The Seed-Shop
Here in a quiet and dusty room they lie,
Faded as crumbled stone or shifting sand,
Forlorn as ashes, shrivelled, scentless, dry -
Meadows and gardens running through my hand.
In this brown husk a dale of hawthorn dreams;
A cedar in this narrow cell is thrust
That will drink deeply of a century's streams;
These lilies shall make summer on my dust.
Here in their safe and simple house of death,
Sealed in their shells, a million roses leap;
Here I can blow a garden with my breath,
And in my hand a forest lies asleep.
poem by Muriel Stuart
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Love's Autumn
YES, love, the Spring shall come again,
But not as once it came:
Once more in meadow and in lane
The daffodils shall flame,
The cowslips blow, but all in vain;
Alike, yet not the same.
The roses that we pluck’d of old
Were dew’d with heart’s delight;
Our gladness steep’d the primrose-gold
In half its lovely light:
The hopes are long since dead and cold
That flush’d the wind-flowers’ white.
Oh, who shall give us back our Spring?
What spell can fill the air
With all the birds of painted wing
That sang for us whilere?
What charm reclothe with blossoming
Our lives, grown blank and bare?
What sun can draw the ruddy bloom
Back to hope’s faded rose?
What stir of summer re-illume
Our hearts’ wreck’d garden-close?
What flowers can fill the empty room
Where now the nightshade grows?
’T is but the Autumn’s chilly sun
That mocks the glow of May;
’T is but the pallid bindweeds run
Across our garden way,
Pale orchids, scentless every one,
Ghosts of the summer day.
Yet, if it must be so, ’t is well:
What part have we in June?
Our hearts have all forgot the spell
That held the summer noon;
We echo back the cuckoo’s knell,
And not the linnet’s tune.
What shall we do with roses now,
Whose cheeks no more are red?
What violets should deck our brow,
Whose hopes long since are fled?
Recalling many a wasted vow
And many a faith struck dead.
Bring heath and pimpernel and rue,
The Autumn’s sober flowers:
At least their scent will not renew
The thought of happy hours,
Nor drag sad memory back unto
That lost sweet time of ours.
Faith is no sun of summertide,
Only the pale, calm light
That, when the Autumn clouds divide,
Hangs in the watchet height,—
A lamp, wherewith we may abide
The coming of the night.
And yet, beneath its languid ray,
The moorlands bare and dry
Bethink them of the summer day
And flower, far and nigh,
With fragile memories of the May,
Blue as the August sky.
These are our flowers: they have no scent
To mock our waste desire,
No hint of bygone ravishment
To stir the faded fire:
The very soul of sad content
Dwells in each azure spire.
I have no violets: you laid
Your blight upon them all:
It was your hand, alas! that made
My roses fade and fall,
Your breath my lilies that forbade
To come at Summer’s call.
Yet take these scentless flowers and pale,
The last of all my year:
Be tender to them; they are frail:
But if thou hold them dear,
I ’ll not their brighter kin bewail,
That now lie cold and sere.
poem by John Howard Payne
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As It Was
Ginny loved it
when the time came
For their annual trip
to the seaside
And her father rented
the house with the big garden
that lead onto the sea.
She and her brothers and sister
Looked forward to it
every year and it seemed the sun
shone almost constantly
And the house seemed
as it was the year before
nothing changed nothing new
just the same rooms
and outlook and young Lily the maid
who came each year too
to help their mother
around the house
and watch
the younger children.
Her mother
Was the organiser
the one who seemed most near
to the children who seemed
to know the children’s needs
and wants and tried to keep
her husband happy
and allow him
his space and quiet
which he valued most of all.
Ginny liked it
when the sea was out
and there was plenty of sand
to play on to make a sand castle
with a moat and drawbridge
made from small pieces of driftwood
found on the beach.
But once her mother died
the seaside house
seemed less welcoming
the sea seemed
hardly ever to go out
than it was back again
the sun was less warm
less friendly
and her father
would mope
around the house
moaning and groaning
In his grief and bellowing
at Lily the maid
to do this and do that
making her cry
and only at night
when all were asleep
and Ginny was snuggled
Down in bed did it seem
as it was when her mother
would enter the room
and sit on the bed
and smile and whisper
the words she used to
placing a ghostly hand
on Ginny’s brow
and kiss her cheek.
Ginny remembered the house
By the sea years later
with the yellowy sand
And walking with Lily
the maid
hand in hand.
poem by Terry Collett
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On an Air of Rameau
A melancholy desire of ancient things
Floats like a faded perfume out of the wires;
Pallid lovers, what unforgotten desires,
Whispered once, are retold in your whisperings?
Roses, roses, and lilies with hearts of gold,
These you plucked for her, these she wore in her breast;
Only Rameau's music remembers the rest,
The death of roses over a heart grown cold.
But these sighs? Can ghosts then sigh from the tomb?
Life then wept for you, sighed for you, chilled your breath?
It is the melancholy of ancient death
The harpsichord dreams of, sighing in the room.
poem by Arthur Symons
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Sonnet: All Things on Earth Have a Natural Place
Each thing on earth must be, where it should be;
Ectopic makes it weird and dangerous;
A lion ought to be in forest free!
It cannot do whatev’r a house-cat does!
A cage is not the place for bird or beast;
A cell is not the home for any man;
One’s freedom should not be curbed in the least;
An animal that’s caged has less life-span!
A garden-rose must grow in gardens good;
It should not stand amidst the grasses wild;
The forest is the place for cedar-wood;
A garbage-dump is cruel for a child!
The place aright for family is house;
The place ideal is home for any spouse!
poem by John Celes
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Sleeper Cell
Black blood, dark kiss
Winter resides in your lips
Amidst the forlorn woods
The frost benumbs the wounds
Impaling the Myrtle trunks looming
Sealed deeply, surreptitiously the afflicting
Sheathed malady, silenced peal
In treason lies your thrill
Infesting the glacial brooks
Annihilating my favorite books
Scars in the seams too narrow
Smothering lungs in gallows
Folded eyes, crystal sleep
Hoisted in a muffled weep
Buoyed in a vapid shore
Hibernating all three-sixty-four
A parade lingers on the sixty-fifth
Wake the bosom in the summer whiff
Crowning sun, summer breeze
Waking for all you missed
Riveted by the forest's roots
This cell is your only route
Cradled by such deceit
Feigned a feeling too succinct
The amity, the felony
Muzzles blazing with tears of agony
Beneath the bed you sleep
A flightless Eagle you dearly keep
To kill the sleeper who lies beside
To free the watcher's shackled pride
Scorching sun, crying skies
Rain on your parading lies
Red velvet draped the bed
From where the winter raise its head
Beseeching glory in bereft
The sleeper cell rouses and left.
poem by Norman Santos
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Dust
Written by danny kirwan.
When the white flame in us is gone
And we that lost the worlds delight
Stiffen in darkness.
Left alone
To crumble in our separate light
When your swift hair is quiet in death
And through the lips corruption thrust to still the labor of my breath
When we are dust, when we are dust
When we are dust, when we are dust
When your swift hair is quiet in death
And through the lips corruption thrust to still the labor of my breath
When we are dust, when we are dust
When we are dust, when we are dust
When the white flame in us is gone
And we that lost the worlds delight
Stiffen in darkness
Left alone
To crumble in our separate light
When your swift hair is quiet in death
And through the lips corruption thrust to still the labor of my breath
When we are dust, when we are dust
When we are dust, when we are dust
song performed by by Fleetwood Mac
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Chanson
A RING of gold and a milk-white dove
Are goodly gifts for thee,
And a hempen rope for your own love
To hang upon a tree.
For you a House of Ivory
(Roses are white in the rose-bower)!
A narrow bed for me to lie
(White, O white, is the hemlock flower)!
Myrtle and jessamine for you
(O the red rose is fair to see)!
For me the cypress and the rue
(Fairest of all is rose-mary)!
For you three lovers of your hand
(Green grass where a man lies dead)!
For me three paces on the sand
(Plant lilies at my head)!
poem by Oscar Wilde
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Nightfall In The Rose-Garden
Ashes to ashes,
Meal to roots of roses:
One-way street in petals falling,
Dust to dust.
The lowering sun sucks
From blown blossoms,
Their colours that go
At last to dust.
Death is in the seed
Bud, root and leaf
Which have no choice
But dust.
From death to death,
The cycle onward blindly
Rolls its endless way
From dust to death.
I, in the falling dusk
Go slowly blind to all.
And shall too, eventually,
Be dust.
poem by Roy William Gotaas
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Faded Red Roses
She stood at the alter
A gown of white she did wear
With a bouquet of red roses
And blue ribbons in her hair
She waited for someone
Who was never to come
Tears leaked from her eyes
Across her cheeks did run
The bouquet of red roses
For her wedding day
Have all now faded
As time slipped away
Those faded red roses
She still holds in her hand
Years have come and gone
Waiting for this man
You’ll still find her
With tears in her eyes
As the hopes he’ll still come
Fade like the roses
Washed too much by the sun
Today she still waits all alone
Those faded red roses in her hand
Is now all that she owns
poem by David Harris
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Jesus In Cell
Last night Jesus entered my cell.
Oh, how sad was Christ, how tall!
The moon entered after him the cell,
and made Him taller and sadder, I recall.
His hands were like lilies on graves,
Eyes as deep as forests' lands,
The moon threw silver on his garments in waves,
silvering His big, pierced hands.
I got up from under the old, gray blanket of mine:
- God, where do you come from? From what age, tell me, please?
Jesus gently put a finger to His mouth as a sign,
motioned for me to be quiet and at ease...
He sat next to me on the mat full of dust...
- Put your hand on my wounds, on my veins,
On his ankles were shadows of wounds and rust,
It was as if he had once worn chains...
Sighing, He stretched His tired bones
on my mat where cockroaches go.
The moon shined through the cell's stones,
but the thick lattices reflected stripes on His snow.
The cell looked like a mountain,
it looked like a skull,
and there were biting lice, pain, and many fears,
On my hand, I felt my head fall,
I fell asleep for a thousand years...
When I woke up from my abyssal dream,
the straw smelled like flowers, like a fresh rose.
I was in the cell and the moon was agleam,
only Jesus was nowhere... nowhere close.
I stretched out my arms, but no one, only silence.
I asked the wall: no answer at all!
Only the cold rays, sharpened by violence,
with their spear piercing me into the cell wall.
- Where are you, God? I screamed at the bars.
Smoke was coming from the moon on the narrow trails,
I touched myself... and on my hands... scars...
I found the marks of His nails.
poem by Radu Gyr, translated by Marius Alexandru
Submitted by anonym
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The Ferry
DRAW close the curtains, and shut out
The spring's green glow and glitter;
The resurrection-life of spring
To me brings no fresh blossoming;
I'm wearied of the flowers about--
The London sparrows' twitter.
If I could dream--if I could see
Once more the slow smooth river,
The narrow path she used to tread,
The sunlight on her little head,
The white fire of the hawthorn tree--
But I shall see them never.
Only the boat in dreams I steer
Among the tufted rushes,
I see her white gown through the grass,
That thrills with love to feel her pass;
Only in dreams again I hear
Those unforgotten thrushes.
Sometimes in dreams I see her stand,
Her hand held out, and making
The sweet unreal so vivid seem,
I only know it is a dream
When I reach out to take her hand,
And find no hand for taking.
So once she stood; and I--too weak
To dare to say, 'I love her'--
I dropped her hand, and took the oar
And rowed her to the farther shore;
I had my chance, and did not speak,
And chances now are over.
How dark the room has grown!--yet no,
The sky is blue above me;
This is the boat--the hawthorn tree
Is showering blossoms down on me;
And she is here as long ago,
And she has learned to love me!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Roses Of Summer (Song Lyric)
Where are the roses, the roses of our summer?
The North wind has come and taken them away.
Blow, then, O thou Southern wind;
Blow, then, without ceasing,
Till the roses of summer have come back again.
Blow, then, O Southern wind;
Blow, then, O South wind;
Blow, then, O Southern wind;
Till the roses of summer come back again.
Where are the roses, the roses of our summer?
For to make a garland for mine own true love?
There are none: none to make a garland rare,
Not a single rosebud for her hair:
Blow, then, O Southern wind;
Blow, then, O Southern wind;
Bring the roses of summer back again.
South wind, blow!
poem by C. Richard Miles
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Ashes To Ashes
I am running on empty:
I do not hide from you, my dear- My canine friend-
The one who holds your leash is not a threat-
Listen to the wind blow
Rustling the budding leaves
Upon the maple trees as I start walking-
The sun reaches downward and I am happy-
Shock ran rampant through my brain only two days ago-
A daffodil in full bloom-
Golden as the sun on the horizon-
I threw away my tears- To mix with the snow
That didn't happen last night-
Somebody lied and I am running free- Everyone has died
Those whose blood I shared
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust
Locked in a crematorium and
Scattered at sea-left me alone and
I have fallen in love with myself-
Fallen trees, my reflection staring at me from a crystalline puddle-
Alone along a wooded trail
I am the queen- no followers, except for you, my canine friend-
I dance alone amidst insanity-
Enjoying every moment and as the wind blows,
I ruminate- ashes to ashes, dust to dust-
The sun is rising for me alone-
Oh, solitude- so safe, so magnificent and
Three billion people- I cannot fathom-
I tuck a blossoming crocus behind my ear-
I have come to the end of the path and
I listen- the voices inside of my mind echo throughout the sky-
I could capture the sun within both of my hands if I could-
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust- my mother?
Gone, and in so many words, so am I and
I stand behind a phantasmal wall:
I am not to be found- running free, and running scared-
But my tears are behind me now and
I am the queen, alone and this world?
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust- it is my dream- except for myself,
Complete solitude, on top of the world, spinning rapidly
Upon a merry-go-round- everyone is dead and
I - don't- care…- ashes to ashes, dust to dust...
poem by Claudia Krizay
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Summer fun at the Beach
Summer fun is so grand
It's so fun too play in the sand
Summer time with family is so fun
you get to laugh and play in the sun
Running around on the beach
and for the ocean they try to reach
Summer fun is so grand
all the little kids run and play hand in hand
Get to play with a beach ball
seems like your there all day long
Making sand castles is really grand
just laughing and playing in the sand
Laughing, running, jumping, and jogging
screaming, shell collecting, beach walking and ball hogging
And all this summer fun has just begun,
I hope you read this poem when you done
poem by Attalia Gooden
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Like A Stone
On a cold wet
Afternoon
No room for love and emptiness
By a freeway
I confess I was lost in the pages
Of a book
Full of death
Reading how well die alone
And if a God will lay to rest
Anywhere we want to go
In your house
I long to be
Room by room
Patiently
Ill wait for you there
Like a stone
Ill wait for you there
Alone
And on my death bed
I will prey
To the gods and the angels
Like a pagan
To anyone who will take me to heaven
To a place
I would recall
I was there so long ago
The sky was bruised
The world was black
And there you led me on
In your house
I long to be
Room by room
Patiently
Ill wait for you there
Liek a stone
Ill wait for you there
Alone
In all I read
Till the day was gone
And I sat in regret
In all the things Ive done
For all that Ive blessed
And all that Ive wronged
In dreams till my death
I will wonder on
In your house
I long to be
Room by room
Patiently
Ill wait for you there
Like a stone
Ill wait for you there
Alone
Alone
song performed by by Audioslave
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Seed-Time And Harvest
MY hollyhocks are all awake,
And not a single rose is lost;
My wallflowers, for dear pity's sake,
Have fought the winter's cruel frost;
Pink peony buds begin to peer,
And flags push up their sword-blades fine:
I know there will not be this year
A brighter garden plot than mine.
I'll sow the seeds of mignonette,
Of snapdragon and sunflowers tall,
And scarlet poppies I will set
To flower against the southern wall;
Already all my lilies show
The green crowns baby lilies wear,
And all my flowers will grow and blow,
Because Love's hand has set them there.
I'll plant and water, sow and weed,
Till not an inch of earth shows brown,
And take a vow of each small seed
To grow to greenness and renown:
And then some day you'll pass my way,
See gold and crimson, bell and star,
And catch my garden's soul, and say:
'How sweet these cottage gardens are!'
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Brimstone... ' (or A Cryptic-Cremation)
Ashes to Ashes
Dust to Dust
Flesh and Blood
Wood and Mud
Sun and Moon
Craters and Crust
Flames to Ashes
Smoke to Dust
Ape and Man
Heart and Brain
Glass and Sand
Abel and Cain
Spend this Space
On this Earth
Cutting Down
Another’s Worth
So Much Hate
On World and Planet
Trying to Paint
And Stain Pearls and Granite
‘Til, Ashes to Ashes
Dust to Dust
Stop Thinking, ’ Iron Them ’
Start Thinking, ‘ Wash Us ’
Fire On Mountain
Flows Volcanic Ash
Fire and Sand
Equals House of Glass
Dirt On Fire
Smother ‘Fore Long
And Fire and Rock
Equals Brimstone
poem by MoonBee Canady
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Windy Town
Theres gotta be something more to this life were given
Gotta be peace o mind and a piece o living
When the losers have won
And the damage is done
Only then will you be saved.
She dancing on thin ice while her mind is skating
Hes building on the dust that is suffocating
And a baby that cries
In a city of lies
For a freedom that is craved
And high will you fly tonight
In dreams you can hold this tight
But when will love blow round
When will love blow through windy town.
Sunny had a street that she couldnt live in
Sunny had a room that she couldnt breath in
But a heart that could feel
And a hand that could heal
And a passion filled with rage.
I never felt the air with a wind of change
I only felt a storm with a wind and rain
A city so deep
A soul without sleep
And a heart thats filled with pain
And high will you fly tonight
In dreams you can hold this tight
But when will love blow round
When will love blow through windy town.
Look out on a million dreams
Theres fire in all those schemes
Feel the burn of investigation
Love will be your inspiration.
Baby lets go again
On me and you it all depends
The power of love is a powerful friend
And I will love you till the end.
And high will you fly tonight
In dreams you can hold this tight
But when will love blow round
When will love blow around
When will love blow through windy town.
Baby through windy town
When will love blow.
song performed by by Spandau Ballet
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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At William Maclennan's Grave
Here where the cypress tall
Shadows the stucco wall,
Bronze and deep,
Where the chrysanthemums blow,
And the roses--blood and snow--
He lies asleep.
Florence dreameth afar;
Memories of foray and war,
Murmur still;
The Certosa crowns with a cold
Cloud of snow and gold
The olive hill.
What has he now for the streams
Born sweet and deep with dreams
From the cedar meres?
Only the Arno's flow,
Turbid, and weary, and slow
With wrath and tears.
What has he now for the song
Of the boatmen, joyous and long,
Where the rapids shine?
Only the sound of toil,
Where the peasants press the soil
For the oil and wine.
Spirit-fellow in sooth
With bold La Salle and Duluth,
And La Vérandrye,--
Nothing he has but rest,
Deep in his cypress nest
With memory.
Hearts of steel and of fire,
Why do ye love and aspire,
When follows
Death--all your passionate deeds,
Garnered with rust and with weeds
In the hollows?
God that hardened the steel,
Bid the flame leap and reel,
Gave us unrest;
We act in the dusk afar,
In a star beyond your star,
His behest.
'We leave you dreams and names
Still we are iron and flames,
Biting and bright;
Into some virgin world,
Champions, we are hurled,
Of venture and fight.'
Here where the shadows fall,
From the cypress by the wall,
Where the roses are--
Here is a dream and a name,
There, like a rose of flame,
Rises--a star.
poem by Duncan Campbell Scott
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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song - Sand and Stone
I saw you in a magazine
Pouring tea for the elderly
Juggling snowballs by theTweed
And running miles for charity
Your hair was brown and curly still
Falling just like it used to do
When we climbed the rolling hill
In spring way back in sev’nty two
(chorus)
Winter winds and summer haze,
looking out to sea
‘cross that high-way of our lives,
all that gravity
All that ebb and flow,
across the sand and stone
We will not make it home again
to share the salty wind
To hold each other just once more,
to meet along the shore
And once again I held your hand
Where even time has no command
And all these songs I write for you
Fall so far short of what was true
And though I see you on the page
You’re still alive inside of me
Like some weapon blind to age
A field of blooms, a mystery
Autumn gales and springtime rain,
looking out to sea
‘cross that high-way of our dreams,
all that destiny.
All that ebb and flow,
across the flesh and bone
We will not make it home again
to share one salty kiss
To talk once more of time and chance,
to dance one final dance.
All that time beneath the sun
Holding you, not holding you
Running where all rivers run
What once was free, and once was new,
What once was me, and once was you
Teenage dreams and tender wings,
falling into you
We were only passing through
something that was true
Something more than words
and more than we could hold
We will not make it home again
but you and I had time
For touching souls and dancing slow
beside the sand and stone
beside Lochryan shore
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