Marshes
The bog and marsh condemn you,
Eternal is this gain of your few
Who wear a costume of colours,
Inward is the feeling of counsellors.
They advise and lecture on weather
That superbly displays youth and feather.
We are experts too bold of the marsh,
In this is knowledge to drain - so harsh!
poem by Naveed Akram
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Down At The Marsh
Down at the marsh
weavers rock up and down,
down at the marsh
your lips are soft against mine
when a big dog barks far away
and your right knee has lost some skin
down at the marsh.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Remembrance
As a child I saw the sun
hanging over the marsh,
when it caught the first red rays.
In that marsh land
long-tailed widow-birds
glided deeper into the reeds.
Plover’s pretending
to have broken wings,
tried to entice me away
from their nests.
In life’s marsh
there were enemy soldiers
that was stone-dead,
while I had hidden deeper
into the reeds.
Groups of enemy patrols
cut past following the river,
to find my comrades and I.
Every time that the sun
hanged new over the reeds,
the enemy became less
and the chance to catch us diminished
and mosquitoes swarmed around me.
poem by Gert Strydom
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In My Childhood Days I Pick Lilies In The Marsh [2]
In my childhood days I picked lilies in the marsh
where the highway now runs almost into eternity
while only cars do pass on the road.
Laid dry, barren and destroyed is the marsh land that I did love
and selfish gain circles out wider while nature is distorted
where the highway now runs almost into eternity
and the plain is full of offices and factories that pushed it aside
and I search for something that can keep the untouchedness
and selfish gain circles out wider while nature is distorted,
there is smoke that like a blanket folds from above over everything
while on the sidewalk there is a marigold
and I search for something that can keep the untouchedness
and notices a flower that grows wild right through the concrete,
and I see no coots or plovers calling
while on the sidewalk there is a marigold
amongst the crowding of people of the one or other group.
In my childhood days I picked lilies in the marsh
and I see no coots or plovers calling
while only cars do pass on the road.
poem by Gert Strydom
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El Nino The Thirsty One
Some weather experts told us el nino is dead
That we would have his rainy sister la nina instead
Of him but now the word is more dry and warm weather ahead
The drought to continue despite what we've heard and read
Old thirsty el nino is alive and well
For many he does make life an earthly hell
Because of him many farmers have committed suicide
Their hopes and their dreams by him have been destroyed
El nino is living despite what some weather experts do say
He is a survivor he will not go away
He sucks the dams and waterways dry and every dropp of moisture from the ground
Where drought is prevalent he is to be found
El nino the thirsty one is with us to stay
Despite what some of the experts on weather do say.
poem by Francis Duggan
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* * *
When I think of you,
fireflies in the marsh rise
like the soul’s jewels,
lost to eternal longing,
abandoning my body.
poem by Izumi Shikibu
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Eastbrook
Though his racing days are over
on the marsh he'll gently graze
where he'll spend his last remaining years
sharing all his days
with herons, skylarks, ducks and geese
from a racing life to utter peace
Small children come and feed him hay
and Suzy grooms him every day
a soft brown horse with gentle eyes
resting underneath the skies
that follow the marsh down to the sea
retirement, peace, tranquility
poem by Gill Moore
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The Long Drought Is Over
The long drought is over some weather experts believe
But weather patterns the experts have been known to deceive
In parts of the Country huge flooding the weather seems strange
But then we are in the age of climate change
The ferocity of Nature cannot be denied
In flooding tragedies up country seven people have died
Their cars by the flood were swept off of the roadway
Their deaths by drowning the big news story of the day
For to combat extreme weather patterns we need more than God on our side
Nowadays Natural disasters are occuring Worldwide
In drought ravaged Lands millions of refugees
And thousands are dying of hunger and disease
The long drought is over some weather experts do say
But the moods of Nature changing every day.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Today Is Supposed To Be Raining
The sun shining bright on the Parkland on the second day of the Fall
And amidst the buzzing of the bush flies the black and white magpie larks call
By the weather forecast today is supposed to be raining but we will not have rain today
Even weather experts are prone to error such is life some are known to say,
We hear of the demise of El Nino though El Nino is still around
He is sucking the lakes and the dams dry and he has sucked the moisture from the ground
The river is down to a trickle the creeks and the drains are bone dry
And today is supposed to be raining but not a rain cloud in the sky,
Global warming is caused by pollution the experts on climate do say
Though those with a different agenda see things in a different way
But then of course those who create the most pollution from creating pollution stand most for to gain
And they tell all who do care to listen that in time we will have plenty rain
This time the weather experts have not got it right today it is sunny and bright
Though usually they are very accurate and more often than not get it right.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Goblin in the marsh
A Goblin staggers out of the marsh
and he is dirty and full of mud
and stinking he pasts
and walk in the fog
that rises from the water.
There are marsh gasses
that everywhere hangs rotting
and a lightning bolt
hitting to surface
Let’s balls of flame explode
blue, orange and red-blue
behind him
and he laughs half mad
while he walks away
through the mud.
Sniffing he searches
for waterweed, fester, bubonic plague,
arsenic and a snake’s
foaming poison
with the head of a rat
on a green body
and he waddles while he walks
and appears here and there
like a shadow.
poem by Gert Strydom
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A Fable
Some cawing Crows, a hooting Owl,
A Hawk, a Canary, an old Marsh-Fowl,
One day all meet together
To hold a caucus and settle the fate
Of a certain bird (without a mate),
A bird of another feather.
'My friends,' said the Owl, with a look most wise,
'The Eagle is soaring too near the skies,
In a way that is quite improper;
Yet the world is praising her, so I'm told,
And I think her actions have grown so bold
That some of us ought to stop her.'
'I have heard it said,' quoth Hawk, with a sigh,
'That young lambs died at the glance of her eye,
And I wholly scorn and despise her.
This, and more, I am told they say,
And I think that the only proper way
Is never to recognize her.'
'I am quite convinced,' said Crow, with a caw,
'That the Eagle minds no moral law,
She's a most unruly creature.'
'She's an ugly thing,' piped Canary Bird;
'Some call her handsome—it's so absurd—
She hasn't a decent feature.'
Then the old Marsh-Hen went hopping about,
She said she was sure—she hadn't a doubt—
Of the truth of each bird's story:
And she thought it a duty to stop her flight,
To pull her down from her lofty height,
And take the gilt from her glory.
But, lo! from a peak on the mountain grand
That looks out over the smiling land
And over the mighty ocean,
The Eagle is spreading her splendid wings—
She rises, rises, and upward swings,
With a slow, majestic motion.
Up in the blue of God's own skies,
With a cry of rapture, away she flies,
Close to the Great Eternal:
She sweeps the world with her piercing sight;
Her soul is filled with the infinite
And the joy of things supernal.
Thus rise forever the chosen of God,
The genius-crowned or the power-shod,
Over the dust-world sailing;
And back, like splinters blown by the winds,
Must fall the missiles of silly minds,
Useless and unavailing.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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At Evening Time There Shall Be Light
THE day was wild with wind and rain,
One grey wrapped sky and sea and shore,
It seemed our marsh would never again
Wear the rich robes that once it wore.
The scattered farms looked sad and chill,
Their sheltering trees writhed all awry,
And waves of mist broke on the hill
Where once the great sea thundered by.
Then God remembered this His land,
This little land that is our own,
He caught the rain up in His hand,
He hid the winds behind His throne,
He soothed the fretful waves to rest,
He called the clouds to come away,
And, by blue pathways, to the west,
They went, like children tired of play.
And then God bade our marsh put on
Its holy vestment of fine gold;
From marge to marge the glory shone
On lichened farm and fence and fold;
In the gold sky that walled the west,
In each transfigured stone and tree,
The glory of God was manifest,
Plain for a little child to see!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Autumn Leaves
The autumn leaves swirl to the ground in their millions.
Gold, russet, ochre, burnt umber, and deep vermillion.
Down to the ground, the dying leaves flit and flutter;
On to the grassy bank, the pathway, and into the gutter.
Some of the colours of the leaves are deep and so very rich.
Whirling along the ground, some leaves tumble into the ditch.
A thick layer of multicoloured leaves now carpets the earth,
Leaving the trees bare, in readiness, for next spring’s rebirth.
With changing leaf colours, many people love this time of year,
But, that summer is well and truly over, it is now perfectly clear.
The many colours mixed together are a magical sight to behold;
I love the shades of yellow, crimson, sienna, and ruby red, so bold.
Some leaves are mottled, with two glorious colours or more;
Adding to the fabulous display, which now lies upon the floor.
Children love nothing better, than to frolic through the fallen leaves;
When workmen collect them up, they’re left feeling very aggrieved.
Even though the weather is getting cold, the colours look so warm.
Fiery reds and oranges, and golden hues, like those of ripened corn.
Photographers find this time of year, so very evocative and inspiring;
The spectacular displays before them, they spend much time admiring.
As the season draws on, the once vibrant colours begin to dull and fade.
Soon, all that is left are brown leaves, which once boasted brilliant shades.
When leaves first change their colour, they create much admired foliage,
But with age and weather, over the coming weeks, there is much spoilage.
I love the dark green leaves, with their edges tinged with a brilliant red.
But, alas, those colours will fade, now that the leaf is no longer being fed.
The crisp, bright colours can offer cheer on even the very dullest of days,
But in our minds, we know it won’t be long before winter comes our way.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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Calculations Fail
Can knowledge any sense in life retain?
All trace in space must some day disappear.
Life's calculations fail, ambitions vain.
Colours, now magic, soon no longer here
Unknown sounds, scents tomorrow shall remain.
Love's lightning, having struck, moves on, a mere
After-ripple on time's wave, cleansed clear.
The struggle ceases, Lethe, down the drain
Is every trace flushed before we can gain
One insight on Life's mysteries, or steer
New trips through dreams, few dreams themselves appear
Sense bearing whose waft, weft, need never wane.
FAll follows pride, soul weighed by feather light,
ILl starred our ride, bright spark mid endless night.
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Bruises
Bruises smack me silly,
Naveed cries some time for pity,
Then the reality mixes with fiction
And he staggers at the task ahead,
To be reported by the people-in-charge.
My heart stings from dresses and others,
Going into the territory of love is golden.
My heat now sings swearing towards the goal,
Swerving in ways called rivers and mud.
A swamp has allied with marsh,
And a fatal prize is fortunate;
My prizes are luckier then most,
For the marsh is honoured and
Then blessed, liking us instead.
These grazes are not any longer bruises,
And stinging issues command me to state
The facts. I do not know the sense and reason
Of this fact. I do not know.
poem by Naveed Akram
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The Marsh Land
The nearer I come to the wild marsh land
the more I hear red-knobbed coots carolling
where a swarm of tiny weavers twitter,
rocking and balancing on the long reeds,
cheerfully the meandering stream jabbers
while it shines in the bright morning light
next to the big old hanging willow tree,
where a symphony of nature resounds.
Marsh bulrushes rocks plumed in the wind
that blows softly through the bushes of sprouts,
somewhat blinded by the natural beauty
I wander like a child through all the reeds,
drops of water jet when wild ducks fly up,
with rushes suddenly rocking up and down.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Hidden watcher. For M'; lady Francesca
Hidden watcher.
The salt marsh stretches endlessly
and forms a perfect habitat
Where migrant birds nest in safety
to brood and raise a family.
Few hunters ever venture here,
because they fear the boggy ground
That’s noted for its treachery.
So most prefer to hunt elsewhere.
Bird watchers come the whole year round.
They only shoot with cameras
and they avoid the boggy ground
They know that rare birds can be found.
In the salt marsh beside the sea.
It is a twitcher’s paradise
They record meticulously
each and every bird they see
The salt marsh lies beside the sea.
As it has done since time began.
A panorama of rare beauty
That is changing constantly.
It changes as the seasons change.
I does not stay the same for long.
Nature can and does rearrange
to make the landscape look quite strange.
An eerie place and frightening
when covered by a dense sea fret.
When you can see and hear nothing
above the roar of waves breaking.
There’s nowhere I’d prefer to be
Than esconced in my favourite hide.
To watch the birds in secrecy
I can see them They can’t see me.
Sunday,15 August 2010.
Http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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A Poem Of Love
I feel as if your eyes have housed in mine,
My eyes which were desert, where
The desire to grow did not find the route,
Now there dance thick shadows of flagons.
My eyes which were thirsty,
Like some cracked clay,
In the smouldering sunlight,
Now scattered are there
The colours of clouds and rainbow.
My eyes had a forest, where shadows
Of suspicion were long and thick,
Where the beams reverted
Before they descended, now there blossom
Sweet scented flowers of all colours.
My eyes contained lakes,
Where no track was visible in moss and marsh,
There fall several lotuses from your neckline,
They sway and show numerous paths.
My eyes bore the Sun,
Each spectacle of green tassels,
Clothed itself the costume of autumn.
There now exist extensive shades
Of spreading branches,
And I sleep a luxurious slumber.
My eyes had a river,
A river that gurgled eroding the banks,
There now glimmer a star of sail.
We have to enkindle a candle across the bank,
Upon my lashes shines a smiling lamp,
Your name emerges upon my lips impulsively,
As if your eyes have made an bode
In the self of my inner existence.
Written By Qayyum Tahir
Translated By Muhammad Shanazar
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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February Weather
February sulks its shadow
Over moorland, marsh and meadow.
Dreary drizzle unabating,
Then there's weather worse awaiting:
Fog and frost and soft snow drifted
Deep in heaps that can't be shifted,
Rain that pours for hours and hours
Putting paid to plants and flowers,
Howling wind and gusting gale,
Slushy sleet and hammering hail.
Hopefully this woeful weather
Has to pass, not last for ever.
On a brighter note, a thought:
Just be thankful February's short.
poem by C. Richard Miles
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Who’ll Wear the Beaten Colours?
Who’ll wear the beaten colours—and cheer the beaten men?
Who’ll wear the beaten colours, till our time comes again?
Where sullen crowds are densest, and fickle as the sea,
Who’ll wear the beaten colours, and wear them home with me?
We closed the bars and gambling dens and voted straight and clean,
Our women walked while motor cars were whirling round the scene,
The Potts Point Vote was one for Greed and Ease and Luxury
With all to hold, and coward gold, and beaten folk are we.
Who’ll wear the beaten colours, with hands and pockets clean?
(I wore the beaten colours since I was seventeen)
I wore them up, and wore them down, Outback and across the sea—
Who’ll wear the beaten colours, and wear them home with me?
We wore them back from Ladysmith to where the peace was signed,
And wore them through the London streets where Jingoes howled behind.
We wore them to the Queen’s Hall, while England yelled “Pro-Boers!”
And sat them over victory while London banged the doors.1
We wore them from Port Arthur round till all sunk in the sea—
(Who’ll wear the white man’s colours, and wear them home with me?)
I’ve worn them through with gentlemen, with work-slaves and alone—
Who’ll wear the beaten colours, boys, and wear them on his own?
There’s one would look with startled eyes and shrink while I caressed,
Came I not with the colours of the conquered on my breast.
And twenty thousand Bushmen would stand with hands behind
And scorn in all their faces for the coward of his kind.
Who’ll wear the beaten colours and raise the voice they drowned—
It may be when we march again, they’ll bear some other sound—
Who’ll pin the beaten colours on and drive the beaten pen—
It may be other steel and ink when we march out again.
poem by Henry Lawson
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The Swan Song
Now I'm getting all fluffy for Bedtime Stories, this is how I see the Ugly Duckling in a Poem form, and I hope I do justice to the timeless classic by Hans Christian Anderson.
Do you remember?
The story of the
Ugly little bird
It was picked on
And trodden on because
Its plumage was plain
It grew up alone
Thinking it was
To clumsy to play
It watched with a tear
Alone and afraid
As winters and summers
Passed its lone life
It grew up with fear
And lived all alone
Accepting its life
It grew up that way
In the reeds of the marsh
But then one day
Hiding behind
The reeds of the marsh
It watched a swan land
In migration to pass
Graceful and pure
It bowed its handsome head
With grandeur and pride
He cocked his head held high
He swam to thro
To attract a new wife
And then just beyond
Behind the tall marsh reeds
He spotted the beauty
Alone and afraid
And it stopped in its wake
To bow its head
Just once more
At the confused ugly duckling
Behind the reeds of the mash
Taken by surprise
It cried in confusion of fear
Why do you mock me?
With your head so low
That only happens
When taking a wife
Said swan to the duckling
Its head still bowed low
Your beauty is wonder
Come now be my wife
Shaking its head
In cried in its rage
I am not a beauty
I cannot be your wife
Slowly it lifted
Its fine handsome head
Then said to the duckling
Look yonder my beauty
At your reflection ahead
Then looking at ripples
Where its teardrops fell
The ugly little duckling
Saw a swan instead
The handsome young swan
Once more bowed its head
I beseech thee my beauty
Be my wife, be my friend
Now a young swan
And duckling no more
It ruffled its feather
Its plumage snow white
Then bowing with tears
Her beauty so bright
Together they flew
As husband and wife
poem by Kaila George
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