting wild, wild life
Checkin in, a checkin out!
Uh, huh!
I got a wild, wild life
Spending all of my money and time
Oh, ho ho
Done too much wild, wild
We wanna go, where we go, where we go
Oh, ho ho!
I doing wild, wild
I know it, thats how we start
Uh, huh
Got some wild, wild life
Take a picture, here in the daylight
Oh, ho!
And its a wild, wild life
Youve grown so tall, youve grown so fast
Oh, ho ho
Wild, wild
I know thats the way you like it
Oh, ho!
Living wild wild wild wild, life.
song performed by by Talking Heads
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Leaves That Are Green
LEAVES THAT ARE GREEN
(CCDD) CGC/CFG7C/FG7/CGCGC/CGAm/AmFG
I was 21 years when I wrote this song
I'm 22 now, but I won't be for long
Time hurries on
And the leaves that are green turn to brown
And they wither with the wind
And they crumble in your hand
Once my heart was filled with the love of a girl
I held her close, but she faded in the night
Like a poem I meant to write
CHORUS
I through a pebble in a brook
And watched the ripples run away
And they never made a sound
CHORUS
Hello hello hello hello
Goodbye goodbye goodbye goodbye
That's all there is
And the leaves that are green turn to brown
-----------------------------------------------------------------
By Paul Simon and Art Garfunkle
filename[ LEAVGREN
DC
===DOCUMENT BOUNDARY===
song performed by by Paul Simon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hurricane Watch
Green. Green the leaves,
and waves gray on the forehead of the beach.
As easy as breeze tensing lengths of hair
waves lift, then snap back like springs.
Trees bend and kneel, fling out brown arms
to catch their running children.
Green. Green the leaves, and wind
pours on the forehead of the beach.
See how sand wrinkles in the lee,
and anchors part like lovers
from invisible chains. Ships break
then run their length to freedom.
Green. Green the weeds,
and sea foams on the forehead of the beach.
Women’s names swim to greet the waves.
And sea sings, “Eve. Eve. Eve.” Mermaid
who set her cap for them, she beckons each
figurehead to her pale and smiling reach.
Green. Green the waves,
and spray glistening on the forehead of the beach.
Her arms catch and embrace hulls like shoulders.
Bold as dolphins they leap to her lips before she
slaps away the face of any sailor so foolish.
Gray. Gray the waves, and flotsam
in pieces grinding on the wet stones of the beach.
poem by Val Morehouse
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