The Shield
At how many spots, at the moment same,
A reverend man subservient to God,
Is present, is a puzzling thing of wonder.
On the remote plain of the distant recesses,
I beheld the sphere of dancing beauties,
Far above, in hundreds were the groups of stars,
All in formation, not a single one alone,
They glistened like scattered heaps of diamonds.
Told was I, those were the seats of devotees,
Around the masters’ residencies.
Then I to the west turned my gaze,
Saw the rockless numerous mounds,
Dotted with low shrubs and cypresses green,
With pink-yellow mist descending upon,
Dim light was perceptible but with no source.
To the south-east I found a plain,
Vast and even, covered with fluffy grass,
And with wild commotion ran the men,
All shrouded white, hastened to one direction,
Followed one another in hurry burry haste,
Lest they should miss their fortune.
A man standing on the side right,
With snow-white locks, beard and brows,
Loose white robes flowed beneath the knees,
Told me the cause of hurrying excitement
That all ran and raced to receive greetingly,
A saint ‘Farid’ who stepped from the world,
To freshen the devotees with a shower of faith.
A confusion for the mild meek man
That possessed my mind was removed;
The status he enjoyed in the world celestial,
Confounded the core of my wisdom.
While receding down, on another ground,
I did find the same reverend dervish,
Watching from a cave my farm of melons,
Fence by the dried hewed thorny branches.
And guarded he me well when the two damsels,
With sinful intents and wishes sable,
Invited with captivating delicacies,
He defended me against diabolic tricks,
As a shield does against the sharp blows.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Transparent Waters
Begin thoughts scrub the surface,
Remove rust, wash the sable spots
Of eyes, of heart and of dark mind;
But the diabolic coat a layer upon a layer,
Impede lights, make us blind,
Though we claim to be the men of wisdom,
Yet we move in the canyon of obscurity.
Standing upon the top of an alien hill,
I beheld a lush green gorge,
Merging with serpentine bends,
Down below into the countless mounds.
All humps rose with moderate heights;
Below to the left on the turn first,
A tall tree with comb like leaves,
And extending branches enchanted my soul.
Upward to the right behind the top,
An ocean of the subtle transparent waters,
With no crease, no ridges or dancing waves,
Extended, stretched beyond the sight,
Like a huge colourless glass affixed,
In the wooden frame lying prostrate.
Looking down through transparent waters,
On the other side I beheld beneath the sky blue,
And walked upon praying, with the body ethereal,
O! God,
“Impede access of Man to those e spheres,
Lest like world they should pollute them too.”
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Distributors
I bother not who regards me,
A split being or a psycho-case,
Telling you fact, undoubted fact.
Once my ethereal inner self,
Took a flight, landed on the plains,
Remote, too far to explore,
With the material means of wisdom,
Found myself in a spacious barrack.
The wide floor and thick walls,
Were made with rectangular sills,
Of stone hard, gray and quite old.
Covering with the white sheets,
A few men in deep silence,
Lay resting on the low cots;
In the slight dark as we feel,
In the deep shade of a thick grove,
A slight after the sunset or before rise;
It was dusk or dawn, I could not decide.
Wishing to have a view of the outer world,
Went up the steps leading to the roof,
Saw the world much bigger than ours,
Vast sky with a few remote stars,
Emitting out light thin and faint,
Looking around a man I found,
The poor fellow not much reverend,
In the eyes of inhabitants of the world,
With whom I have been acquainted,
Since my playful child-hood.
He by profession was a barber,
He was distracted strolling about,
The ridges on his faced exposed his heart,
He told me his worry, cause of confusion,
Making a gesture to a small room,
Accosted me to plead his case,
To an elderly person resting there,
That from the womb of his wife,
He had no delicious fruit of life.
On his plight I could not refrain,
Went straight into the small room,
Where I saw a humble man resting,
In a chair with a book large,
Opened wide upon his knees,
Wearing brown simple dress,
Serious gentle looking had he,
With the knees bent, I sat in front of him,
On the floor, covered with a mat,
Made of dried palm woven leaves.
I said confessing “ I am a servant,
And meek disciple of those great-men,
Who lead to the glorious path,
Of righteousness approved by Almighty,
This friend of mine does not have,
A child to remember his name;
Pray to God to bestow him one.”
At my request he wrote something
In the book of fate opened wide
Nodding his head that meant, “ Yes.”
After a year I met the friend,
On asking he happily me told,
He had a baby daughter two months old.
I exposed him not what I had seen,
But firmly felt, it revealed to me,
God is the creator of all treasures,
His sacred beings are the distributors,
The fate writers, subservient secret hands,
Have the authority to bless more or less,
But do nothing against the consent of God.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Lime Tree
That lime tree on the distant rising ground
(If it was a lime tree) showed her yellow leaves
Above the renewed green of wet August grass--
First Autumn yellow that on first Autumn eves
Too soon was found.
Comfortless lime tree! Scarce an aspen leaf
Like a green butterfly flitted to the ground;
There was no sign of Autumn in the grass.
Even the long garden beds their beauty brief--
Their mignonette,
Nasturtium and sweet-william and red stocks,
And clover crouching in the border grass,
And blood-like fuschia, eve's primrose and white phlox
And honeysuckle--waved all their smell and hue
Morn and eve anew.
But that far lime tree yellowing by the oak,
Warning oak, elm and poplar and each fresh tree
Shaking in the south wind delightedly,
And clover in the closeness of the grass,
Warns also me.
And now when all the trees are standing still
Beneath the purple and white of the west sky,
And time is standing still--as stand it will--
That early yellowing lime with palsied fingers
Cannot be still.
poem by John Freeman
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Go To Zero
Hey, hey on your marks, get set go to zero
Present and correct go to zero
North, south, east and west go to zero
Nothing is best go to zero
I do this and I do that, and when its cold, I wear a hat,
Its mostly cold
It pays to advertise thay say, Ill keep my hat on anyway
Or so Im told
When youre on patrol go to zero
By remote control go to zero
Forward, pause, return go to zero
All roads lead astern go to zero
(chorus)
When you miss your cue go to zero
Start the dance, anew go to zero
Black, red, white and blue go to zero
When you lose the one go to zero
Rewind can be fun go to zero
Nudge it left and right go to zero
Dont wait til tonight go to zero
Go to zero!
(chorus)
(go to zero)
Everywhere you go go to zero
Nough is apropos go to zero
North, south, east and west go to zero
Nothing is best go to zero
song performed by by Duran Duran
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Vernal Spectacle Vavroovahana Patra
Vernal Breeze blows delightfully;
Birds fly, twitter gaily.
God blesses devotees peacefully;
Devotees pray God devotionally.
Women devotees go to Shiva’s Shrine;
Beautifully kisses the sun Shine.
Devotees drinker the nectar of love as drunkard’s to wine;
God Shiva is the path shower, Director of Mine.
Spectacle of God’s shrine allures devotees;
I women, men plays waves of delight.
He blesses devotees with health, wealth;
Devotees are optimistic with mirth.
Vernal hymns reverberates in the air;
God fulfils devotees desire.
Nature is a Beauty;
Poets chant hymns with gaiety.
God loves devotees;
Devotees pray with delight.
Fragrance of flowers brings inspiration;
Beauteous is God’s mysterious creation.
poem by Vavroovahana Patra
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Wind Of Prediction
As the trees play in the breeze
Do you wonder what it may mean.
Does the wind coming from a certain direction
Mean something we should heed.
North wind blows cold and dry
Originating from the elements of earth
Read as the wind of death, colour black
Time to abondon issues no longer needed
Heed the news from the North.
West wind blows moist and fertile
Elements of water, coloured blue
Soothing, sensitive and healing.
Touch the cleansing power of the West.
South wind blows hot and dry
Of element fire, colour red
Usethe initiative and passion
To boost the ideals
Haste to feel the southern breeze.
East wind blows from the orient light
Assaulting with cold dry feel
Symbol of air, coloured white
Trust new starts from the East.
North South East and West
Thus the world changes
From whence it blows
That is what it will show
Predictions blown around.
poem by Alison Smith
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How to make your wishes come true
She liked white and had not said a word yet
On her tenth birthday
she stood on the red steps
of the red opera house
-the red opera house on the north side of Sydney Harbour
almost opposite the white opera house
She scattered orange petals, yellow petals, green leaves and spoke
in a light blue voice
A bird of navy blue pink and gold feathers stood by her. Was this the grateful bird? Purple gold and white danced
She said
white stillness, pure gold, purple wonder, gold strength, pink joy, pink infinity, navy blue now, strong indigo blue, light blue fountain, the green first reason, compassionate orange, endless yellow,
royal red, single red, free orange, free yellow, green depth as clear as crystal, all attractive light blue, strong indigo blue, strong navy blue, pink wishes, gold compassion, compassionate purple,
gold of golds, of creativity, white of whites, gold truth, purple mentor, funny gold, pink friend of children, navy blue of nature,
indigo blue knowledge, light blue song of nature, green creation, yellow in senses, orange guide, red way, red inspirer, orange giver, yellow help, dazzling green, light blue of the delicate, with indigo blue eyes, navy blue good, with pink kind eyes, golden hair, golden complexion, purple complexion, gold warmth, of white space, white and gold love, of all purple knowledge, gold presence, pink in thunder and storms, navy blue pleasure, indigo blue beauty,
light blue lines, all attractive green, of yellow stirring music, of orange, red refuge, clear red, orange orange, yellow yellow, with green giving hands, of green, light blue truth, indigo blue essence, navy blue sparkle, pink with gold, purple guide, gold here, here white, white is the sun with penetrating vision, purple and golden constant winner, gold reach, of all pink, infinite navy blue, indigo blue knowledge, light blue care, deep green in greens, orange truth, dedicated to yellow, red peace, red glory, orange beauty, yellow, of green and light blue evenings, handsome indigo blue, intelligent navy blue, pink of pinks, of gold golds, purple purple, gold friend,
openness, formless white and gold, prevailing purple, efficient purple, purple origin, purple form, gold and permanent pink, navy blue belief, indigo blue blue, dense green, orange, yellow, red friend, red
and fell silent
Are the colours telling us that reciting the girl's words could make all our wishes come true? What else do red orange yellow green light blue indigo blue navy blue pink gold purple gold white know?
Today is a Monday
poem by Bhupen Thakker
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The Seventy Two
The secret hands removed the lids,
Curtains between the vision and the eyes,
And made a show of eternal reality.
The rectangular cloud-like substance,
Extended from the East to the North,
Stretched in the sky in thousands of acres,
Incredibly white, and glaring bright,
The most appealing to the parched hearts,
Cast celestial delight, pleasing to recall.
Though thousands of miles was far away,
Yet beheld I the spectacle vividly,
The phenomenon hidden to the eyes carnal.
I saw the Seventy Two clad,
In the bright gaily dresses, radiant costumes,
Riding on the white swift flying horses,
In cheerfulness unknown to the temporal world,
In the glaring brilliance the seemed merged,
Like a reflection in the huge mirror,
Or as the enchanting fishes with coloured fins,
Swim into the most transparent still waters.
A saint standing with white long beard,
Whispered, “They are no doubt the Seventy Two,
Who stepped beyond, in the love of God,
By quenching thirst of the Sandy Land,
With the reserved blood of the innocent,
To prove faith in Him at the hours,
When conceived satanic devices came out,
To desecrate, confound the fair scheme,
And in reward He endeared wrapping them all,
In brilliance of His own where woeful,
Pangs would never trouble Them again.”
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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As The Snow Falls (song)
As the rain falls down,
It turns to snow.
As the snow falls down,
It hits the ground.
You look outside,
And it’s a sheet of white.
So you think,
Oh what a beautiful night.
The fire is warm,
And the coco too.
And you wonder,
What is next to do?
Looking outside,
All you see is white,
And stars in the sky…ayyy.
The stars are falling,
The stars are falling,
And they cover the ground.
The snow has fallen,
Snow has fallen,
And it covers the ground.
You sit there,
Lookin’ out your window,
Sippin’ on your coco. Oh
Watching as the rain falls down-
The snow falls down-
The stars fall down.
And you see,
All of natures beauty.
The rain falls down,
And it turns to snow.
The snow falls down,
And it hits the ground.
Lookin’ outside,
And it’s a sheet of white.
you bundle up,
and step outside.
standing in the cold,
you look around.
its all so calm and still.
Oh there’s not a single sound.
It’s a silent night,
Oh what a sight.
Snow covers the trees,
So beautiful to see.
Back inside you go
To the fire you stand,
With coco in hand.
You’re cozy and warm,
All alone.
It’s getting late,
So you sleep the night away.
As the rain fell down,
It turned to snow.
As the snow fell down,
It hit the ground.
And the sheet of white,
It disappeared.
The next day you wake,
And the beauty is gone.
The morning sun,
Thawed the lawn.
And the snowy wondrous night is done.
poem by Tessa Monaghan
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A Trial Of Strength
Hard, narrow and straight is the route,
Those who are un-backed fall headlong soon,
The devotees face slippery spot at each step,
And go through a trial of strength.
A thing slight may culminate taking up,
Or throw down into the dark bottom of abyss,
Where from if you are not brittle hearted,
Start climbing afresh, with zeal and zest,
Submitting your wills before the Mighty Consent.
A journey long of the distant land allowed me
To have a pause in front of a mosque,
Very small like a turned half globe,
With a minaret in centre of the top.
Divided was its roundity with raised streaks,
As they do divide the soft crust of a melon,
Some invisible masters had made a show of craft,
The trailing branches of roses were laden
With the flowers ever fresh and leaves ever green.
Then I went in and saw the saints four,
Discussing the errors, I had committed
Since I became a traveller of the arduous route.
Came down then I, in the basement I found
The damsels four, standing at the door,
In the dresses red, yellow, pink and blue,
And I was to pass through them unheeded.
When they attracted gesturing with the moves of eyes,
I engrossed in thoughts carnal,
Their sweet beauty cast irresistible spell,
And I forgot the purpose of the distant sojourn,
Ah! Lust rode on the back defeated me again.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Behind
I saw an old man like a child,
His blue eyes bright, his white hair wild,
Who turned for ever, and might not stop,
Round and round like an urchin's top.
'Fool,' I cried, 'while you spin round,
'Others grow wise, are praised, are crowned.'
Ever the same round road he trod,
'This is better: I seek for God.'
'We see the whole world, left and right,
Yet at the blind back hides from sight
The unseen Master that drives us forth
To East and West, to South and North.
'Over my shoulder for eighty years
I have looked for the gleam of the sphere of spheres.'
'In all your turning, what have you found?'
'At least, I know why the world goes round.'
poem by G.K. Chesterton from The Wild Knight and Other Poems (1900)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Ch 02 The Morals Of Dervishes Story 35
In conformity with the above sentiments an affair of importance emerged to a padshah, who thereon vowed that, if it terminated according to his wishes, he would present devotees with a certain sum of money. His wish having been fulfilled, it became necessary to keep his promise. Accordingly he gave a purse of dirhems to one of his confidential servants to distribute it among recluses. It is related that the slave was intelligent and shrewd. He walked about all day and returning at nightfall, kissed the dirhems and deposited them before the king with the remark that he had not found any devotees. The king rejoined: ‘What nonsense is this? As far as I know there are four hundred devotees in this town. He said: ‘Lord of the world, who is a devotee does not accept money and who accepts it is not a devotee.’ The king smiled and said to his courtiers: ‘Despite of my wishing to do good to this class of worshippers of God, this rogue bears them emnity and thwarts my wish but truth is on his side.’
If a devotee has taken dirhems and dinars
Find another who is more a devotee than he.
Scenes from a New England Winter
Streams of black winding there way from here to there
cutting through a field of white
trees struggling with all their might against the soft white invader
as people stop and stare
cars turned into moving mounds of snow
people hurrying off to some secret place to go
the softness of sounds in the cold
this is winter to me
the sun a creates such a glare against the snow
your breath a frosty mist hanging in the air
people bundled up tight against the cold
eyes blinking against the white
the crunch of snow under a boot, the laughter of children
home from school, all decked out in their new snow suit
the far off drone of a snow blower says work is near
winter, in New England a time to hold dear
© JPM 1/20/09
The Roaring Days
The night too quickly passes
And we are growing old,
So let us fill our glasses
And toast the Days of Gold;
When finds of wondrous treasure
Set all the South ablaze,
And you and I were faithful mates
All through the roaring days!
Then stately ships came sailing
From every harbour's mouth,
And sought the land of promise
That beaconed in the South;
Then southward streamed their streamers
And swelled their canvas full
To speed the wildest dreamers
E'er borne in vessel's hull.
Their shining Eldorado,
Beneath the southern skies,
Was day and night for ever
Before their eager eyes.
The brooding bush, awakened,
Was stirred in wild unrest,
And all the year a human stream
Went pouring to the West.
The rough bush roads re-echoed
The bar-room's noisy din,
When troops of stalwart horsemen
Dismounted at the inn.
And oft the hearty greetings
And hearty clasp of hands
Would tell of sudden meetings
Of friends from other lands;
When, puzzled long, the new-chum
Would recognise at last,
Behind a bronzed and bearded skin,
A comrade of the past.
And when the cheery camp-fire
Explored the bush with gleams,
The camping-grounds were crowded
With caravans of teams;
Then home the jests were driven,
And good old songs were sung,
And choruses were given
The strength of heart and lung.
Oh, they were lion-hearted
Who gave our country birth!
Oh, they were of the stoutest sons
From all the lands on earth!
Oft when the camps were dreaming,
And fires began to pale,
Through rugged ranges gleaming
Would come the Royal Mail.
Behind six foaming horses,
And lit by flashing lamps,
Old `Cobb and Co.'s', in royal state,
Went dashing past the camps.
Oh, who would paint a goldfield,
And limn the picture right,
As we have often seen it
In early morning's light;
The yellow mounds of mullock
With spots of red and white,
The scattered quartz that glistened
Like diamonds in light;
The azure line of ridges,
The bush of darkest green,
The little homes of calico
That dotted all the scene.
I hear the fall of timber
From distant flats and fells,
The pealing of the anvils
As clear as little bells,
The rattle of the cradle,
The clack of windlass-boles,
The flutter of the crimson flags
Above the golden holes.
. . . . .
Ah, then our hearts were bolder,
And if Dame Fortune frowned
Our swags we'd lightly shoulder
And tramp to other ground.
But golden days are vanished,
And altered is the scene;
The diggings are deserted,
The camping-grounds are green;
The flaunting flag of progress
Is in the West unfurled,
The mighty bush with iron rails
Is tethered to the world.
poem by Henry Lawson
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The Gipsy Trail
The white moth to the closing bine,
The bee to the opened clover,
And the gipsy blood to the gipsy blood
Ever the wide world over.
Ever the wide world over, lass,
Ever the trail held true,
Over the world and under the world,
And back at the last to you.
Out of the dark of the gorgio camp,
Out of the grime and the gray
(Morning waits at the end of the world),
Gipsy, come away!
The wild boar to the sun-dried swamp
The red crane to her reed,
And the Romany lass to the Romany lad,
By the tie of a roving breed.
The pied snake to the rifted rock,
The buck to the stony plain,
And the Romany lass to the Romany lad,
And both to the road again.
Both to the road again, again!
Out on a clean sea-track -
Follow the cross of the gipsy trail
Over the world and back!
Follow the Romany patteran
North where the blue bergs sail,
And the bows are grey with the frozen spray,
And the masts are shod with mail.
Follow the Romany patteran
Sheer to the Austral Light,
Where the besom of God is the wild South wind,
Sweeping the sea-floors white.
Follow the Romany patteran
West to the sinking sun,
Till the junk-sails lift through the houseless drift.
And the east and west are one.
Follow the Romany patteran
East where the silence broods
By a purple wave on an opal beach
In the hush of the Mahim woods.
'The wild hawk to the wind-swept sky,
The deer to the wholesome wold,
And the heart of a man to the heart of a maid,
As it was in the days of old.'
The heart of a man to the heart of a maid -
Light of my tents, be fleet.
Morning waits at the end of the world,
And the world is all at our feet!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Plain white
the white of the snow
is to help you forget
about the unhealthy past
white, plain white to start
a brand new life
remember, being plain
is not that meaningless
remember the snow, the snow
you can even fly away with it
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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After a Tempest
The day had been a day of wind and storm;--
The wind was laid, the storm was overpast,--
And stooping from the zenith, bright and warm
Shone the great sun on the wide earth at last.
I stood upon the upland slope and cast
My eye upon a broad and beauteous scene,
Where the vast plain lay girt by mountains vast,
And hills o'er hills lifted their heads of green,
With pleasant vales scooped out and villages between.
The rain-drops glistened on the trees around,
Whose shadows on the tall grass were not stirred,
Save when a shower of diamonds, to the ground,
Was shaken by the flight of startled bird;
For birds were warbling round, and bees were heard
About the flowers; the cheerful rivulet sung
And gossiped, as he hastened ocean-ward;
To the gray oak the squirrel, chiding clung,
And chirping from the ground the grasshopper upsprung.
And from beneath the leaves that kept them dry
Flew many a glittering insect here and there,
And darted up and down the butterfly,
That seemed a living blossom of the air.
The flocks came scattering from the thicket, where
The violent rain had pent them; in the way
Strolled groups of damsels frolicksome and fair;
The farmer swung the scythe or turned the hay,
And 'twixt the heavy swaths his children were at play.
It was a scene of peace--and, like a spell,
Did that serene and golden sunlight fall
Upon the motionless wood that clothed the fell,
And precipice upspringing like a wall,
And glassy river and white waterfall,
And happy living things that trod the bright
And beauteous scene; while far beyond them all,
On many a lovely valley, out of sight,
Was poured from the blue heavens the same soft golden light.
I looked, and thought the quiet of the scene
An emblem of the peace that yet shall be,
When, o'er earth's continents and isles between,
The noise of war shall cease from sea to sea,
And married nations dwell in harmony;
When millions, crouching in the dust to one,
No more shall beg their lives on bended knee,
Nor the black stake be dressed, nor in the sun
The o'erlabored captive toil, and wish his life were done.
Too long, at clash of arms amid her bowers
And pools of blood, the earth has stood aghast,
The fair earth, that should only blush with flowers
And ruddy fruits; but not for aye can last
The storm, and sweet the sunshine when 'tis past.
Lo, the clouds roll away--they break--they fly,
And, like the glorious light of summer, cast
O'er the wide landscape from the embracing sky,
On all the peaceful world the smile of heaven shall lie.
poem by William Cullen Bryant
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Your Every Color
I can see the red, white and free in you
You light the night up like the moon
And underneath your clouds, I see the blue
You're hopeless 'cause you tell the truth
The stars are jealous of your shine
If you were mine
There's not a thing I wouldn't do
You're black and beautiful, yellow, tan
You're white as light and soft as sand
With greens and greys and oh for days
A silver lining on the way you cover everyone
Just like a morning sun
You turn me into someone I would rather be
OOO- I love your every color
OOO- I love your everything
You wear the day around you
Like it's yours to stay around you
Maybe I could stay around you too
If that's alright with you
You're coffee brown and bubble gum pink
And oh I think the shade of you is on the brink
Of changing all the ways I see the world
I could drown inside a single drop
Of all the kinds of things you got
And all the kinds of things I'm not
Might just give me a chance to see
From way up where you are
Above the silent stars
Just dancing in the sky
You're better than any rainbow
You're brighter than the sun
You look like my first day of summer
When my spring is on the run
You're gold and more gold
And you're platinum too
With snow toned, copper attitude
I don't know what I'd do without you
I don't know what I'll do about you
song performed by by Train
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Gypsy-Trail
The white moth to the closing bine,
The bee to the opened clover,
And the gipsy blood to the gipsy blood
Ever the wide world over.
Ever the wide world over, lass,
Ever the trail held true,
Over the world and under the world,
And back at the last to you.
Out of the dark of the gorgio camp,
Out of the grime and the gray
(Morning waits at the end of the world),
Gipsy, come away!
The wild boar to the sun-dried swamp
The red crane to her reed,
And the Romany lass to the Romany lad,
By the tie of a roving breed.
The pied snake to the rifted rock,
The buck to the stony plain,
And the Romany lass to the Romany lad,
And both to the road again.
Both to the road again, again!
Out on a clean sea-track --
Follow the cross of the gipsy trail
Over the world and back!
Follow the Romany patteran
North where the blue bergs sail,
And the bows are grey with the frozen spray,
And the masts are shod with mail.
Follow the Romany patteran
Sheer to the Austral Light,
Where the besom of God is the wild South wind,
Sweeping the sea-floors white.
Follow the Romany patteran
West to the sinking sun,
Till the junk-sails lift through the houseless drift.
And the east and west are one.
Follow the Romany patteran
East where the silence broods
By a purple wave on an opal beach
In the hush of the Mahim woods.
"The wild hawk to the wind-swept sky,
The deer to the wholesome wold,
And the heart of a man to the heart of a maid,
As it was in the days of old."
The heart of a man to the heart of a maid --
Light of my tents, be fleet.
Morning waits at the end of the world,
And the world is all at our feet!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Farewell To Winter
Farewell to Winter as it passes by,
To the heavy clouds beneath the gloomy sky,
And to the slumber of the snow-covered earth
That soon will be awakened to a new birth.
I'll miss sled riding on the steep hill,
And ice skating on the pond near the old mill,
The giggling of children playing in the snow,
And throwing snowballs at a targeted goal.
The shrubs and trees that were covered white
Will be replaced by new foliage and blossoms bright.
The colorful tulips standing tall side by side
Will sway in the Spring's warm breeze with pride.
Throughout the countryside, a new life is arriving,
Yellow forsythia and daffodils are thriving,
Birds have returned, filling the air with song,
Spring has arrived and winter is now gone.
I'll miss all the winter activities now at rest,
But I readily admit that I enjoy the Spring the best.
The offerings of Spring are delightful and bright,
A diversion from the arms of winter's might.
poem by Joseph T. Renaldi
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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