0205 Front porch days
London, six o'clock in June, two-o-o-five:
These streets were built in nineteen-five or thereabouts
in unimaginative grid, on London clay and previous watercress beds
by builders and those, quote, 'developers',
whose sudden stroke of luck was that the Tube line was diverted
and foreshortened, now to pass this way all overground;
it took a century, and climate change, to prove
that cracked-out summer clay and winter watercourse,
and building onto earth, are not the best foundation...
but these terraces of modest houses
(alternate houses gabled, bayed, to suggest they're twice the size)
have stood the test of time, when, often, underpinned;
intended for the aspirational working-class,
they've now become, these last few years,
'first homes' for the equally aspirational middle-class;
tonight the streets are nose-to-tail with silent, gleaming
four-wheelers looking down their grilles
at nifty runabouts - some, I regret to say,
parked where suburban front-gardens once declared respectability
in token concrete-and-flower three metres square of space
as subtly expressive in miniature
as any grandly-vista-ed and avenued ducal drive.
All is very quiet at this hour; doors firmly closed;
front gardens are for show just like front parlours were.
Across the road, for all I know,
(for this is London; one does not often chum across the street)
our neighbours may live sunburned Southern lives
in long back gardens which face West (ours, East and overshadowed) :
while on this side, just one front door is out of line:
like some beached whale (or dolphin sounds more cute)
providing a double-take but just too late for passing pedestrians,
I sit at open door with paperback, in jasmine heaven,
which may last - three weeks? but which in this first year of flower,
is both a song of praise and Southern holiday;
it's lost its first exhilaration, but acquired
a subtle maturity so that, one lungful gloried in,
one's ready straightway for yet more perfection;
a week or so, and its poignant sharp-sour scent
will bring back memories of summer's ripe Venetian back-canals.
This new-found gazebo, to you in Southern climes
will be just commonplace - as afternoon front porch,
or sociable evening verandah or leisured stoep,
where West Indians, for instance, wait to pass the time of day
with passing neighbours; for me, exotic new delight;
so that I'm quietly proud when the Trinidadians from two doors away
take my presence, sitting there, as invitation to pause there at my gate
and pass the time of day.
On one side of the door, vermilion geraniums
survived a mildish winter; their colour in this evening sun
incredible: blazing colour from one petal, sun-glowed in another;
can vermilion really be, as reason and art-teachers say,
a mixture of yellow in with red? Not here, today...and so, itself,
that you can feel it hit the retina and demand
more than the physics of the eye can stand....
and then, the other side, the pink geranium
sings quite a different song - one hears, but cannot say
just where the difference lies in colour's music scale.
Metaphysics, for three thousand years or more
in East and West, has held in high debate
whether what, like this, the senses' scene, provides
may be direct connection with what's called divine;
or whether this must be transcended in some mindful way.
The answer, here, today, for me is in
one glimpse of sunlight through geranium.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Related quotes
Back To Front
Just come back where I came from,
Looks the same as somethings wrong.
And all my friends that used to be,
Have gone and turned their backs on me.
Everyones got different views,
Now Im all shook up and all confused.
East is west, left is right,
Up is down, and black is white,
Inside-out, wrong is right,
Its back to front and Im all uptight.
Ive just come back from fantasy,
Right back to reality.
Stayed away too long but now Ive found,
My world is turning upside-down.
I dont fit in but I dont stand out,
I should stay cool but want to shout.
East is west, left is right,
Up is down, and black is white,
Inside-out, wrong is right,
Its back to front and Im all uptight.
No one knows where I come from,
Who are you and what do you want?
Youve thrown away all that we had,
Its down the drain, its all gone mad.
The word is out, Ive seen the sign,
So you go your way, I go mine.
East is west, left is right,
Up is down, and black is white,
Inside-out, wrong is right,
Its back to front and Im all uptight.
East is west, left is right,
Up is down, and black is white,
Inside-out, wrong is right,
Its back to front and Im all uptight (alright).
Its back to front and Im all uptight (alright, alright, alright, alright).
Are you listening?
(no!)
Well then, Ill have to do it all over again!
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Journey of Life
I rose from the east, travelling west
With bright eyes, looked at the earth,
With my warmth to many, I gave birth,
I know in the west I have to rest,
To my back are the loud laughing faces,
Living merrily with love ones enjoying lives,
Going in evening with gifts in hands to hives,
In front are those who have run, won the races,
How many of the flowers will store my name,
A sun that once on them dim but shone,
Some will come and read my name on the Stone,
With my flesh will perish my name and fame,
But I have people in front of me, waiting,
No reason to scold west no reason for hating.
poem by Jahan zaib
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The Three Kings [1]
The East is dead and the West is done, and again our course lies thus
South-east by Fate and the Rising Sun where the Three Kings wait for us.
When our hearts are young and the world is wide, and the heights seem grand to climb—
We are off and away to the Sydney-side; but the Three Kings bide their time.
‘I’ve been to the West,’ the digger said: he was bearded, bronzed and old;
Ah, the smothering curse of the East is wool, and the curse of the West is gold.
I went to the West in the golden boom, with Hope and a life-long mate,
‘They sleep in the sand by the Boulder Soak, and long may the Three Kings wait.’
‘I’ve had my fling on the Sydney-side,’ said a blacksheep to the sea,
Let the young fool learn when he can’t be taught: I’ve learnt what’s good for me.’
And he gazed ahead on the sea-line dim—grown dim in his softened eyes—
With a pain in his heart that was good for him—as he saw the Three Kings rise.
A pale girl sits on the foc’sle head—she is back, Three Kings! so soon;
But it seems to her like a life-time dead since she fled with him ‘saloon.’
There is refuge still in the old folks’ arms for the child that loved too well;
They will hide her shame on the Southern farm—and the Three Kings will not tell.
’Twas a restless heart on the tide of life, and a false star in the skies
That led me on to the deadly strife where the Southern London lies;
But I dream in peace of a home for me, by a glorious southern sound,
As the sunset fades from a moonlit sea, and the Three Kings show us round.
Our hearts are young and the old hearts old, and life, on the farms is slow,
And away in the world there is fame and gold—and the Three Kings watch us go.
Our heads seem wise and the world seems wide, and its heights are ours to climb,
So it’s off and away in our youthful pride—but the Three Kings bide our time.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Front Line
I am a veteran of the war
I up and joined the army back in 1964
At sixteen I just had to be a man at any cost
I volunteered for Vietnam where I got my leg shot off
I recall a quote from a movie that said "who's more a man
Than a man with a reason that's worth dyin' for"
They had me standing on the front line
They had me standing on the front line
They had me standing on the front line
But now I stand at the back of the line when it comes to gettin' ahead
They gave me a uniform and a tiny salty pill
To stop the big urge I might have for the wrong kind of thrill
They put a gun in my hand and said, "shoot until he's dead"
But it's hard to kill when 'please your friend' echoes through your head
Brought up in church taught no man should take another's life
But then put in a jungle where life has no price
They had me standing on the front line
They had me standing on the front line
They had me standing on the front line
But now I stand at the back of the line when it comes to gettin' ahead
Back in the world the paper reads today
Another war is in the brewing
But what about the lives of yesterday
And the many happy families that have been ruined
My niece is a hooker and my nephew's a junkie too
But they say I have no right to tell them how they should do
They laugh and say "quit bragging" 'bout the war you should never have been in
But my mind is so brain-washed I'd prob'bly go back and do it again
I walk the neighborhood parading my purple heart
With a fear of agent orange that no one will stop
They had me standing on the front line
They had me standing on the front line
They had me standing on the front line
But now I stand at the back of the line when it comes to gettin' ahead
[Repeat 2 times...fade out]
song performed by by Stevie Wonder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Ancestral Dwelling
Dear to my heart are the ancestral dwellings of America,
Dearer than if they were haunted by ghosts of royal splendour;
These are the homes that were built by the brave beginners of a nation,
They are simple enough to be great, and full of a friendly dignity.
I love the old white farmhouses nestled in New England valleys,
Ample and long and low, with elm-trees feathering over them:
Borders of box in the yard, and lilacs, and old-fashioned Howers,
A fan-light above the door, and little square panes in the windows,
The wood-shed piled with maple and birch and hickory ready for winter,
The gambrel-roof with its garret crowded with household relics, --
All the tokens of prudent thrift and the spirit of self-reliance.
I love the look of the shingled houses that front the ocean;
Their backs are bowed, and their lichened sides are weather-beaten;
Soft in their colour as grey pearls, they are full of patience and courage.
They seem to grow out of the rocks, there is something indomitable about them:
Facing the briny wind in a lonely land they stand undaunted,
While the thin blue line of smoke from the square-built chimney rises,
Telling of shelter for man, with room for a hearth and a cradle.
I love the stately southern mansions with their tall white columns,
They look through avenues of trees, over fields where the cotton is growing;
I can see the flutter of white frocks along their shady porches,
Music and laughter float from the windows, the yards are full of hounds and horses.
They have all ridden away, yet the houses have not forgotten,
They are proud of their name and place, and their doors are always open,
For the thing they remember best is the pride of their ancient hospitality.
In the towns I love the discreet and tranquil Quaker dwellings,
With their demure brick faces and immaculate white-stone doorsteps;
And the gabled houses of the Dutch, with their high stoops and iron railings,
(I can see their little brass knobs shining in the morning sunlight);
And the solid houses of the descendants of the Puritans,
Fronting the street with their narrow doors and dormer-windows;
And the triple-galleried, many-pillared mansions of Charleston,
Standing sideways in their gardens full of roses and magnolias.
Yes, they are all dear to my heart, and in my eyes they are beautiful;
For under their roofs were nourished the thoughts that have made the nation;
The glory and strength of America came from her ancestral dwellings.
poem by Henry Van Dyke
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The Sebokarang Villages
Every evening
I always go to the Sebokarang villages
bike to break through the twilight
In the Bamboo threes
and the field of sugar plantantion
its flower blossom, yellow and
to bend in the street
to be fenced in kembang sepatu
and than turn to her hause
the wall of her house made from teakwood
and around her house planted
The Ceplok Piring flowers
in front of the door of her houses
I knocked its with my thremble fingers,
With my thremble heart
Where my blood flow fastly
The evening wind
Blowing softly
And start to be darkness
Its covering the leaf
Eat the tree near the street
Where the people pass and through
So cat run to catch the mouse
the mouse jump
To the path of the villages
I fell loneness
in front of the door
waiting for you
open the door
when the door opened
the light of petromax lamp is lighting
to my eyes wonder
of your smile
from the red lips
open, just open the door
the door of your heart
again and again
till I could stay
in the wide room of your heart
forever
poem by Prasetya Utama
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Being today
Today is that day
not on the calendar,
as National Olfactory Day,
but far more exciting than that:
the day when scent, fragrance, smell,
awoke on the warm sunlit air from a winter's sleep
and out of nowhere easily spoken of
produced a whole new world.
The first shock was the hedge two doors down
which yesterday was a green hedge with white bits
but today a burst of fragrance, a Hallelujah Chorus
transcribed to be played with or on or in the nose.
The restaurant two blocks up
unleashed from its kitchen
garlic that burst out like a bunch of singing nudists into the street
cavorting shamelessly and shouting to the world
every Mediterranean memory
of romantic meals and much else
that one thought private.
Then subtle smells that made one into a cat or dog
pursuing trails not on the street map
and making beaten tracks into voyages of discovery:
the baker's became a European trip of fresh morning bread
with another hundred freeze-dried memories unloosed;
And all down the street,
other people's lunches opened their front doors
and said 'Come and join us! We're having roast beef today
with all the trimmings, and we've enough smell
to feed the five thousand! '
and a hundred gardens one thought dormant
leaned on the front gate
and exchanged the time of year with a childlike innocence
that couldn't be told to come inside this minute or else,
and presented nosegays to strangers
without asking for a contribution to a cause.
A day for bringing past happinesses out from the store cupboard
and giving them a shake and leaving them on the line
until the sunlight moves off
and the air leaves them cooler and even fresher;
and wondering whom one will be tomorrow,
if one can feel like this today.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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High School sweethearts
started out as high school swwethearts
i sit in front of class
he sits in the back
i pass him his worksheet
he says come sit back here with me
i think to myself
he seems new here
so i sit back there to help
turn out he didnt need it
then i look in to his eyes
what a surprise
he seems so cute
the teacher tell us to hush
so i pass him a note
he reads do you like me yes no maybe
he writes back yes lol you crazy
then the bell rings for lunch
so he set to himself
i came and set with
he ask whats my name
i say bri
he says sweet
my name james
so we go back to class
doin our classwork
this is our sophomore year
we hook up
2 years go by
he went to
a different school
this is now our senior year
class of 2010
heart school sweethearts
never part
even when he change school
so what does that tell you
nothing is impossible
poem by Briangela Jones
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Dark Streets Of London
I like to walk in the summer breeze
Down dalling road by the dead old trees
And drink with my friends
In the hammersmith broadway
Dear dirty delightful old drunken old days
Then the winter came down and I loved it so dearly
The pubs and the bookies where youd spend all your time
And the old men that were singing
When the roses bloom again
And turn like the leaves
To a new summertime
Now the winter comes down
I cant stand the chill
That comes to the streets around christmas time
And Im buggered to damnation
And I havent got a penny
To wander the dark streets of london
Every time that I look on the first day of summer
Takes me back to the place where they gave ect
And the drugged up psychos
With death in their eyes
And how all of this really
Means nothing to me
Now the winter comes down
I cant stand the chill
That comes to the streets around christmas time
And Im buggered to damnation
And I havent got a penny
To wander the dark streets of london
Every time that I look on the first day of summer
Takes me back to the place where they gave ect
And the drugged up psychos
With death in their eyes
And how all of this really
Means nothing to me
Now the winter comes down
I cant stand the chill
That comes to the streets around christmas time
And Im buggered to damnation
And I havent got a penny
To wander the dark streets of london
To wander the dark streets of london
To wander the dark streets of london
song performed by by Pogues
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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London Town
I do believe
I must believe
I think I can begin again
Become again the man I was back when
So Im walking on your streets again
Feeling now as I did then
Ive since become a different man
London town, turn be around
London town, carry me back
O london town, lost and found
And I feel like going back
I can remember lots of time and space
If I lose the name, still I know the faces
Time as come and left its traces
London town, turn be around
London town, carry me back
O london town, lost and found
And I feel like going back
When I grew too old and dull to rock n roll
Like to hold on tight to you darling
And when my fires have all burned out
Id like to think I can still think about
The things I used to sing about
When I was spending all my time alone
By myself and on my own
Seldom seen and quite unknown
London town, turn be around
London town, carry me back
O london town, lost and found
And I feel like going back
song performed by by James Taylor
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Death
My death waits like an old roue
So confident, Ill go his way
Whistle to him
And the passing time...
My death waits like a Bible truth
At the funeral of my youth
We drank for that -
The passing time..
My death waits like
A witch at night
As surely as our love is right
Lets not think of that or the passing time
But whatever lies behind the door
There is nothing much to do...
Angel or devil, I dont care
For in front of that door...
There is you.
My death waits like a beggar blind
Who sees the world through an unlit mind
Throw him a dime
For the passing time...
My death waits to allow my friends
A few good times
Before it ends
Lets not think about
And the passing time..
My death waits there, between your thighs,
Your cool fingers will close my eyes,
Lets not think about the passing time.
For whatever lies behind the door
There is nothing much to do...
Angel or devil, I dont care
For in front of that door...
There is you.
My death waits there among the leaves
In magicians mysterious sleeves,
Rabbits and dogs, and the passing time...
My death waits there, among the flowers
Where the blackest shadows cowers
So lets pick lilacs
The passing time..
My death waits there, in a double bed
Sails of oblivion and my head
Lets not think about
The passing time.
But whatever lies behind the door
There is nothing much to do...
Angel or devil, I dont care
For, in front of that door...
There is you.
song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Other Side of the Street
All though my married days I've lived
on the West side of the street.
I have dealt with plows in winter
that buried me knee deep
The West sides' winter sun is scarce
too weak to melt the ice.
So you'll see me out there chipping away
(Miami would be nice)
They get their trash collected first,
while we must wait a day.
I think the mailman likes them too,
He always starts their way.
In Spring their lawns are greener
In summer they have shade.
My back porch boils each afternoon-
no wonder I'm dismayed.
Mayhap I would be famous for
these poems that I excrete
If only I'd had the wit to live on
the other side of the street.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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As I my steps
As I my steps
Along the grated streets
Of sweet Valletta I retraced
I passed from street to street
And I me thought that I could find
The dwelling where you lived.
For me those streets familiar quite
Became as dearer and dearer
As I from city street to street
My steps retraced their bearer
Aye! Aye! The streets became as dearer
And beautiful more than I had seen
For years and years before:
The pregnant windows frowning black
Unmoving ghosts in city pent
I wandered quite what did they hide
Behind their closed doors:
The small quaint front doors in the street
A few light inches the cobble stones above
With memories faint and dim
And with fast-fretting hither and thither
The hazy residents of those small abodes
Hid from my anxious questioning sight.
And as I passed along the street
A chimney high I saw smiling with glee
As it played child-like with white passing clouds
Above the warm sun shone on the old stones
That dreamt and dreamt and dreamt of years untold.
Aye! Aye! The city old
Above the harbor glideth
In my warm dreams:
The sailing clouds
Above the trees
In the small garden passing:
The green leaves
In their high towers
With each to each
In their wild love-making
To each and each are rustling:
The citizens in city streets
With hurried steps are passing.
And whither do they pass
And thither do they go?
The silent steps
In the small sullen street
I start descending
As if some thief to catch
That in some city nook
From me is hiding:
A lazy cat
Watches with half-open’d eye:
Little beyond
The stench of its urine
Drown’d by the sweet sense
Of roses pent in mortar cask
And hanging from the city wall.
Yes! Time is passing
In this sweet silent city of my dreams:
Let me allow it pass
Into the ocean sea-blue
That in midst of it
Like as in lover’s arms
My senses and myself will sink.
And I will not speak
And I will not sing
If not my lyre speaks
If not my lyre sings.
poem by Emmanuel George Cefai
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Principal's Office
Now as I get to school I hear the late bell ringing,
runnning through the halls, I hear the glee club singing,
and as I get to the office I can hardly speak,
cause it's the third late pass that I got this week,
so to my first class I run and don't walk,
all I hear is my sneakers and the scratching of chalk,
and as I get to the room I hear the teacher say,
Mr. Young I'm very happy you could join us today,
I try to sit down so I can take some notes,
but I can't read what the kind next to me wrote,
and if that wasn't enough to make my morning complete,
as I try to get up, I find this gum on my seat,
so with the seat stuck to me, I raised my hand,
and said, exscuse me but can I go to the bathroom, maam?
the teacher got upset, and she screamed out no,
it's off the principal's office you go,
Verse 2:
12 o'clock comes with mass hysteria,
everybody rushes down to the cafeteria,
picked up my tray to have Thursday's lunch,
and as I tried the apple sauce, I heard it crunch,
I'm running up the stairs with my front tooth broken,
the nurse just laughed, and said you must be joking,
I looked up at her with a smile on my face,
no joke 'cause my front tooth is out of place,
so I walked to school with ice on my lip,
the nurse's late pass like a gun on my hip,
my books are real heavey, I'm walking, I'm dragging,
ain't no school lunch next week, I'm brown-bagging it,
forget class, I'm a shoot some ball,
with the late pass I got no trouble at all,
but then the nurse walks up and says what do you know,
it's office to the prinicipal's office you go
recess
Verse 3:
passing notes is my favorite pass time,
I can't wait to find a girl to pass mine to,
to express my feelings,
give me a week B, and the girl' be dealing,
now one young lady was looking at me,
I said hi my name is Marvin, known as Young MC,
but then the ball rang, and the teacher came in,
and that's when the game of passin notes would begin,
I wrote the first note, told her she was fine,
and I hoped that the two of us could spend some time,
she wrote me back and told me you're fine too,
I'd love to go on a date and spend some time with you,
so then I sat there reeling, and looking at the ceiling,
words can't express the way that I was feeling,
then I though to myself, the sure way to get her,
is to write another note, oh yes, a love letter,
when I finished the note, it was ready to pass,
the teacher took it, and read it right in front of the class,
she read it word-by-word and line-by-line,
and everybody who was laughing was a friend of mine,
even then my girl was laughing, and it was too late,
for me to write another note 'cause there would be no date,
the teacher looked at me, and I said I know,
it's off to the principal's office I go,
yo, you think this is bad, wait til I get my report card
song performed by by Young MC
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Unopened Doors
Many doors of opportunity
remain shut through passing time.
You stand at them,
but they never open to let you pass through.
You try and try, but with no avail.
The door remains shut to you,
but you see other pass through it
and your frustration grows.
You bang and shout
and never anyone answers you.
The years slip silently by
from your youth until your old.
Each time you try the door
it refuses to let you through.
Even with more wisdom
it refuses to let you in,
but you don’t give up
you just try and try again.
More time passes
and you’ve lost the will
to want to go through.
You reach that point when you feel the battle lost.
Turning your back you walk away
to let the sun set on your life.
You feel you have nothing now,
no more will to fight.
Someone suggests a different direction,
a different door to go through.
You are hesitant
in case the door remains shut to you.
Finally, you try it
and are amazed to find
the door opens easily
and you can walk through,
but you keep remembering
the door that wouldn’t open for you.
25 March 2009
poem by David Harris
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Summer Is Here
I hear the sounds of children at play,
as the sun has turned
the black clouds of rain away.
Summer is here
and laughter fills the air,
flowers fill the gardens
with colour everywhere.
After a hard days work
you feel free,
some will sit the evening out
eyes glued to the TV.
Not for me the little box,
rather an evening stroll.
Then sit to rest
my weary bones somewhere,
letting the cool evening breeze
dance with my hair.
As I sit quietly
absorbing all around.
Watching the sun
sink slowly in the west.
Breathing in the cool evening air,
as night begins to call.
11 June 2007
poem by David Harris
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In the spirit of Rumi - 45 - The Lily
In the gardens of the world
as the world and seasons turn,
in a thousand thousand gardens,
in a million fields and valleys,
the lilies grow.
the lilies of the field – proud
yet modest in the grass, proud
that Jesus spoke of them;
lilies of the valley – proud
yet modest as their scent
sings and calls, amongst all
the heady scents of nature,
the scent so close
to the wild cyclamen
in the hillside grass;
the regal lily, sharing with the rose
the Caliph’s and the Sultan’s gardens,
listening all their lives as lilies do
to the plashing fountain in the fragrant courtyard;
laughing quietly as the kohl-eyed beauties
round the Caliph in the evening garden
vie behind their silken veils
with perfumes mixed and strange..
each day, one lily in the bed
reaches its perfection, glows,
exults in its day of unique status,
as every lily has its day..
What honour then, can God bestow
upon his creatures, so magnificent,
so thunderous in their praise of Him
for those with ears to hear?
His most precious gift, which even men
rarely earn with all a lifetime serving Him –
a glimpse of His perfection..
And the regal lily, full of the humility
of the lily, Mary’s flower,
bows its slender neck
yields all its beauty, bowing low,
folds its curled petals, as Mary
submitting to the will of God;
and we, walking in the garden,
glance and say ‘Behold,
that lily which, but yesterday, was perfect,
is fading now already…’ and in our heart
passes, is discarded, the evening chill
of knowing ourselves to be that lily..
pride, humility, the gifted glimpse of God’s perfection,
barely acknowledged as they pass..
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Down the seafront tonight - Pinewood Royal
Tall ships in the harbour
Waiting for a sailing far away
Stones across the water
Herring gulls drifting across the bay
Painted lady in the garden
The Blackcap sings from early dawn
The warm air slumbers
Soothing the Trevello Lawn
On the red cliffs of The Berry
The lighthouse shines till early dawn
We're going down
Down to the sea front tonight
We're going down
Down to the sea front tonight
We're going down to where the lights, the lights are shining bright
On the sea front you can see the rows of coloured lights
We're going down
Down to the sea front tonight
We're going down
Down to the sea front tonight
Just you and I
The bright lights sparkle
On the sea front walking by
The ice cream parlour
Fairground rides and coconut shy
Ocean going liners
Cabin lights blazing wave goodbye
White horses in the moonlight
Constellations across the sky
Red glow from leaded windows
A summer's evening in July
We're going down
Down to the sea front tonight
We're going down
Down to the sea front tonight
We're going down to where the lights, the lights are shining bright
On the sea front you can see the rows of coloured lights
We're going down
Down to the sea front tonight
We're going down
Down to the sea front tonight
Just you and I
poem by GuyPaul MitchellDwelly
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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0036 Hanging Garden
The pink geraniums
hanging in their plastic terracotta bowl
twist gently to and fro in the slight breeze
as if they’re quietly impatient
for my attention.
It’s their third year up there –
I never expected them to last
more than a year, but
half exposed, half sheltering
under what’s less a porch
than an architectural feature,
they’ve decided to make a go of it
this week in late July moving into August,
they’re into their later style of flowering –
not the profundity of early summer
when they decide exactly when to burst
upon the world petal to petal in a huge bouquet
but delicately, translucent,
both flower and small leaves, letting the sky pass through
as if they know all about colour slides
and simply, do it better.
after their first burst of flower,
they retired into themselves
as if they were exhausted – although
I never asked that of them; while
my respect for them grows year by year
sometimes I think I ought to feed them
like proper gardeners do,
since they don’t have much soil up there
and that’s fed them for three years now
but then I think, no, that’s
asking more of them than they, abundantly, do
so I’ll settle for what they want to offer me
we seem to know each other’s there,
but sometimes they call unexpectedly
like today, when I’m not busy with something else,
and when I give them full attention
as if I’m asking them deep questions
which I’ve never formulated for myself
yet which they’re prepared to answer,
they pour out information about
what I’d call God’s glorious Creation
(what they call it, if they need to call it
anything, gives the mind pause)
in a list which, as they speak it, quality by quality,
gift after gift, invention after invention,
seems no is, as endless as humility
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Summer Stars
Do you remember the time when you and i were fine
hiding under the apple tree there was no one but you and me
we would hide from passing cars and we would have the summer stars
and we were better then then we'd ever been before
you came back to me after walking out my door
you would call me on the phone before you even got home
without me you said you were all alone
the cold wind that blows all the things i used to know
how could it play so fast never thought you'd be part of my past
would i trade it all again to get you out of my head?
cause we were better then then we'd ever been before
you came back to me after walking out my door
you would call me on the phone before you even got home
without me you said you were all alone
alone
without me by your side
you said you were all alone
give me one more chance
to prove myself to you
all the little things that i long to do
...(when you run away)
would you trade the course
...(you said that you'd be)
so that i could hold you
...(coming out my front porch)
would it all go away
...(just to see me)
and my heart is breaking
would you hear me baby
as the tears are longing
for what it used to be
song performed by by Taking Back Sunday
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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